Paris in the Twentieth Century (18 page)
Read Paris in the Twentieth Century Online
Authors: Jules Verne
"Oh
yes, there was a time when you could become a journalist; I grant you that; it
could be done when there existed a bourgeoisie who believed in newspapers and
went in for politics! But who bothers with politics now? Foreign policy? No,
war is no longer possible, and diplomacy is old-fashioned! Domestic policy?
Dead calm! There are no parties in France: the royalists are in trade now, and
the republicans in industry; there may be a few legitimists attached to the
Bourbons of Naples, who support a little gazette to publish their sighs! The
government conducts its affairs like a good merchant, and pays its bills
regularly enough; they even say it will distribute a dividend this year!
Elections
no longer interest anyone;
D
é
put
é
-sons
succeed
D
é
put
é
-fathers
,
calmly plying their legislators' trade without making much noise about it, like
good children doing their homework in their rooms! You'd really suppose that a
candidate came from the word
candid!
Faced
with such a state of affairs, what's journalism good for? Nothing!"
"All
of which is sad but true, " replied Uncle Huguenin. "Journalism has
had its day. "
"Yes,
like a discharged soldier from Fontevrault or Melun; and it won't have another.
A hundred years ago, we abused our privilege, and we're paying for it now; in
those days few enough people read, but everyone wrote; in 1900 the number of
periodicals in France, political or otherwise, reached sixty thousand; they
were written in every dialect for the instruction of the countryside—in Picard,
in Basque, in Breton, in Arabic—yes, gentlemen, there was an Arabic journal,
La Sentinelle du Sahara,
whom the jokers of the day used to call a
journal hebdomadaire!
And
all that fine frenzy of newspapers soon led to the death of journalism, for the
indisputable reason that writers outnumbered readers!"
"In
those days, " Uncle Huguenin put in, "there was also the little local
paper in which you rubbed along as best you could. "
"Doubtless,
doubtless, " Quinsonnas returned, "but with all its fine qualities,
the same thing was true of it as of Roland's
[64]
mare; the fellows who wrote it so abused their wits that the well ran dry. No
one understood anything anymore, among the few who still read; moreover,
those estimable writers ended by more or less killing each other off, for there
never was such a consumption of slaps and canings; you had to have a strong
back and a good cheek to survive. Excess led to catastrophe, and local
journalism joined the grand affair in oblivion. "
"But
wasn't there also criticism, " Michel asked, "and didn't criticism
support its personnel?"
"I
believe it did, " Quinsonnas replied. "It had its princes! There were
those who had talent and to spare, even spare talents! These Grands Seigneurs
had their clientele; some were even willing to set a price on their praises—and
such prices were paid! And paid until the moment when an unexpected event
radically extinguished the high priests of calumny. "
"What
event?" asked Michel.
"The
application on a grand scale of a certain article of the Civil Code. Any
person named in an article was entitled to respond in the same organ with an
equal number of lines; the authors of plays, novels, works of philosophy and
history began retorting en masse to their critics; each one had the right to so
many words, and each one made use of that right! At first, the newspapers tried
to resist; they were doomed; then, in order to contend with the protests, they
enlarged their format; but the inventors of some machine or other got
involved; you couldn't mention anything without provoking a response which had
to be printed; and this process was so abused that ultimately criticism was
killed on the spot. And with it vanished journalism's last resource. "
"Then
what's to be done?"
"What's
to be done? That's always the question, unless you become a doctor—if you won't
have industry, commerce, finance! And even so, devil take me, I think that
diseases themselves are wearing out; if the Faculty of Medicine didn't inoculate
us with new ones, it would soon have no work to do. I won't even mention the
bar—lawyers no longer plead, they compromise; a good transaction is preferred
to a good trial; it's faster, and more profitable. "
"But
it seems to me, " said Uncle Huguenin, "that there are still the
financial journals. "
Yes,
but would Michel want to become a stock reporter, wear the livery of a
Casmodage or a Boutardin, round off unfortunate periods on pork bellies,
alfalfa, or three percents, getting caught out every day in inevitable errors,
prophesying events with great aplomb, on the principle that if the prediction
doesn't come true, the prophet will be forgotten, and if it does, he will pride
himself on his perspicacity, overcoming rival companies for some banker's greater
profit, which is worse than mopping his office floors! Will Michel ever consent
to that?"
"Of
course not! Never!"
"Then
I don't see anything except government jobs, becoming an administrator, an
official—there are ten million of them in France; figure the chances of advancement,
and take your place in line!"
"My
word, " observed Uncle Huguenin, "maybe that would be the wisest
thing. "
"Wise
but desperate, " answered the young man.
"Well
then, Michel?"
"In
your review of the paying professions, " the latter said to Quinsonnas,
"you've left one out. "
"Which
is?"
"That
of a dramatist. "
"Ah!
you want to write for the stage?"
"Why
not? Doesn't the theater give you something to eat, to use your frightful
phrase?"
"All
right, Michel, " Quinsonnas replied, "instead of telling you what I
think, I'll give you a chance to try it. I'll give you a letter of
recommendation to the Editor in Chief of the E
ntrepôt
Dramatique
,
and you can see for yourself!"
"When
do I start?"
"No
later than tomorrow. "
"Done?"
"Done!"
"Are
you serious?" asked Uncle Huguenin.
"Quite
serious, " Quinsonnas replied. "Perhaps he'll succeed; in any case,
in six months—just like now— it will be time to become a government official.
"
"Now
then, Michel, we'll be keeping an eye on you. But you, Monsieur Quinsonnas, you
shared this boy's misfortunes. May I ask what you yourself plan to do?"
"Oh,
Monsieur Huguenin! Don't worry about me. As Michel knows, I have great plans.
"
"Yes,
" the young man observed, "he wants to amaze the age. "
"Amaze
the age?"
"Such
is the noble purpose of my life; I believe I have my business in hand, and
first of all I plan to try it out abroad! As you surely know, that is where
great reputations are established. "
"You'll
be gone?" asked Michel.
"For
a few months, " Quinsonnas replied, "but I'll be back soon. "
"I
wish you good luck, " said Uncle Huguenin, offering his hand to
Quinsonnas, who stood up. "And thank you for everything your friendship
has done for Michel. "
"If
the child will come with me now, I'll give him his letter of recommendation
right away. "
"Gladly!"
said the young man. "Good-bye, dear Uncle. "
"Good-bye,
my boy. "
"Good-bye,
Monsieur Huguenin, " said the pianist.
"Good-bye,
Monsieur Quinsonnas, may fortune smile upon you. "
"Smile!"
exclaimed Quinsonnas. "Better than that, Monsieur Huguenin, I want her to
laugh out loud!"
Le Grand E
ntrepôt
Dramatique
In
an age when everything was centralized, thought as well as mechanical power,
the creation of a sort of theatrical depository, an E
ntrepôt
Dramatique, was a foregone conclusion; by 1903 a group of practical and
enterprising men had obtained the patent for this important company. Within
twenty years, however, it passed into government hands and functioned under the
orders of a Director General who was a State official.
The
E
ntrepôt
Dramatique
furnished the capital's fifty theaters with plays of all sorts; some were composed
in advance; others were commissioned, sometimes to the requirements of a
certain actor, others to satisfy certain concepts. Censorship, confronted with
this new state of affairs, tended to disappear, of course, and its emblematic
scissors had grown rusty; moreover, from wear and tear they had become quite
dull, but the government avoided the unnecessary expense of having them
sharpened.
The
directors of the Parisian and provincial theaters were State officials,
appointed, pensioned, retired, and decorated, according to their ages and
their services. The performers drew on the budget, though they were not yet
government employees; the old prejudices in their regard were weakening day by
day; their metier counted among the honorable professions; they were
increasingly to be seen in salon comedies in the best circles; they shared
their roles with the guests, and had ultimately become part of society; great
ladies now gave cues to great tragediennes, and in certain roles were heard to
say lines such as "You far surpass me, Madame, virtue shines in your
countenance; I am but a wretched courtesan, " and other such courtesies.
There
was even one wealthy Soci
é
taire of
the Com
é
die-
Français
who made her own children perform chamber plays in her own home.
All
of which singularly ennobled the acting profession. The creation of the Grand
E
ntrepôt
Dramatique did
away with the troublesome necessity of authors; the employees received their
monthly salaries— extremely high ones, moreover—and the State collected the
theaters' receipts.
Hence
the State was in the position of controlling Dramatic Literature. If Le Grand E
ntrepôt
produced no masterpieces, at least it amused docile audiences by harmless
works; old authors were no longer performed; occasionally, and as an
exception, some work by Moli
é
re was
put on at the Palais-Royal, with couplets and
lazzi
composed by the actors themselves; but Hugo, Dumas, Ponsard
[65]
,
Augier
[66]
,
Scribe, Sardou, Barri
é
re
[67]
,
Meurice
[68]
,
Vacquerie
[69]
were eliminated en masse; they had somewhat abused their talents in the past
to carry away the public, but in a well-organized society, it was thought best
for the public to walk, not run.
Hence
matters were now arranged in a methodical fashion, as is suitable in a
civilized society; the author-officials lived well and did not tire themselves;
there were no more Bohemian poets, those erratic geniuses who seemed eternally
to protest against the order of things. Who could complain of this organization
which extinguished the artists' personality and furnished the public precisely
the amount of literature necessary to its needs?
Occasionally
some poor devil, feeling the sacred fire kindled in his breast, attempted to
rebel; but the theaters were closed to him by their contracts with Le Grand E
ntrepôt
Dramatique; the misunderstood poet would publish his fine comedy at his own expense,
it would remain quite unread and eventually fall prey to those tiny creatures
the Entomozoairia, which would ineluctably have been the most learned of their
age, had they read all they were given to chew.
