Paul Acker (1874-1915) meeting, Jules Renard, in an interview in 1899, he found in 1903 for the creation of the piece Mr. Vernet .
Acker, a charming man who is said: "What a pity he does so boring books! " (October 18, 1908. Jules Renard: Journal)
Jules Renard
For Rachilde.
The young man of letters timidly knocked on the door and a voice clear and dry shouted: "Come." A skull
tense, with yellow hair and clear, straight and short, a big round head, two ears open and sharp, two large gray eyes under acute cold near the window, wrapped in a bathrobe, leaning on a table, read J. Fox. Behind him books, next to him books, books everywhere, yellow, white, green, red, aligned, stacked, solitary. A peaceful light slipped through the window and stroked the walls. As a fragrance of silence in the air.
The young man paused, his top hat in hand. He wanted - like that right now, the poor - just came to tell Mr. Fox that he admired and loved him and respected him as one of its Master the most expensive, most necessary to the life of his mind he wanted the words proud, passionate, intelligent and meaningful, and precise sentences, short and nervous, and he says nothing, nothing at all: it looked at the tips of his feet as the mud soiled, then the silk of his hat, then the tips of his fingers, and waited, patiently, it came, but it never came.
J. Fox raised his head, opened its largest eyes
"Sit down," he said. From
cutter he held in his hand, he pointed to a chair.
The young man sat down clumsily, heavily, roughly, frightening a cat sleeping and fled, his lips curled: Kchi, Kchi. And fast, fast, as if afraid of being late, dropping the nose, he reeled off all the same few sentences.
"I am a poor young man of letters, sir, and I come to you because, it seems, must go to those who write and are our seniors, and I wanted to tell you many things, and I can not find anything. I am a poor young man of letters, beardless and not wicked, and I beg you to pity me. "
He paused for breath, because it really spoke without breathing, and his temples throbbed.
J. Fox deigned to smile. Without doubt the trade of letters, he thought, became a martyr in miniature, since it was subjected, for the love of literature, so many visits, and so boring, like this, and perhaps he saw himself, he also forced to sit in once a week, five to seven, offering tea and cakes at enemies those tender, young, listening to their speeches and flattering liars.
The smile emboldened the young man. Moreover, his chair was comfortable, soft and mellow, gentle heat filled the room, objects began to become less foreign. Obstinate modesty to fix a flower carpet, he said:
"I am also came because, like all the French 20 years, I prepare a book, a book to 3GB. 50 c. The cover is yellow, blue or white, it to me, but I want before I die, to die and hoping not to die as a whole - to publish a volume, volume 3 fr. 50 percent. On humor and comedy.
Mr. Fox leaned her head a little self-interest. He played with his cutter, mechanically, and mechanically thoughts also left his lips, without hurrying, without arrange themselves, without being grouped into a beautiful paragraph solid and bright, just like the lazy who drops falling one by one a half-open tap.
"Yes ... it is a beautiful book ... a beautiful book to write ... comedians ... Ah! Poor comedians! The public does not like them ... Tender habits upset, peace of mind destroyed ... Him, he likes writers easy to categorize, which may immediately declare if they are funny or serious ... The comedians are neither one nor the other entirely. Gladly, he would take them for phonies ... Sapecks of, or Lemice-Terrieux, but he dared, for fear of seeming lack of trial, and he wants them to throw in his mind of such doubts.
The young man listened respectfully, but it was annoying him, anyway ... because he also had ideas and countless trivial point, and he wanted to put some crazy words, two or three only, but of those who are in a second pass for a man so stupid he does to the air . Anxious that he expected Mr. Fox put an end to his sentences, and he waited in vain and he lamented.
Mr. Fox said that the comedian hates anything that is excessive, too heavy as the tears and laughter sound too, for nothing here, in its opinion, deserves to be experiencing feelings of exaggerated violence. It must be worthy to oneself and to preserve its own dignity, we must show full restraint in its actions and his words. The comedian has this talent he puts everything to the point, he said he who laughs out loud: "No, my friend, do not laugh so hard, it is not worth the trouble," he wipes his handkerchief, dirty or clean, the tears of regret, their pats on the back, by way of consolation, and asks them to stop, because their tears are useless. The humor is to have the feeling of suitable and willing to give it to others, willingly or unwillingly. Therefore those who hold store seem unpleasant, they appear as troublemakers to dance in circles. "Finally he stopped
:
"Is that your opinion? "He asked.
The young man smiled with complacency.
"Without doubt, he says, but I think something else from you. "
He reflected a moment, though he had long before prepared his entrance topo, and suddenly it went: it was his turn, he made amends.
"You are above all a realist, a realist with a special order, something like a Parnassian fed classics, and past, but not linger, for the evenings of Medan. Your eyes do not let anything escape: at this moment, you watching me, how I advance in hand, how I stir the lips, the way I hold my hat between his thumb and forefinger, you are valuable insights into my character. Earlier you observe your cat or your children, or the canary, or the gaslight we see through the window. No one will enter here, without that you're studying, you will not find anyone in the street in a show at the theater, but it is asking for you, unintentionally, at least a few moments ... You can not live without out, and as your observation is acute, it is bitter, because the men when they know deep see of themselves are not very rich natures. "
For a young man of letters arrived from the provinces, it was not bad, it smelled good, however the old rhetoric of development of classes ... but ... A fly buzzing
gesticulated on the window, climbed, descended, ascended, banging the floor of his big black head, dismayed, distraught and stubborn. They looked at her.
"A Natural History. "Said the disciple. The master smiled and silently, he looked likely, by the way, what rare footage he decorate his phrases specific to pin on his album, wings spread, legs outstretched, the noisy little beast.
The young man stared at him, he wanted approval, praise, praise. Mr. Fox, alas! Had overturned in his chair, his eyes half-closed followed ceiling I do not know what vision soft and vague, and his lips murmured and sang
"I am a man of small masterpieces of tiny, tiny masterpieces, which puts it in his pocket, or be forgotten in boxes powder ... Benvenuto a ... But the crowd is stupid, she does not understand. She loves the novels of swashbuckling, and serials of Diary , or works of M. Rameau. That it is important books of impeccable writing and an accurate observation. The stupid crowd, the crowd is stupid ... "Her voice became
stronger. He rose, and buried his hands in the pockets of his robe, feet stragglers, he went from one wall to another, high forehead, a sneer on his lips.
The young man was compassionate: he was saddened by the melancholy he wants and expects. Ah! As he wished to know Mr. Fox a long time! He had tapped the back, friendly, but strongly. "Come, come, old chap! What a joke, what are you talking about! What are you doing? But he knew him only for 27 minutes exactly, and he could only say these words:
"Hey! You are a master, you know, and we also know that we all love you. That's enough. You appear to us as La Bruyere end of this century, you precision, conciseness, his bitterness, his loyalty, his honesty literary, like himself, disdainful of cliques and crowds, you live to write pages short and perfect and you do not need the trial of fools. "
The young man had risen: he said:
" Yes, you are a master, you have invented comparisons and metaphors found. Ah! I see you here, seize them, catch them, as a naturalist mug flying a butterfly that goes ... Hop! There he took it the strain between her fingers, gently, so that it keeps its color, then picnic on the board. You ...
Looking up at the ceiling, Mr. Fox muttered
"Chasseur d'images, image hunters ... "
They both fell silent, and perhaps before their delighted eyes, creatures went, they loved, one for having created them, the other by regret for not having been, being too young. Hair was Carrot, fingers in the nose, going close chickens, and wild Tiennette reprover Christ. Eloi was a man Feather, gentleman, man of the field, and it was Philip, the quiet farmhand.
gradually returned the smile to the lips of Mr Fox, dilated his chest, the wings of his nose twitched, and he rallied his petty grudges.
"Ah! Yes, he says, no matter anything that is not literature? I am a man of letters, really, since the soles of his feet until the last millimeter of my hair, and small things scribbled on sheets or printed in books of civilized delight my soul the same joy that campaigns blondes, green wood, and the peasants who toil, my soul Nivernais rustic. Like Simeon, I live happily at the top of a column, provided that the brothers rode compassionate me from below, using pulleys or stitched to a pole, volumes to read all day. "
There was again a silence, then an invisible pendulum dropped twelve strokes of the dial. Then the young man of letters thought, so he was in that chair, near a dear master, he too could not postpone the hour of his dinner. He rose, as Mr. Fox, he stammered thanks moved two or three, and as he was still a little confused, he stepped on the cat's tail coming back and fled, he stumbled a few steps. Ironically father, Mr. Fox opened the door and gently pushed him out.
The young man stood on the landing, then down. A joy filled her tender heart vain, for he was pleased to have spoken so well, so he rubbed his hands with pleasure satisfied. He did not see Mr. Fox, who, listening, listened, enchanted, the sound of his footsteps away little by little, and shrugged his shoulders, methodically, slowly, with a pinched smile.Paul Acker : Comedy and Comedians , H. Empis Simonis, 1899. (preprint: Journal weekly , July 15, 1899) .
JULES RENARD
a pointed head, with yellow hair and clear, a round head and big Two protruding ears, a broad forehead and top, gray eyes under acute cold near the window, opened his jacket to a vest sweater, leaning on a table, Jules Renard read. Behind him, the books beside him, books, books everywhere, yellow, white, green, red, bound, stitched, lined, crowded, lonely. A bright light bathed the study, and as a perfume of silence in the air. For a moment I contemplated, piques the wall by a pin, portraits Eugénie Nau and Gertrude Elliott in the role of Poil de Carotte. Jules Renard raised his head, squeezed my fingers, and cut-paper in his hand, pointed to a chair.
Five years ago, and I arrived one morning with the author of Histoires naturelles . I do not know, I just loved him, and barely escaped the benches of the university, full of literary ambitions and childish, I had visited him to see him speak, and perhaps win his sympathy . With what emotion I had listened! Now, again, on the eve of the first performance of Mr. Vernet at the Theatre Antoine (1), I had to find it, always filled the hearts of the same admiration. Nothing had changed, neither the decor nor he himself in his buttonhole there was a narrow ribbon of scarlet more. It seemed to me that suddenly I was younger, and having experienced a sensation so original, words came into my grateful lips. Alas! they could not escape! I suddenly realized that I knew almost nothing about the life of a writer whom I loved, and what were other phrases that I uttered, completely abashed at my ignorance. Jules Renard heard them, smiling, he waited, he greeted them in passing, and without moving, slowly awakening to distant memories, he replied:- Like everyone, I prepared the Normal School, but I met at Lycee Charlemagne, where I was a teacher ridiculous and famous in those days - he was named The Coulonghe.
- Ah! it annoyed me too, I gave up the school. At that time, I wrote poetry constantly, worms everywhere, still around. I had no job, looking for one, I underwent an examination to enter the Society of the East I was received, but never placed ... Now, now, it's so far, all that, I not remember very well. I present to The Independent Review an article, and Felix Feneon, who directs it, I refused it without hesitation. I still presents with the same success The Vogue . I become a member of a circle of poets, "Zutistes, had founded Charles Croze (sic for Cros), and there I was crowned a great man (2). Already! and I had no money, I gave lessons, even a few days I was employed in a house where they sold coal, but the boss dismissed me as I predict for other, predicting that, pending that 'she realized, put me on the pavement. I also recited verses in the basement of a cafe in the Place Saint-Michel, who chaired Goudeau was ... (3) The first time I climbed onto the platform, I am hua ... I recited, without knowing it, verses which, it seems, were unseemly. Finally, everything works out, I'm getting married, I founded with Valletta Mercure de France ... One morning, Marcel Schwob knocking at my door, I was in bed, I get up, he asks me a story for the extra L'Echo de Paris , and I see also, in his shirt, searching in vain for drawers, then forced to promise that I would write a new right away; that's how I entered the press.
Soft and casual, a white cat, tail in the air, slipped through the bedroom door ajar, advanced a few paces, raised his pink nose to my fingers were stretched to a caress, and then, scornful, turned and went back for a moment abandoned asylum. Is this a comparison too familiar it seemed, by one of those strange associations of ideas which are born in us, no one knows why or how, Mr. Jules Renard, and after desired and tasted the charm of the reputation of Paris, had returned to want the praise of the companions of his early years. Very young, I had wanted to see in him the man of letters, ignoring the painter nature lovers, that delighted the campaigns blondes, green woods and simple peasants. How could I separate the Parisian and bitter ironist Nivernais moved and touched? As if he guessed my thoughts, he murmured:
- I was born in Mayenne, by chance, but I have a country, Chitry-les-Mines in the Nièvre. That's where my father lived and died there. This little piece of earth contains all my life ...
Ah! as the cold eyes of Jules Renard softened suddenly! They looked over what surrounded them, they looked beyond the walls, far, far away, the one-story house, with the court, the cage with rabbits, the closed gate on the road, where everything rustic coat-of-Carrot lived his painful childhood and we saw reproduced with astonishing accuracy on the scene of Mr. Antoine. Perhaps, as in the past, he saw the terrible Madame Lepic, his mother leaned out the window, Mr. Lepic, his father, pushing the door to leave, the older brother Felix loan to beat. All the moving picture of distant years of bitter kid and philosopher, who were his, unfolded before him.
- Yes, like all children, "sighed Mr. Fox, one day I wanted to hang myself ... That's my childhood that I told ... Ms. Lepic is still alive, also Etiennette, Felix is dead.
An indulgent smile and charming floated on his lips now, he attached great importance to this suicide attempt, was a memory which amused him to other concerns occupied her heart and mind.
- I know that this little corner of the earth, because I do trip ever. As my mother still lives Chitry, I rented a small house has Chaumot nearby, I'm councilor, not just I'm going to vacation, but also often in the year for board meetings. I write articles in Echo Clamecy , where I deal with moral issues and educational and I am District Superintendent, I am of popular lectures, where I talk about Hugo Michelet, Molière ...
One moment, the voice was silent, then Mr Fox added:
- Well! I am twenty times less experienced than me in Paris. People can not admit that a man they saw child has acquired from them, a certain celebrity. I have no influence as an adviser. Besides, I have a horrible reputation: I am "the socialist and the pagan." When I give a lecture, we listen very carefully, and then we go back with confidence: "What does he want? Do we think. What will he ask? And when you see that I want nothing, I do not ask, it is then quite upset, it is certain that I ponder some mischief. And then, Nièvre has its great men, who did not leave, still living in the shadow of woods on the banks of its river ... These, nobody know. You can quote the name of Claude Tiller, of Milien of Courmont and several other Nivernais, everyone has read their prose or their verses. The magazine appears in Nevers leaves into oblivion any of its local celebrities .. but she never published an article. Hold! Hair Carrot had greatly increased my reputation, at least naively I imagined. When we played in Nevers, the impresario announced that the author was a child in the country and himself that he would speak his piece before the performance. Well! there was not a cat, it was the most disastrous night of the tour.
Mr. Fox leaned her head a little. He always played with his cutter, mechanically, and mechanically as the words left his lips, without hurrying, without arrange themselves, without being grouped into a beautiful paragraph
strong and nervous, just like the drops that fall lazy
one to one of a half-open tap. I Raw unravel regrets, lost illusions, dreams too lamented, but once again I was wrong.- No, no, do not believe that I want to my countrymen. They do not know, they do not think they are without worrying about anything. When I returned to Chaumot after my decoration, I imagined naively that my council colleagues to congratulate me, and I had already arranged everything for the deal at the restaurant of the town. Ah, yes! not one to talk to me not that they were jealous, but they were powerless to express their amazement at this phenomenon: a young man decorated! They are so simple, they escape me. Last year, I had to name Philip, my gardener, deputy mayor, four days after his wife was still unaware he had not said anything. Why they would be interested in me, so they care so little to themselves? And besides, that's what excites me, this constant struggle and silent with these rough and primitive nature, I will have them again, I feel, everything I write.
- So part we will play Mr. Vernet .
I had no time to complete. From a quick gesture, Mr. Fox m interrupted
- No, this one owes nothing to the Nivernais. I guess, in a middle class, a poet: the poet's entry into this medium and his departure, that my whole room. It said it was the subject of my novel: The sponger , focused on the theater is a mistake.
The minutes passed, silence reigned, then twelve shots rang out. So I was in my chair, next to a master dear, I too could not postpone the hour of his breakfast. I got up, as Mr. Fox, I walked on the cat's tail coming back and fled, and I stumbled a few steps. Father, Mr. Fox opened the door
- I am accused, "he said, unable to write a play in five acts. That now that I've written three one-act plays, and another two. Is not this the same thing? ...
Paul Acker : Small denominations (visits and portraits) . 1st ser., A. Fontemoing, 1905.
(1) Antoine staged and held the title role of Mr. Vernet at the creation of this comedy in 2 acts, 6 May 1903.
(2) In 1883, Charles Cros resurrected at the cafe "La Maison de Bois, rue de Rennes, the circle of Zutistes.
(3) Cafe de L'Avenir, which met the Hydropathes then Hirsutes. The meetings were held Hydropathes of October 1878 to June 1880, those Hirsutes September 1881 to April 1883. Born in 1864, Jules Renard in Paris in 1883 where he spent his college degree in July to Charlemagne, he participated in meetings Hydropathes it can only be meetings that took place after the "resurrection" of the group February 23, 1884, replacing "Saturdays" Lutece, these sessions lasted until July 1884. The name of Jules Renard is not reflected in the minutes of meetings in the newspaper gave Lutece, he is listed only once in the index of the excellent reissue Ten years Bohemians Emile Goudeau, in a note unrelated to Hydropathes (see Emille Goudeau: Ten Years of Bohemia . Champ Vallon, 2000)
Jules Renard in Livrenblog: Portrait by Pierre Veber, Sous-Bois, The Wrestlers . Veber's The . Felix Vallotton - Jules Renard. The Mistress . Natural History , Bucolics Jules Renard by Blum . Francois Coppe essential by Jules Renard . The sponger by Willy .
The Chronicles of Jules Renard, darn in Livrenblog:
Vamireh , A novel of prehistoric times by JH Rosny .
Kisses enemies by Hugues Rebell .
Force things by Paul Margueritte. The
Emmurés , novel by Lucien Descaves.
Good Lady Edward Estaunié
Veber's The
The Black Astre by Leon-A. Daudet.
The Novel in France during the nineteenth century by Eugene Gilbert (Plon).
Double Heart by Marcel Schwob.
Paul Acker in Livrenblog : Anna de Noailles, the gospel according to anarchist . Paul Adam, "anarchist" .
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