The Supreme Illusion

by Arnold Bennett

　　

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IPerhaps it was because I was in a state of excited annoyance that I didnot recognize him until he came right across the large hall of the hoteland put his hand on my shoulder.I had arrived in Paris that afternoon, and driven to that nice,reasonable little hotel which we all know, and whose name we all give inconfidence to all our friends; and there was no room in that hotel. Norin seven other haughtily-managed hotels that I visited! A kind ofarchduke, who guarded the last of the seven against possible customers,deigned to inform me that the season was at its fullest, half Londonbeing as usual in Paris, and that the only central hotels where I had achance of reception were those monstrosities the Grand and the HotelTerminus at the Gare St Lazare. I chose the latter, and was accordedroom 973 in the roof.I thought my exasperations were over. But no! A magnificent porterwithin the gate had just consented to get my luggage off the cab, andwas in the act of beginning to do so, when a savagely-dressed, ugly andageing woman, followed by a maid, rushed neurotically down the steps andcalled him away to hold a parcel. He obeyed! At the same instant thebarbaric and repulsive creature's automobile, about as large as arailway carriage, drove up and forced my frail cab down the street. Ihad to wait, humiliated and helpless, the taximeter of my cabindustriously adding penny to penny, while that offensive hag installedherself, with the help of the maid, the porter and two page-boys, in herenormous vehicle. I should not have minded had she been young andpretty. If she had been young and pretty she would have had the right tobe rude and domineering. But she was neither young nor pretty.Conceivably she had once been young; pretty she could never have been.And her eyes were hard--hard.Hence my state of excited annoyance."Hullo! How goes it?" The perfect colloquial English was gently murmuredat me with a French accent as the gentle hand patted my shoulder."Why," I said, cast violently out of a disagreeable excitement into anagreeable one, "I do believe you are Boissy Minor!"I had not seen him for nearly twenty years, but I recognized in thatsoft and melancholy Jewish face, with the soft moustache and the softbeard, the wistful features of the boy of fifteen who had been mycompanion at an "international" school (a clever invention forinflicting exile upon patriots) with branches at Hastings, Dresden andVersailles.Soon I was telling him, not without satisfaction, that, being a dramaticcritic, and attached to a London daily paper which had decided toflatter its readers by giving special criticisms of the more importantnew French plays, I had come to Paris for the production of Notre Damede la Lune at the Vaudeville.And as I told him the idea occurred to me for positively the first time:"By the way, I suppose you aren't any relation of Octave Boissy?"I rather hoped he was; for after all, say what you like, there is acertain pleasure in feeling that you have been to school with even arelative of so tremendous a European celebrity as Octave Boissy--the manwho made a million and a half francs with his second play, which wasnevertheless quite a good play. All the walls of Paris were shouting hisname."I'm the johnny himself," he replied with timidity, naively proud of hisSaxon slang.I did not give an astounded No! An astounded No! would have beenrude. Still, my fear is that I failed to conceal entirely my amazement.I had to fight desperately against the natural human tendency to assumethat no boy with whom one has been to school can have developed into agreat man."Really!" I remarked, as calmly as I could, and added a shocking lie:"Well, I'm not surprised!" And at the same time I could hear myselfsaying a few days later at the office of my paper: "I met Octave Boissyin Paris. Went to school with him, you know.""You'd forgotten my Christian name, probably," he said."No, I hadn't," I answered. "Your Christian name was Minor. You neverhad any other!" He smiled kindly. "But what on earth are you doinghere?"Octave Boissy was a very wealthy man. He even looked a very wealthy man.He was one of the darlings of success and of an absurdly luxuriouscivilization. And he seemed singularly out of place in the vast, banalfoyer of the Hotel Terminus, among the shifting, bustling crowd ofutterly ordinary, bourgeois, moderately well-off tourists and travellersand needy touts. He ought at least to have been in a very select privateroom at the Meurice or the Bristol, if in any hotel at all!"The fact is, I'm neurasthenic," he said simply, just as if he had beensaying, "The fact is, I've got a wooden leg.""Oh!" I laughed, determined to treat him as Boissy Minor, and not asOctave Boissy."I have a morbid horror of walking in the open air. And yet I cannotbear being in a small enclosed space, especially when it's moving. Thisis extremely inconvenient. Mais que veux-tu?... Suis comme ca!""Je te plains" I put in, so as to return his familiar and flattering"thou" immediately."I was strongly advised to go and stay in the country," he went on, withthe same serious, wistful simplicity, "and so I ordered a special salooncarriage on the railway, so as to have as much breathing room aspossible; and I ventured from my house to this station in an auto. Ithought I could surely manage that. But I couldn't! I had a terriblecrisis on arriving at the station, and I had to sit on a luggage-truckfor four hours. I couldn't have persuaded myself to get into the salooncarriage for a fortune! I couldn't go back home in the auto! I couldn'twalk! So I stepped into the hotel. I've been here ever since.""But when was this?""Three months ago. My doctors say that in another six weeks I shall besufficiently recovered to leave. It is a most distressing malady. Maisque veux-tu? I have a suite in the hotel and my own servants. I walkout here into the hall because it's so large. The hotel people do thebest they can, but of course--" He threw up his hands. His resigned,gentle smile was at once comic and tragic to me."But do you mean to say you couldn't walk out of that door and go home?"I questioned."Daren't!" he said, with finality. "Come to my rooms, will you, and havesome tea."IIA little later his own valet served us with tea in a large privatedrawing-room on the sixth or seventh floor, to reach which we hadclimbed a thousand and one stairs; it was impossible for Octave Boissyto use the lift, as he was convinced that he would die in it if he tooksuch a liberty with himself. The room was hung with modern pictures,such as had certainly never been seen in any hotel before. Manyknick-knacks and embroideries were also obviously foreign to the hotel."But how have you managed to attend the rehearsals of the new play?" Idemanded."Oh!" said he, languidly, "I never attend any rehearsals of my plays.Mademoiselle Lemonnier sees to all that.""She takes the leading part in this play, doesn't she, according to theposters?""She takes the leading part in all my plays," said he."A first-class artiste, no doubt? I've never seen her act.""Neither have I!" said Octave Boissy. And as I now yielded frankly to myastonishment, he added: "You see, I am not interested in the theatre.Not only have I never attended a rehearsal, but I have never seen aperformance of any of my plays. Don't you remember that it wasengineering, above all else, that attracted me? I have a truly wonderfulengineering shop in the basement of my house in the Avenue du Bois. Ishould very much have liked you to see it; but you comprehend, don'tyou, that I'm just as much cut off from the Avenue du Bois as I am fromTimbuctoo. My malady is the most exasperating of all maladies.""Well, Boissy Minor," I observed, "I suppose it has occurred to you thatyour case is calculated to excite wonder in the simple breast of abrutal Englishman."He laughed, and I was glad that I had had the courage to reduce himdefinitely to the rank of Boissy Minor."And not only in the breast of an Englishman!" he said. "Mais queveux-tu? One must live.""But I should have thought you could have made a comfortable living outof engineering. In England consulting engineers are princes.""Oh yes!""And engineering might have cured your neurasthenia, if you had taken itin sufficiently large quantities.""It would," he agreed quietly."Then why the theatre, seeing that the theatre doesn't interest you?""In order to live," he replied. "And when I say 'live,' I mean live.It is not a question of money, it is a question of living.""But as you never go near the theatre--""I write solely for Blanche Lemonnier," he said. I was at a loss.Perceiving this, he continued intimately: "Surely you know of myadmiration for Blanche Lemonnier?"I shook my head."I have never even heard of Blanche Lemonnier, save in connection withyour plays," I said."She is only known in connection with my plays," he answered. "When Imet her, a dozen years ago, she was touring the provinces, playing smallparts in third-rate companies. I asked her what was her greatestambition, and she said that it was to be applauded as a star on theParis stage. I told her that I would satisfy her ambition, and that whenI had done so I hoped she would satisfy mine. That was how I began towrite plays. That was my sole reason. It is the sole reason why I keepon writing them. If she had desired to be a figure in Society I shouldhave gone into politics.""I am getting very anxious to see this lady," I said. "I feel as if Ican scarcely wait till to-night.""She will probably be here in a few minutes," said he."But how did you do it?" I asked. "What was your plan of campaign?""After the success of my first play I wrote the second specially forher, and I imposed her on the management. I made her a condition. Themanagement kicked, but I was in a position to insist. I insisted.""It sounds simple." I laughed uneasily."If you are a dramatic critic," he said, "you will guess that it was notat first quite so simple as it sounds. Of course it is simple enoughnow. Blanche Lemonnier is now completely identified with my plays. Sheis as well known as nearly any actress in Paris. She has the glory shedesired." He smiled curiously. "Her ambition is satisfied--so is mine."He stopped."Well," I said, "I've never been so interested in any play before. And Ishall expect Mademoiselle Lemonnier to be magnificent.""Don't expect too much," he returned calmly. "Blanche's acting is notadmired by everybody. And I cannot answer for her powers, as I've neverseen her at work.""It's that that's so extraordinary!""Not a bit! I could not bear to see her on the stage. I hate the idea ofher acting in public. But it is her wish. And after all, it is not theactress that concerns me. It is the woman. It is the woman alone whomakes my life worth living. So long as she exists and is kind to me myneurasthenia is a matter of indifference, and I do not even troubleabout engineering."He tried to laugh away the seriousness of his tone, but he did not quitesucceed. Hitherto I had been amused at his singular plight and hisfatalistic acceptance of it. But now I was touched."I'm talking very freely to you," he said."My dear fellow," I burst out, "do let me see her portrait."He shook his head."Unfortunately her portrait is all over Paris. She likes it so. But Iprefer to have no portrait myself. My feeling is--"At that moment the valet opened the door and we heard vivacious voicesin the corridor."She is here," said Octave Boissy, in a whisper suddenly dramatic. Hestood up; I also. His expression had profoundly changed. He controlledhis gestures and his attitude, but he could not control his eye. Andwhen I saw that glance I understood what he meant by "living." Iunderstood that, for him, neither fame nor artistic achievement norwealth had any value in his life. His life consisted in one thing only."Eh bien, Blanche!" he murmured amorously.Blanche Lemonnier invaded the room with arrogance. She was the odiouscreature whose departure in her automobile had so upset my arrival.

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