Dedicated to the Marquise de Brissac, Princess von Arenberg
LES GRANDES FAMILLES
Copyright © 1968, by Maurice Druon
© Y. Lesyuk (heirs), translation, 2014
© Yu. Uvarov (heirs), translation, 2014
© M. Kavtaradze (heirs), translation, 2014
© LLC “Publishing Group “Azbuka-Atticus””, 2014
Publishing House Inostranka ®
© The electronic version of the book was prepared by liters company (www.litres.ru)
The walls of the hospital room, wooden furniture - everything, right down to the metal bed, was painted with enamel paint, everything washed perfectly and shone with dazzling whiteness. Electric light streamed from a matte tulip mounted above the headboard - just as dazzlingly white and sharp; it fell on the sheets, on the pale woman in labor who could hardly raise her eyelids, on the cradle, on the six visitors.
“All your vaunted arguments will not make me change my mind, and the war has nothing to do with it either,” said the Marquis de La Monnerie. – I am firmly against this new fashion – giving birth in hospitals.
The Marquis was seventy-four years old and was the uncle of the woman in labor. His bald head was bordered at the back with a crown of coarse white hair that stuck out like a parrot's crest.
– Our mothers were not such sissies! - he continued. “They gave birth to healthy children and managed just fine without those damn surgeons and nurses, without drugs that only poison the body. They relied on nature, and two days later a blush was already blooming on their cheeks. And what now?.. Just look at this wax doll.
He extended his dry hand to the pillow, as if calling his relatives to witness. And then the old man suddenly began to have a coughing fit: blood rushed to his head, the deep furrows on his swollen face turned red, even his bald spot turned purple; Making a trumpet sound, he spat into a handkerchief and wiped his mustache.
The elderly lady sitting to the right of the bed, the wife of the famous poet Jean de La Monnerie and the mother of the woman in labor, moved her luxurious shoulders. She has long since passed fifty; she was wearing a garnet-colored velvet suit and a hat with wide brim. Without turning her head, she answered her brother-in-law in an authoritative tone:
“And yet, dear Urbain, if you had immediately sent your wife to a hospital, she might still be with you to this day.” There was a lot of talk about this at one time.
“Well, no,” objected Urbain de La Monnerie. “You’re just repeating other people’s words, Juliette, you were too young!” In a hospital, in a clinic - anywhere - unfortunate Matilda would still have died, only she would have suffered even more from the fact that she was dying not in her own bed, but in a hospital bed. Another thing is true: you cannot create a Christian family with a woman whose hips are so narrow that she can fit through a napkin ring.
“Don’t you think that such a conversation is hardly appropriate at the bedside of poor Jacqueline?” - said Baroness Schudler, a small gray-haired woman with a still fresh face, who settled down to the left of the bed.
The woman in labor turned her head slightly and smiled at her.
“Nothing, mom, nothing,” she whispered.
Baroness Schudler and her daughter-in-law had a mutual sympathy, as often happens with people short.
“But I think that you are simply brilliant, dear Jacqueline,” continued Baroness Schudler. – Having two children within a year and a half is, no matter what they say, not so easy. But you did an excellent job, and your little one is just a miracle!
The Marquis de La Monnerie muttered something under his breath and turned to the cradle.
Three men sat next to her: they were all dressed in dark clothes, and all had pearl pins in their ties. The youngest, Baron Noel Schudler, manager of the French Bank, grandfather of the newborn and husband of a small woman with gray hair and a fresh complexion, was a man of gigantic stature. His stomach, chest, cheeks, eyelids - everything was heavy, everything seemed to bear the imprint of the self-confidence of a big businessman, an invariable winner in financial battles. He wore a short, pitch-black, pointed beard.
This heavyset sixty-year-old giant surrounded with emphasized attention his father Siegfried Schudler, the founder of the Schudler bank, who in Paris at all times was called “Baron Siegfried”; he was a tall, thin old man with a bare skull dotted with dark spots, with lush sideburns, a huge, veined nose and red, wet eyelids. He sat with his legs apart, his back hunched, and, every now and then, calling his son to him, with a barely noticeable Austrian accent, confidentially whispered some remarks into his ear, audible to everyone around him.
Right there, at the cradle, was the newborn’s other grandfather, Jean de La Monnerie, a famous poet and academician. He was two years younger than his brother Urbain and in many ways resembled him, only he looked more refined and bilious; his bald spot was covered by a long yellowish lock of hair, combed over his forehead; he sat motionless, leaning on his cane.
Jean de La Monnerie did not take part in the family dispute. He contemplated the baby - this small warm larva, blind and wrinkled: the newborn's face, the size of an adult's fist, looked out from the swaddling clothes.
“An eternal secret,” said the poet. – The secret is the most banal and the most mysterious and the only one important for us.
He shook his head thoughtfully and dropped the smoky monocle hanging on a cord; The poet's left eye, no longer protected by glass, was slightly squinted.
“There was a time when I couldn’t stand even the sight of a newborn,” he continued. “I was just sick.” A blind creature without the slightest glimmer of thought... Tiny arms and legs with gelatinous bones... Obeying some mysterious law, the cells one day stop growing... Why do we begin to shrink?.. Why do we turn into the way we have become today? – he added with a sigh. “You end up living without understanding anything, just like this baby.”
“There is no mystery here, only the will of God,” said Urbain de La Monnerie. - And when you become an old man, like you and me... Well, well! You begin to look like an old deer whose antlers are becoming dull... Yes, every year his antlers become shorter.
Noel Schudler pulled out his huge index finger and tickled the baby's hand.
And immediately four old men bent over the cradle; their wrinkled necks protruded from their high, tightly starched, glossy collars; on their swollen faces, crimson eyelids devoid of eyelashes, foreheads dotted with dark spots, and porous noses stood out; the ears stuck out, sparse strands of hair turned yellow and bristled. Pouring the cradle with a hoarse wheezing breath, poisoned by many years of smoking cigars, a heavy smell emanating from the mustache, from the sealed teeth, they closely watched how, touching the grandfather’s finger, the tiny fingers, on which the skin was thin, like a film, clenched and unclenched. tangerine slices.
“It’s incomprehensible how such a little guy gets so much strength!” boomed Noel Schudler.
Four men froze over this biological mystery, over this barely emerging creature - the offspring of their blood, their ambitions and now extinguished passions.
And under this living four-headed dome the baby turned purple and began to moan weakly.
“In any case, he will have everything to become happy, if only he can take advantage of it,” said Noel Schudler, straightening up.
The giant knew perfectly well the value of things and had already managed to count everything that a child possesses or one day will possess, everything that will be at his service from the cradle: a bank, sugar factories, a large daily newspaper, noble title, worldwide fame the poet and his copyrights, the castle and lands of old Urbain, other smaller fortunes and a place prepared in advance for him in the most diverse circles of society - among aristocrats, financiers, government officials, writers.
Reading the works of Maurice Druon is the greatest pleasure. I enthusiastically read “The Voluptuousness of Being” and the writer’s first stories. And so, they immediately moved on to the “End of Men” trilogy - “ Powerful of the world this”, “The Collapse of the Pillars”, “A Date in Hell”.
The Master immerses us in different eras, introduces different characters and is not repeated anywhere, surprises every time, delights every time.
What a title for the trilogy – “The End of Men”! This is the saga of famous families France, this is a saga about people different layers society, from the top to the bottom. Wealth, power, fame - this does not mean happiness and joy of life, freedom of choice and desires. Dignity, honor, loyalty, love disappears among the richest people. In an environment where, it would seem, these higher human qualities must not only prosper from generation to generation, but sprout blessed sprouts and create a perfect world around themselves.
« The powers that be" - the first part of the trilogy. Here Maurice Druon introduces us not only to the main characters, but here is the beginning of the end, the collapse of what seems so solid and eternal. Here, for the sake of power and his own ambitions, the father of a great family leads a smart man to suicide, talented son. Here the modest literature teacher Simon Lachaume begins his career, who in the next part, “The Collapse of the Pillars,” will go over the heads of his benefactors, betraying and destroying them, and in the final part, “A Date in Hell,” he will find himself in the upper echelons of power. Simon Lachaume will rule society, he will rise above a simple person, will dictate his will to the people, will make, sometimes simply terrible decisions. But at the same time, he was and will remain a lonely and unhappy person, despite the fact that happiness was so close, so possible.
Here appear the descendants of two great families, wonderful kids - Marie-Ange and Jean-Noel. Their life line runs through all three parts, they will go from wealth to poverty. They will lose everything and everyone. But it’s not the loss of a huge fortune that’s scary, it’s the collapse human personality, collapse of hopes and aspirations. A handsome blond, blue-eyed boy will grow into a man who will sell himself and marry an old woman for his own enrichment. The descendants of great families will not stand the test and will break.
Great literature remains as a legacy for us to think about, appreciate, and not repeat terrible mistakes. From century to century, man remains not only an amazing miracle, a beautiful creation, but more often he is a strange, and sometimes terrible and vile monster. I don't want to describe the contents. I highly, highly recommend reading it. All three parts are easy to read, you don’t want to interrupt, it’s simply impossible to interrupt: there are a lot of emotions, and everything you read about is not only interesting, but remains, unfortunately, very important and relevant in our lives.
Excellent storytelling style subtle humor, as always, the erotic nuances are delicately and elegantly described. Read, think, try to change and of course, discover new sides of Maurice Druon. I recommend buying and reading all three parts, which flow very harmoniously into each other. This complete work. It would be possible to publish it big book. But the volume that Inostranka offers is very convenient for those who like to hold living book, with which he does not part.
All the works of Maurice Druon, which I am writing about, are from the publishing house “Foreigner” in the series “ Modern classics" The edition is superb. Now the saga “Cursed Kings” naturally asks for my library. Perhaps the publishing house will give readers such a gift?!
I recommend watching the film adaptation of “The Powers That Be” with the brilliant Jean Gabin after reading it. These are small fragments of a great book!
The reading public knows Maurice Druon primarily from the saga “The Damned Kings,” which revealed the dark secrets of the Middle Ages, and the book “The Powers That Be,” which tells about the behind-the-scenes modern society, about the decline of a dynasty of financiers and industrialists. The novel “The Powers That Be” opens the trilogy “The End of Men” - Druon’s most significant work.
These people, who lived in France at the beginning of the 20th century, could boast of family ties with the French nobility. Their fortune amounted to millions of francs. Their children were the richest heirs in Paris. Why was there no peace in this family? What was missing for the happiness of the powers that be?
The novel “The Powers That Be” was filmed. Main role Jean Gabin played brilliantly in the film. The film entered the golden fund of world cinema.
On our website you can download the book “The Powers That Be” by Maurice Druon for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy the book in the online store.
Dedicated to the Marquise de Brissac, Princess von Arenberg
LES GRANDES FAMILLES
Copyright © 1968, by Maurice Druon
© Y. Lesyuk (heirs), translation, 2014
© Yu. Uvarov (heirs), translation, 2014
© M. Kavtaradze (heirs), translation, 2014
© LLC “Publishing Group “Azbuka-Atticus””, 2014
Publishing House Inostranka ®
Prologue
The walls of the hospital room, wooden furniture - everything, right down to the metal bed, was painted with enamel paint, everything washed perfectly and shone with dazzling whiteness. Electric light streamed from a matte tulip mounted above the headboard - just as dazzlingly white and sharp; it fell on the sheets, on the pale woman in labor who could hardly raise her eyelids, on the cradle, on the six visitors.
“All your vaunted arguments will not make me change my mind, and the war has nothing to do with it either,” said the Marquis de La Monnerie. – I am firmly against this new fashion – giving birth in hospitals.
The Marquis was seventy-four years old and was the uncle of the woman in labor. His bald head was bordered at the back with a crown of coarse white hair that stuck out like a parrot's crest.
– Our mothers were not such sissies! - he continued. “They gave birth to healthy children and managed just fine without those damn surgeons and nurses, without drugs that only poison the body. They relied on nature, and two days later a blush was already blooming on their cheeks. And what now?.. Just look at this wax doll.
He extended his dry hand to the pillow, as if calling his relatives to witness. And then the old man suddenly began to have a coughing fit: blood rushed to his head, the deep furrows on his swollen face turned red, even his bald spot turned purple; Making a trumpet sound, he spat into a handkerchief and wiped his mustache.
The elderly lady sitting to the right of the bed, the wife of the famous poet Jean de La Monnerie and the mother of the woman in labor, moved her luxurious shoulders. She has long since passed fifty; she was wearing a garnet-colored velvet suit and a wide-brimmed hat. Without turning her head, she answered her brother-in-law in an authoritative tone:
“And yet, dear Urbain, if you had immediately sent your wife to a hospital, she might still be with you to this day.” There was a lot of talk about this at one time.
“Well, no,” objected Urbain de La Monnerie. “You’re just repeating other people’s words, Juliette, you were too young!” In a hospital, in a clinic - anywhere - unfortunate Matilda would still have died, only she would have suffered even more from the fact that she was dying not in her own bed, but in a hospital bed. Another thing is true: you cannot create a Christian family with a woman whose hips are so narrow that she can fit through a napkin ring.
“Don’t you think that such a conversation is hardly appropriate at the bedside of poor Jacqueline?” - said Baroness Schudler, a small gray-haired woman with a still fresh face, who settled down to the left of the bed.
The woman in labor turned her head slightly and smiled at her.
“Nothing, mom, nothing,” she whispered.
Baroness Schudler and her daughter-in-law were connected by mutual sympathy, as often happens with people of short stature.
“But I think that you are simply brilliant, dear Jacqueline,” continued Baroness Schudler. – Having two children within a year and a half is, no matter what they say, not so easy.
But you did an excellent job, and your little one is just a miracle!
The Marquis de La Monnerie muttered something under his breath and turned to the cradle.
Three men sat next to her: they were all dressed in dark clothes, and all had pearl pins in their ties. The youngest, Baron Noel Schudler, manager of the French Bank, grandfather of the newborn and husband of a small woman with gray hair and a fresh complexion, was a man of gigantic stature. His stomach, chest, cheeks, eyelids - everything was heavy, everything seemed to bear the imprint of the self-confidence of a big businessman, an invariable winner in financial battles. He wore a short, pitch-black, pointed beard.
This heavyset sixty-year-old giant surrounded with emphasized attention his father Siegfried Schudler, the founder of the Schudler bank, who in Paris at all times was called “Baron Siegfried”; he was a tall, thin old man with a bare skull dotted with dark spots, with lush sideburns, a huge, veined nose and red, wet eyelids. He sat with his legs apart, his back hunched, and, every now and then, calling his son to him, with a barely noticeable Austrian accent, confidentially whispered some remarks into his ear, audible to everyone around him.
Right there, at the cradle, was the newborn’s other grandfather, Jean de La Monnerie, a famous poet and academician. He was two years younger than his brother Urbain and in many ways resembled him, only he looked more refined and bilious; his bald spot was covered by a long yellowish lock of hair, combed over his forehead; he sat motionless, leaning on his cane.
Jean de La Monnerie did not take part in the family dispute. He contemplated the baby - this small warm larva, blind and wrinkled: the newborn's face, the size of an adult's fist, looked out from the swaddling clothes.
“An eternal secret,” said the poet. – The secret is the most banal and the most mysterious and the only one important for us.
He shook his head thoughtfully and dropped the smoky monocle hanging on a cord; The poet's left eye, no longer protected by glass, was slightly squinted.
“There was a time when I couldn’t stand even the sight of a newborn,” he continued. “I was just sick.” A blind creature without the slightest glimmer of thought... Tiny arms and legs with gelatinous bones... Obeying some mysterious law, the cells one day stop growing... Why do we begin to shrink?.. Why do we turn into the way we have become today? – he added with a sigh. “You end up living without understanding anything, just like this baby.”
“There is no mystery here, only the will of God,” said Urbain de La Monnerie. - And when you become an old man, like you and me... Well, well! You begin to look like an old deer whose antlers are becoming dull... Yes, every year his antlers become shorter.
Noel Schudler extended his huge index finger and tickled the baby's hand.
And immediately four old men bent over the cradle; their wrinkled necks protruded from their high, tightly starched, glossy collars; on their swollen faces, crimson eyelids devoid of eyelashes, foreheads dotted with dark spots, and porous noses stood out; the ears stuck out, sparse strands of hair turned yellow and bristled. Pouring the cradle with a hoarse wheezing breath, poisoned by many years of smoking cigars, a heavy smell emanating from the mustache, from the sealed teeth, they closely watched how, touching the grandfather’s finger, the tiny fingers, on which the skin was thin, like a film, clenched and unclenched. tangerine slices.
“It’s incomprehensible how such a little guy gets so much strength!” boomed Noel Schudler.
Four men froze over this biological mystery, over this barely emerging creature - the offspring of their blood, their ambitions and now extinguished passions.
And under this living four-headed dome the baby turned purple and began to moan weakly.
“In any case, he will have everything to become happy, if only he can take advantage of it,” said Noel Schudler, straightening up.
The giant knew very well the value of things and had already managed to count everything that a child possesses or one day will possess, everything that will be at his service from the cradle: a bank, sugar factories, a large daily newspaper, a noble title, the worldwide fame of the poet and his copyrights, the castle and lands of old Urbain, other smaller fortunes and a place prepared in advance for him in the most diverse circles of society - among aristocrats, financiers, government officials, writers.
Siegfried Schudler brought his son out of his reverie. Tugging at his sleeve, he whispered loudly:
-What was his name?
– Jean Noel, in honor of both grandfathers.
From the height of his height, Noel once again cast a tenacious glance with his dark eyes at one of the richest babies in Paris and proudly repeated, now for himself:
– Jean Noel Schudler.
The wail of a siren came from the city outskirts. Everyone raised their heads at once, and only the old baron heard only the second signal, which sounded louder.
The first weeks of 1916 passed. From time to time in the evenings, the Zeppelin appeared over the capital, which greeted it with a frightened roar, after which it plunged into darkness. The light disappeared from millions of windows. A huge German airship slowly floated over the extinct city, dropped several bombs into the cramped labyrinth of streets and flew away.
– Last night a residential building was hit in Vaugirard. They say four people died, among them three women,” said Jean de La Monnerie, breaking the silence that reigned.
There was a tense silence in the room. Several moments passed. There was not a sound coming from the street, only a cab was heard passing nearby.
Siegfried again motioned to his son, who helped him put on his fur-lined coat; then the old man sat down again.
To keep the conversation going, Baroness Schudler said:
- One of these terrible shells fell on tram track. The rail bent in the air and killed some unfortunate person standing on the sidewalk.
Noel Schudler, who sat motionless, frowned.
Nearby, the siren howled again, and Madame de La Monnerie mannerly pressed her index fingers to her ears and did not remove them until silence was restored.
Footsteps were heard in the corridor, the door swung open, and a nurse entered the room. She was a tall, elderly woman with a faded face and sharp gestures.
She lit the candle on the night table, checked that the curtains on the windows were well drawn, and turned off the lamp above the headboard.
“Would you like, gentlemen, to go down to the shelter?” - asked the nurse. “It’s located right here in the building.” The patient cannot be moved yet; the doctor has not given permission. Perhaps tomorrow...
She took the baby out of the cradle and wrapped him in a blanket.
– Am I really going to be left alone on the entire floor? – the woman in labor asked in a weak voice.
The nurse did not answer immediately:
- Completely, you must be calm and reasonable.
“Put the child here, next to me,” said the young mother, turning her back to the window.
In response to this, the nurse only whispered: “Quiet!” - and left, taking away the baby.
Through open door The woman in labor managed to see the carts in which the sick were being wheeled in the bluish twilight of the corridor. A few more moments passed.
“Noel, I think you better go down to the shelter.” “Don’t forget, you have a weak heart,” said Baroness Schudler, lowering her voice and trying to appear calm.
“Oh, I don’t need that,” replied Noel Schudler. - Unless only because of my father.
As for old man Siegfried, he did not even try to find some kind of excuse, but immediately rose from his seat and waited with obvious impatience to be escorted to the shelter.
“Noel is not able to stay in the room during air raids,” the Baroness whispered to Madame de La Monnerie. - At such moments he begins to have a heart attack.
Members of the de La Monnerie family watched the Schudlers fuss, not without contempt. It is still possible to experience fear, but showing that you are afraid is simply unacceptable!
Madame de La Monnerie took a small round watch from her purse.
“Jean, it’s time for us to go if we don’t want to be late for the Opera,” she said, emphasizing the word “Opera” and thereby emphasizing that the appearance of the airship could not change anything in their evening plans.
“You are absolutely right, Juliette,” answered the poet.
He buttoned his coat, took a deep breath and, as if plucking up courage, casually added:
– I still need to stop by the club. I'll take you to the theater, and then I'll leave and come back for the second act.
“Don’t worry, my friend, don’t worry,” replied Madame de La Monnerie in a sarcastic tone, “your brother will keep me company.”
She leaned towards her daughter.
“Thank you for coming, mom,” the woman in labor said mechanically, feeling a hasty kiss on her forehead.
Then Baroness Schudler approached the bed. She felt the young woman's hand squeeze, almost squeeze, her hand; She hesitated for a moment, but then decided: “After all, Jacqueline is just my daughter-in-law. Since her mother is leaving..."
The patient's hand unclenched.
- This Wilhelm II a real barbarian“,” the Baroness stammered, trying to hide her embarrassment.
And the visitors hurriedly headed for the exit: some were driven by anxiety, others were in a hurry to go to the theater or to a secret meeting; Women walked in front, straightening the pins on their hats, followed by men, observing seniority. Then the door slammed shut and there was silence.
Jacqueline fixed her gaze on the vaguely white empty cradle, then turned it to a photograph dimly lit by a night light: it depicted a young dragoon officer with his head held high. Attached in the corner of the frame was another, small photograph of the same officer - in a leather coat and mud-splattered boots.
“François...” the young woman whispered barely audibly. - Francois... Lord, make sure nothing happens to him!
Looking with wide eyes into the twilight, Jacqueline became all ears; The silence was broken only by her ragged breathing.
Suddenly she heard the distant hum of an engine coming from somewhere in the distance. high altitude, then a dull explosion was heard, from which the windows shook, and again the rumble - this time closer.
The woman grabbed the edge of the sheet with her hands and pulled it up to her chin.
At that moment the door opened, a head with a crown of white hair stuck in, and the shadow of an angry bird - the shadow of Urbain de La Monnerie - darted about on the wall.
The old man slowed his steps, then, approaching the bed, sat down on the chair on which his daughter-in-law had been sitting a few minutes ago, and said grumpily:
– I have never been interested in opera. I’d rather sit here with you... But what an absurd idea to give birth in such a place!
The airship was approaching, now it was flying directly over the clinic.
Chapter one
Death of a Poet
1
The air was dry, cold, brittle, like crystal. Paris cast a huge pink glow across the star-studded yet dark December sky. Millions of lamps, thousands of gas lamps, sparkling shop windows, illuminated advertisements running along the roofs, car headlights plowing the streets, theater entrances flooded with light, dormer windows of beggarly attics and huge windows of parliament, where late sessions were held, artists' studios, glass roofs of factories, lanterns night watchmen - all these lights, reflected by the surface of reservoirs, marble columns, mirrors, precious rings and starched shirtfronts, all these lights, these stripes of light, these rays, merging, created a shining dome over the capital.
The World War ended two years ago, and Paris, brilliant Paris, once again ascended to the center of the earth's planet. Never before, perhaps, has the flow of affairs and ideas been so rapid; never before have money, luxury, works of art, books, exquisite foods, wines, speeches of speakers, jewelry, all kinds of chimeras been in such honor as then - in the end 1920. Doctrinaires from all over the world spoke truths and poured out paradoxes in countless cafes on the left bank of the Seine, surrounded by enthusiastic loafers, aesthetes, convinced subverters and occasional rebels - they organized every night a marketplace of thought, the grandest, most amazing of all that has ever been known world history! Diplomats and ministers arriving from various states - republics and monarchies - met at receptions in luxurious mansions near the Bois de Boulogne. The newly created League of Nations chose the Clock Hall as the site of its first assembly and from here announced the beginning of new era- era of happiness.
Women shortened their dresses and began cutting their hair short. The belt of fortifications erected under Louis Philippe - grassy ramparts and stone bastions - in which Paris had felt comfortable for eighty years, this favorite place for Sunday games of street boys, suddenly seemed cramped, ancient forts were razed to the ground, ditches were filled up, and the city resounded in all directions, filling vegetable gardens and sparse gardens with tall buildings made of brick and concrete, absorbing the ancient chapels of the former suburbs. After the victory, the Republic elected as its president one of the most elegant men of France; a few weeks later he became a victim of madness 1
It's about about Paul Deschanel, who was President of France in 1920.
More than ever, the personification of Paris in those years was considered to be a society whose supreme law was success; twenty thousand people seized and held in their hands power and wealth, dominion over beauty and talent, but the position of these darlings of fate remained unstable. Perhaps they could be compared with pearls, which then became especially fashionable and could serve as their symbol: among them there were real and fake, polished and untouched by a chisel; It was not uncommon to see how the glory of the most brilliant person faded in a few months, while the value of another pearl increased every day. But none of the twenty thousand could boast of a constant, bright, blinding radiance - this genuine property gemstone, they all sparkled with that dim, as if lifeless, light with which pearls flicker in the depths of the sea.
They were surrounded by two million other human beings. These, apparently, were not born on the paths of fortune, or were unable to achieve success, or did not even try to achieve it. As in all times, they made violins, dressed actresses, made frames for paintings painted by others, laid out carpets on which the white shoes of noble brides walked. Those who were unlucky were doomed to labor and obscurity.
But no one could say whether twenty thousand directed the labor of two millions and turned it to their own advantage, or whether two millions, driven by the need to act, to trade, to admire, to feel themselves involved in glory, crowned the chosen ones with a diadem.
The crowd waiting five hours straight for the royal carriage to finally pass feels more joy than the monarch greeting this crowd from the carriage...
And yet the people of the outgoing generation, those to whom old age came during the war years, found that Paris was declining along with them. They mourned the death of true courtesy and the French mentality - that eighteenth-century heritage which they said they had preserved intact. They forgot that their fathers and grandfathers had said the same thing in their time, they also forgot that they themselves added many rules to the code of courtesy and acquired “reason” - in the sense in which they now used this word - only under old age. Fashions seemed to them too exaggerated, morals too free: what in the days of their youth was considered a vice, what they always either rejected, or, in any case, hid - homosexuality, drugs, sophisticated and even perverted eroticism - all this was what the youth now put on display, as if it were completely permissible fun; therefore, severely condemning modern mores, the old people could not get rid of a certain amount of envy. Latest works they considered art unworthy of it high name, newfangled theories seemed to them an expression of barbarism. They treated sports with the same disdain. But they noted with obvious interest the progress of science and, either with curiosity and naive pride, or with irritation, watched as technology filled them more and more. material world. However, all this fuss, they argued, kills joy, and, regretting the disappearance of their usual, calmer forms of civilization, they assured, looking around the life around them, that all this fireworks would not last long and would not lead to anything good.
You could shrug your shoulders as much as you like, but their opinion was not only the eternal grumbling of old people: between the society of 1910 and the society of 1920 there was a deeper, more impassable gulf than between the society of 1820 and the society of 1910. What happened to Paris is what happens to people about whom they say: “He aged ten years in one week.” During the four years of war, France aged a century; perhaps it was last century great civilization, which is why the insatiable thirst for life that distinguished Paris in those years resembled the feverish excitement of a consumptive.
Society can be happy, although symptoms of destruction are already hidden in its depths: the fatal outcome comes later.
Likewise, a society may appear happy even though many of its members are suffering.
Young people put their trust in older generation responsibility for all the troubles that have already arisen or are just approaching, for the difficulties of the present day, for the vague threats of the future. Old men who were once among the twenty thousand, or who were still among these chosen ones, heard themselves accused of crimes of which, in their opinion, they were not at all guilty: they were reproached for selfishness, for cowardice, for lack of understanding, for frivolity, belligerence. However, the accusers themselves did not show much generosity, loyalty to their convictions, or balance. But when the old people noted this, the young people screamed: “You yourself made us like this!”
And each person, as if not noticing the radiance emanating from Paris, followed along a narrow tunnel own life; he resembled a passerby who, seeing only a dark strip of sidewalk in front of him, pays no attention to the gigantic dazzling dome stretching above him and illuminating the neighborhood for several miles around.
Maurice Druon
The powers that be
Dedicated to the Marquise de Brissac, Princess von Arenberg
The walls of the hospital room, wooden furniture - everything, right down to the metal bed, was painted with enamel paint, everything washed perfectly and shone with dazzling whiteness. Electric light streamed from a matte tulip mounted above the headboard - just as dazzlingly white and sharp; it fell on the sheets, on the pale woman in labor who could hardly raise her eyelids, on the cradle, on the six visitors.
“All your vaunted arguments will not make me change my mind, and the war has nothing to do with it either,” said the Marquis de La Monnerie. – I am firmly against this new fashion – giving birth in hospitals.
The Marquis was seventy-four years old and was the uncle of the woman in labor. His bald head was bordered at the back with a crown of coarse white hair that stuck out like a parrot's crest.
– Our mothers were not such sissies! - he continued. “They gave birth to healthy children and managed just fine without those damn surgeons and nurses, without drugs that only poison the body. They relied on nature, and two days later a blush was already blooming on their cheeks. And what now?.. Just look at this wax doll.
He extended his dry hand to the pillow, as if calling his relatives to witness. And then the old man suddenly began to have a coughing fit: blood rushed to his head, the deep furrows on his swollen face turned red, even his bald spot turned purple; Making a trumpet sound, he spat into a handkerchief and wiped his mustache.
The elderly lady sitting to the right of the bed, the wife of the famous poet Jean de La Monnerie and the mother of the woman in labor, moved her luxurious shoulders. She has long since passed fifty; she was wearing a garnet-colored velvet suit and a wide-brimmed hat. Without turning her head, she answered her brother-in-law in an authoritative tone:
“And yet, dear Urbain, if you had immediately sent your wife to a hospital, she might still be with you to this day.” There was a lot of talk about this at one time.
“Well, no,” objected Urbain de La Monnerie. “You’re just repeating other people’s words, Juliette, you were too young!” In a hospital, in a clinic - anywhere - unfortunate Matilda would still have died, only she would have suffered even more from the fact that she was dying not in her own bed, but in a hospital bed. Another thing is true: you cannot create a Christian family with a woman whose hips are so narrow that she can fit through a napkin ring.
“Don’t you think that such a conversation is hardly appropriate at the bedside of poor Jacqueline?” - said Baroness Schudler, a small gray-haired woman with a still fresh face, who settled down to the left of the bed.
The woman in labor turned her head slightly and smiled at her.
“Nothing, mom, nothing,” she whispered.
Baroness Schudler and her daughter-in-law were connected by mutual sympathy, as often happens with people of short stature.
“But I think that you are simply brilliant, dear Jacqueline,” continued Baroness Schudler. – Having two children within a year and a half is, no matter what they say, not so easy. But you did an excellent job, and your little one is just a miracle!
The Marquis de La Monnerie muttered something under his breath and turned to the cradle.
Three men sat next to her: they were all dressed in dark clothes, and all had pearl pins in their ties. The youngest, Baron Noel Schudler, manager of the French Bank, grandfather of the newborn and husband of a small woman with gray hair and a fresh complexion, was a man of gigantic stature. His stomach, chest, cheeks, eyelids - everything was heavy, everything seemed to bear the imprint of the self-confidence of a big businessman, an invariable winner in financial battles. He wore a short, pitch-black, pointed beard.
This heavyset sixty-year-old giant surrounded with emphasized attention his father Siegfried Schudler, the founder of the Schudler bank, who in Paris at all times was called “Baron Siegfried”; he was a tall, thin old man with a bare skull dotted with dark spots, with lush sideburns, a huge, veined nose and red, wet eyelids. He sat with his legs apart, his back hunched, and, every now and then, calling his son to him, with a barely noticeable Austrian accent, confidentially whispered some remarks into his ear, audible to everyone around him.
Right there, at the cradle, was the newborn’s other grandfather, Jean de La Monnerie, a famous poet and academician. He was two years younger than his brother Urbain and in many ways resembled him, only he looked more refined and bilious; his bald spot was covered by a long yellowish lock of hair, combed over his forehead; he sat motionless, leaning on his cane.
Jean de La Monnerie did not take part in the family dispute. He contemplated the baby - this small warm larva, blind and wrinkled: the newborn's face, the size of an adult's fist, looked out from the swaddling clothes.
“An eternal secret,” said the poet. – The secret is the most banal and the most mysterious and the only one important for us.
He shook his head thoughtfully and dropped the smoky monocle hanging on a cord; The poet's left eye, no longer protected by glass, was slightly squinted.
“There was a time when I couldn’t stand even the sight of a newborn,” he continued. “I was just sick.” A blind creature without the slightest glimmer of thought... Tiny arms and legs with gelatinous bones... Obeying some mysterious law, the cells one day stop growing... Why do we begin to shrink?.. Why do we turn into the way we have become today? – he added with a sigh. “You end up living without understanding anything, just like this baby.”
“There is no mystery here, only the will of God,” said Urbain de La Monnerie. - And when you become an old man, like you and me... Well, well! You begin to look like an old deer whose antlers are becoming dull... Yes, every year his antlers become shorter.
Noel Schudler extended his huge index finger and tickled the baby's hand.
And immediately four old men bent over the cradle; their wrinkled necks protruded from their high, tightly starched, glossy collars; on their swollen faces, crimson eyelids devoid of eyelashes, foreheads dotted with dark spots, and porous noses stood out; the ears stuck out, sparse strands of hair turned yellow and bristled. Pouring the cradle with a hoarse wheezing breath, poisoned by many years of smoking cigars, a heavy smell emanating from the mustache, from the sealed teeth, they closely watched how, touching the grandfather’s finger, the tiny fingers, on which the skin was thin, like a film, clenched and unclenched. tangerine slices.
“It’s incomprehensible how such a little guy gets so much strength!” boomed Noel Schudler.
Four men froze over this biological mystery, over this barely emerging creature - the offspring of their blood, their ambitions and now extinguished passions.
And under this living four-headed dome the baby turned purple and began to moan weakly.
“In any case, he will have everything to become happy, if only he can take advantage of it,” said Noel Schudler, straightening up.
The giant knew very well the value of things and had already managed to count everything that a child possesses or one day will possess, everything that will be at his service from the cradle: a bank, sugar factories, a large daily newspaper, a noble title, the worldwide fame of the poet and his copyrights, the castle and lands of old Urbain, other smaller fortunes and a place prepared in advance for him in the most diverse circles of society - among aristocrats, financiers, government officials, writers.
Siegfried Schudler brought his son out of his reverie. Tugging at his sleeve, he whispered loudly:
-What was his name?
– Jean Noel, in honor of both grandfathers.
From the height of his height, Noel once again cast a tenacious glance with his dark eyes at one of the richest babies in Paris and proudly repeated, now for himself:
– Jean Noel Schudler.
The wail of a siren came from the city outskirts. Everyone raised their heads at once, and only the old baron heard only the second signal, which sounded louder.
The first weeks of 1916 passed. From time to time in the evenings, the Zeppelin appeared over the capital, which greeted it with a frightened roar, after which it plunged into darkness. The light disappeared from millions of windows. A huge German airship slowly floated over the extinct city, dropped several bombs into the cramped labyrinth of streets and flew away.
– Last night a residential building was hit in Vaugirard. They say four people died, among them three women,” said Jean de La Monnerie, breaking the silence that reigned.
There was a tense silence in the room. Several moments passed. There was not a sound coming from the street, only a cab was heard passing nearby.
Siegfried again motioned to his son, who helped him put on his fur-lined coat; then the old man sat down again.
