each time he thought of Rue Cloche-Perce and Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, that was not possible either: the corkscrew ringlets of the latest immigrants from Galicia did not strike him as much less revolting than the Charitable Works of the Rothschild family; and he did not think a leap from the twentieth century and La Muette into the sixteenth century and Vilna or Warsaw was such a brilliant solution.
When a young French bourgeois like Laforgue is seized by a desire to rebel against the condition his class imposes upon him, he experiences less complex problems in making the break: the race and its mythologies, the complicities of church, clan and charity, do not long mask from him society’s true contours. A deviation from the path traced for him, like the reaction of a foal that takes fright and shies; the rift with paternal allegiances: these are enough to cast him back into the midst of a human space bereft of history, or which history scarcely trammels. Everything sorts itself out quite speedily: if, in an attempt to find his bearings, he seeks a bit of posthumous advice from his peasant forebears, they are never far away. Disloyal to his father who has done so much for him and, by God, makes no bones about telling him so, he can console himself by exclaiming that he is at least loyal to his grandfather: nothing threatens bourgeois stability more fundamentally than this constant interchange of compensatory betrayals, which are simply the normal consequences of the celebrated stages of democracy.
Rosenthal really did not know which way to jump, whom to be loyal to. His rabbi forebears were no joke, and in Paris what use was their advice full of Zohar and Talmud? He had too much self-esteem not to admit to himself – in spite of that human respect which does so much for the defence of lost causes – that the humblest of his relatives disgusted him no less than the richest and most triumphant; than those who had ended up acquiring an astonishing security like that of Catholics – as if Heaven and Hell belonged to them too. The pathetic synagogues on the first floor of some fissured building in the Saint-Paul neighbourhood, from which on Saturdays such unkempt old men would descend; the kosher inscriptions on the butchers’ windows; that incense-laden aroma of the East you can inhale only two hundred metres away from the Hôtel de Ville emporium and the church of Saint-Gervais; the tall girls, somewhat too pale-skinned and disdainful, beside a bowler-hatted father on the threshold of a tailor’s shop; the little gangs of pickpockets in the Polish bars; the white silk scarfs woven with threads in the hues of twilight and the moon – Bernard could no more put up with all this than with his cousins’ grand weddings in the temple on Rue de la Victoire or Rue Copernic, with the top-hats in a ring round the hupa and the ladies’ fur coats in the left bay; with tales of contango and backwardation, of outside market and official market; with the young girls who, when he met them at his beautiful sister-in-law Catherine’s, would speak to him in careless tones with the hint of an English accent of their holiday cruises to Spitzbergen or in the Cyclades, for which the fashion was then beginning. Bernard had no desire to exchange prisons.
Nor were the impassioned fur-trade workers’ meetings, in the little hall on Rue Albouy, any great help to him: the speakers held forth almost exclusively in Yiddish, he did not know a word of it. In his family, no one uttered a word of the forgotten language any more without laughing, ever since they had forsworn poverty, exile and anger. He did not in any case believe Jews had the right to a special liberation, a new act of alliance with God: he saw their liberation as submerged in a general emancipation, wherein their names, their misfortune and their vocation would disappear all at once. Besides, Bernard still wished only to be freed – he gave little thought to freeing anybody else.
It was quite hard actually for Rosenthal to forget that he was Jewish: his name sometimes inspired him with a kind of shame, which he considered ignoble and blushed for; it inspired him also with pride, and among his friends he would sometimes begin a sentence with the words ‘As a Jew, I . . .’, as though he had inherited secrets of which they would always remain ignorant – recipes for knowledge of God, intelligence or revolt; as though, for his salvation, he had had an exhilarating and bloody history to exploit, a history of battles, pogroms, migrations, legal proceedings, exegesis, knowledge, real power, shame, hope and prophecy. But he had only to find himself among his kinsfolk to detest them, to tell himself that the Jewish bourgeoisie was more dreadful than all others, Jewish banks more ruthless than Protestant banks or Catholic banks: he had scant acquaintance with the economy of other faiths.
How hard it was to be burdened by the problems of two millennia, the tragedies of a minority! How hard, not to be alone!
The Rosenthals lived in Avenue Mozart, at a time when almost all their relatives and friends still remained loyal to the Plaine Monceau, sending their sons to the Lycée Carnot or Lycée Condorcet and their daughters to the Dieterlen School; when the great movement towards Passy and Auteuil had not yet assumed the remarkable dimensions it was to assume in the years that followed.
First you went down a spacious corridor in white marble set off with long mirrors and blood-red wall-settees in garnet velours, then you arrived at the Rosenthals’ ground-floor apartment. This was large, its french windows opening onto a damp garden enclosed by railings and shaded by tall white buildings. The large and small drawing-rooms were crammed with statues, bound volumes, gloomy paintings and console tables with gilt feet: there was a grand piano, a great glossy saurian protected by a Seville shawl; a harp; and canvases by Fantin-Latour and Dagnan-Bouveret, dating from the period when painters had everything to gain by adopting double-barrelled names that endowed them with a plebeian nobility.
M. Rosenthal was a broker, but you would have thought yourself in the home of some great surgeon. On days when Mme Rosenthal received, her guests would all have the air of people waiting for an appointment and a verdict on the condition of their appendix or their ovaries. The moment had not yet come to yield up those apartments, furnished twenty years earlier with distraught passion, to the decorators of nineteen hundred and twenty-five. It was only young married couples who were beginning to set up house in white rooms furnished in glass and metal – and the atmosphere still remained medical.
Bernard entered his domain. In that stately apartment, his room’s sole ambition was to be austere. It was furnished with a large table, a brass bed that Bernard had deemed less frivolous than a divan, and an English wardrobe: on the walls there were shelves of books (not many of them bound like the ones in the large drawing-room), a poor lithograph of Lenin, a fairly good reproduction of Hals’s Descartes, and a little metaphysical landscape by de Chirico rather reminiscent of a provincial museum’s reserve collection beneath a stage moon – and which dates the period when this tale of young people unfolds. Bernard took a bath and went to bed, thinking that he had definitely smoked too much and that he was rather hungry. He then thought vaguely about the Revolution, and with exactitude about his family, the furniture in the large drawing-room, and the kitchen where there must be things left in the refrigerator. He told himself things had to be settled one way or another, without really knowing whether it was a matter of covering Paris with barricades; catching a train next morning that would take him for a few weeks far away from his father and mother, his brother, his sister-in-law and the servants; or simply going down to the kitchen – he was really too sleepy, eventually he fell asleep.
A quarter of an hour after Rosenthal, Pluvinage in turn had left the Canon des Gobelins. Pluvinage, who was preparing for his agrégation in philosophy at the Sorbonne, lived alone in a fairly dismal room in a hotel in Rue Cujas inhabited by Chinese students and by whores from the Pascal, the d’Harcourt and the Soufflot. As always, his companions felt faintly relieved by his departure; but since they regarded this as a pretty unworthy sentiment, they did not speak of it. Laforgue, Bloyé and Jurien did their best to postpone the moment of going home to bed. Luckily, they were passionately attached to Paris, their neighbourhood and night strolls.
Nine years ago the neighbourhood round the Panthéon still formed a fairly enclosed little world, its frontiers following Rue Gay-Lussac, Rue Claude-Bernard, Rue Monge, Rue des Ecoles, Rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève, Place du Panthéon, Rue Soufflot and Rue Saint-Jacques; the authorities had not yet begun bisecting the houses with streets of hospital severity, overlooked by sheets of glass and by brick and concrete towers dedicated to Knowledge. The
