Against the Grain | Page 5

they failed to follow to the letter the instructions
contained in his monitories and bulls.
He acquired the reputation of an eccentric, which he enhanced by
wearing costumes of white velvet, and gold-embroidered waistcoats, by
inserting, in place of a cravat, a Parma bouquet in the opening of his
shirt, by giving famous dinners to men of letters, one of which, a
revival of the eighteenth century, celebrating the most futile of his
misadventures, was a funeral repast.
In the dining room, hung in black and opening on the transformed
garden with its ash-powdered walks, its little pool now bordered with
basalt and filled with ink, its clumps of cypresses and pines, the dinner
had been served on a table draped in black, adorned with baskets of
violets and scabiouses, lit by candelabra from which green flames
blazed, and by chandeliers from which wax tapers flared.
To the sound of funeral marches played by a concealed orchestra, nude
negresses, wearing slippers and stockings of silver cloth with patterns
of tears, served the guests.
Out of black-edged plates they had drunk turtle soup and eaten Russian
rye bread, ripe Turkish olives, caviar, smoked Frankfort black pudding,
game with sauces that were the color of licorice and blacking, truffle

gravy, chocolate cream, puddings, nectarines, grape preserves,
mulberries and black-heart cherries; they had sipped, out of dark
glasses, wines from Limagne, Roussillon, Tenedos, Val de Penas and
Porto, and after the coffee and walnut brandy had partaken of kvas and
porter and stout.
The farewell dinner to a temporarily dead virility--this was what he had
written on invitation cards designed like bereavement notices.
But he was done with those extravagances in which he had once gloried.
Today, he was filled with a contempt for those juvenile displays, the
singular apparel, the appointments of his bizarre chambers. He
contented himself with planning, for his own pleasure, and no longer
for the astonishment of others, an interior that should be comfortable
although embellished in a rare style; with building a curious, calm
retreat to serve the needs of his future solitude.
When the Fontenay house was in readiness, fitted up by an architect
according to his plans, when all that remained was to determine the
color scheme, he again devoted himself to long speculations.
He desired colors whose expressiveness would be displayed in the
artificial light of lamps. To him it mattered not at all if they were
lifeless or crude in daylight, for it was at night that he lived, feeling
more completely alone then, feeling that only under the protective
covering of darkness did the mind grow really animated and active. He
also experienced a peculiar pleasure in being in a richly illuminated
room, the only patch of light amid the shadow-haunted, sleeping houses.
This was a form of enjoyment in which perhaps entered an element of
vanity, that peculiar pleasure known to late workers when, drawing
aside the window curtains, they perceive that everything about them is
extinguished, silent, dead.
Slowly, one by one, he selected the colors.
Blue inclines to a false green by candle light: if it is dark, like cobalt or
indigo, it turns black; if it is bright, it turns grey; if it is soft, like
turquoise, it grows feeble and faded.

There could be no question of making it the dominant note of a room
unless it were blended with some other color.
Iron grey always frowns and is heavy; pearl grey loses its blue and
changes to a muddy white; brown is lifeless and cold; as for deep green,
such as emperor or myrtle, it has the same properties as blue and
merges into black. There remained, then, the paler greens, such as
peacock, cinnabar or lacquer, but the light banishes their blues and
brings out their yellows in tones that have a false and undecided
quality.
No need to waste thought on the salmon, the maize and rose colors
whose feminine associations oppose all ideas of isolation! No need to
consider the violet which is completely neutralized at night; only the
red in it holds its ground--and what a red! a viscous red like the lees of
wine. Besides, it seemed useless to employ this color, for by using a
certain amount of santonin, he could get an effect of violet on his
hangings.
These colors disposed of, only three remained: red, orange, yellow.
Of these, he preferred orange, thus by his own example confirming the
truth of a theory which he declared had almost mathematical
correctness--the theory that a harmony exists between the sensual
nature of a truly artistic individual and the color which most vividly
impresses him.
Disregarding entirely the generality of men whose gross retinas are
capable of perceiving neither the cadence peculiar to each color nor the
mysterious charm of their nuances of