Against the Grain | Page 8

Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym",
specially printed for him on laid paper, each sheet carefully selected,
with a sea-gull watermark.
Or, he could look at fishing rods, tan-colored nets, rolls of russet sail, a
tiny, black-painted cork anchor--all thrown in a heap near the door
communicating with the kitchen by a passage furnished with cappadine
silk which reabsorbed, just as in the corridor which connected the
dining room with his study, every odor and sound.
Thus, without stirring, he enjoyed the rapid motions of a long sea
voyage. The pleasure of travel, which only exists as a matter of fact in
retrospect and seldom in the present, at the instant when it is being
experienced, he could fully relish at his ease, without the necessity of
fatigue or confusion, here in this cabin whose studied disorder, whose
transitory appearance and whose seemingly temporary furnishings
corresponded so well with the briefness of the time he spent there on
his meals, and contrasted so perfectly with his study, a well-arranged,
well-furnished room where everything betokened a retired, orderly
existence.
Movement, after all, seemed futile to him. He felt that imagination
could easily be substituted for the vulgar realities of things. It was
possible, in his opinion, to gratify the most extravagant, absurd desires

by a subtle subterfuge, by a slight modification of the object of one's
wishes. Every epicure nowadays enjoys, in restaurants celebrated for
the excellence of their cellars, wines of capital taste manufactured from
inferior brands treated by Pasteur's method. For they have the same
aroma, the same color, the same bouquet as the rare wines of which
they are an imitation, and consequently the pleasure experienced in
sipping them is identical. The originals, moreover, are usually
unprocurable, for love or money.
Transposing this insidious deviation, this adroit deceit into the realm of
the intellect, there was not the shadow of a doubt that fanciful delights
resembling the true in every detail, could be enjoyed. One could revel,
for instance, in long explorations while near one's own fireside,
stimulating the restive or sluggish mind, if need be, by reading some
suggestive narrative of travel in distant lands. One could enjoy the
beneficent results of a sea bath, too, even in Paris. All that is necessary
is to visit the Vigier baths situated in a boat on the Seine, far from the
shore.
There, the illusion of the sea is undeniable, imperious, positive. It is
achieved by salting the water of the bath; by mixing, according to the
Codex formula, sulphate of soda, hydrochlorate of magnesia and lime;
by extracting from a box, carefully closed by means of a screw, a ball
of thread or a very small piece of cable which had been specially
procured from one of those great rope-making establishments whose
vast warehouses and basements are heavy with odors of the sea and the
port; by inhaling these perfumes held by the ball or the cable end; by
consulting an exact photograph of the casino; by eagerly reading the
Joanne guide describing the beauties of the seashore where one would
wish to be; by being rocked on the waves, made by the eddy of fly
boats lapping against the pontoon of baths; by listening to the plaint of
the wind under the arches, or to the hollow murmur of the omnibuses
passing above on the Port Royal, two steps away.
The secret lies in knowing how to proceed, how to concentrate deeply
enough to produce the hallucination and succeed in substituting the
dream reality for the reality itself.

Artifice, besides, seemed to Des Esseintes the final distinctive mark of
man's genius.
Nature had had her day, as he put it. By the disgusting sameness of her
landscapes and skies, she had once for all wearied the considerate
patience of aesthetes. Really, what dullness! the dullness of the
specialist confined to his narrow work. What manners! the manners of
the tradesman offering one particular ware to the exclusion of all others.
What a monotonous storehouse of fields and trees! What a banal
agency of mountains and seas!
There is not one of her inventions, no matter how subtle or imposing it
may be, which human genius cannot create; no Fontainebleau forest, no
moonlight which a scenic setting flooded with electricity cannot
produce; no waterfall which hydraulics cannot imitate to perfection; no
rock which pasteboard cannot be made to resemble; no flower which
taffetas and delicately painted papers cannot simulate.
There can be no doubt about it: this eternal, driveling, old woman is no
longer admired by true artists, and the moment has come to replace her
by artifice.
Closely observe that work of hers which is considered the most
exquisite, that creation of hers whose beauty is everywhere conceded
the most perfect and original--woman. Has not man made, for his own