Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Céline Page B
Authors: Louis-Ferdinand Céline
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wretched. Life is made up of those little preferences. To complete my misery, the Theater of the Armies came along. In no time Musyne got to know dozens of people at the Ministry. More and more often she went off to entertain our soldier boys at the front and stayed away for weeks on end, serving up sonatas and adagios to the troops. The front seats in the orchestra would be occupied by top brass, well placed to admire her legs, while the soldiers, seated on wooden stands behind their commanders, had to make do with melodious echoes. After the performance, of course, she would spend exceedingly complicated nights in the hotels of the army area. One day she came home as happy as a lark, brandishing a certificate of heroism, signed if you please by one of our glorious generals. With that diploma she became a real success.
It made her ever so popular with the Argentine colony. They feted her, they were mad about my Musyne, oh, what an adorable little front-line violinist! So rosy-cheeked and curly-headed, and a heroine to boot. Those Argentines knew which side their bread was buttered on, their admiration for our glorious generals knew no bounds, and when my Musyne came back to them with her authentic document, her pretty phiz, and her nimble, heroic little fingers, each tried to love her more than the next, they tried to outbid each other, so to speak. The poetry of heroism holds an irresistible appeal for people who aren't involved in a war, especially when they're making piles of money out of one. It's only natural.
Ah, jaunty heroism! Strong men have swooned away! The shipbuilders of Rio offered their names and their shares to the adorable young thing who feminized the warlike valor of the French so charmingly for their benefit. Musyne, I have to admit, had managed to outfit herself with a delightful little repertory of war adventures, they were wonderfully becoming, like a jaunty little cap. Sometimes she amazed me with her skillful touch, and listening to her I had to own that when it came to tall stories I was a clumsy faker compared to her. She had a gift for locating her fantasies in a dramatic faraway setting that gave everything a lasting glow. It often struck me that when we combatants spun yarns they tended to be crudely chronometric and precise. Her medium was eternity. Claude Lorrain[29] was right in saying that the foreground of a picture is always repugnant and that the interest of an artwork must be seen in the distance, in that unfathomable realm which is the refuge of lies, of those dreams caught in the act, which are the only thing men love. The woman who can turn our despicable nature to account has no difficulty in becoming our darling, our indispensable and supreme hope. We expect her to preserve our illusory raison d'ętre, but on the other hand she can make a very good living while performing this magic function. Instinctively, Musyne did just that. The Argentines lived in the Ternes area and on the fringes of the Bois, in small private houses, resplendent and well fenced-in, which were kept so delightfully warm in that wintry weather that when you came in from the street your thoughts suddenly took an optimistic turn, you couldn't help it.
In my jittery despair, I had taken to waiting for Musyne in the butler's pantry as often as possible, a stupid thing to do. Sometimes I waited until morning, I was sleepy, but jealousy kept me awake, and so did the quantities of white wine the servants poured out for me. I seldom saw the Argentine masters of the house, I heard their songs and their blustering Spanish and the piano which never stopped but was usually being played by other hands than those of my Musyne. What, meanwhile, was she doing with her hands, the slut?
When she saw me at the door in the morning, she made a face. I was still as natural as an animal in those days. I was like a dog with a bone, I wouldn't let go. People waste a large part of their youth in stupid mistakes. It was obvious that my
It made her ever so popular with the Argentine colony. They feted her, they were mad about my Musyne, oh, what an adorable little front-line violinist! So rosy-cheeked and curly-headed, and a heroine to boot. Those Argentines knew which side their bread was buttered on, their admiration for our glorious generals knew no bounds, and when my Musyne came back to them with her authentic document, her pretty phiz, and her nimble, heroic little fingers, each tried to love her more than the next, they tried to outbid each other, so to speak. The poetry of heroism holds an irresistible appeal for people who aren't involved in a war, especially when they're making piles of money out of one. It's only natural.
Ah, jaunty heroism! Strong men have swooned away! The shipbuilders of Rio offered their names and their shares to the adorable young thing who feminized the warlike valor of the French so charmingly for their benefit. Musyne, I have to admit, had managed to outfit herself with a delightful little repertory of war adventures, they were wonderfully becoming, like a jaunty little cap. Sometimes she amazed me with her skillful touch, and listening to her I had to own that when it came to tall stories I was a clumsy faker compared to her. She had a gift for locating her fantasies in a dramatic faraway setting that gave everything a lasting glow. It often struck me that when we combatants spun yarns they tended to be crudely chronometric and precise. Her medium was eternity. Claude Lorrain[29] was right in saying that the foreground of a picture is always repugnant and that the interest of an artwork must be seen in the distance, in that unfathomable realm which is the refuge of lies, of those dreams caught in the act, which are the only thing men love. The woman who can turn our despicable nature to account has no difficulty in becoming our darling, our indispensable and supreme hope. We expect her to preserve our illusory raison d'ętre, but on the other hand she can make a very good living while performing this magic function. Instinctively, Musyne did just that. The Argentines lived in the Ternes area and on the fringes of the Bois, in small private houses, resplendent and well fenced-in, which were kept so delightfully warm in that wintry weather that when you came in from the street your thoughts suddenly took an optimistic turn, you couldn't help it.
In my jittery despair, I had taken to waiting for Musyne in the butler's pantry as often as possible, a stupid thing to do. Sometimes I waited until morning, I was sleepy, but jealousy kept me awake, and so did the quantities of white wine the servants poured out for me. I seldom saw the Argentine masters of the house, I heard their songs and their blustering Spanish and the piano which never stopped but was usually being played by other hands than those of my Musyne. What, meanwhile, was she doing with her hands, the slut?
When she saw me at the door in the morning, she made a face. I was still as natural as an animal in those days. I was like a dog with a bone, I wouldn't let go. People waste a large part of their youth in stupid mistakes. It was obvious that my
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