He was wicked, and a pig, but all the same he was a nobleman and a gentleman—a dangerous beast, and cunning; very brave—a wild boar, as you might say. He had light hair and moustaches, light-colored eyes, no eyelashes. As soon as I saw him I disliked him: there was badness all over him. He said to us:
“I am very happy to meet you. His Majesty is very anxious to consult with you. He is . . . but listen!”
He raised a finger, pulling out his watch with his free hand; smiled and said: “Exactly five o’clock.” Almost before he had finished speaking, the place became full of music. Birds sang, bells rang, silver and golden gongs sounded—dozens and dozens of striking clocks chimed the hour. A German timepiece sent twelve lame-looking Apostles staggering out to strike a gold-headed Satan with bronze hammers. From a cheap wooden affair leapt a scraggy-looking little cuckoo with five hiccups, while a contraption under a glass dome let out five American-sounding twangs.
“His Majesty the King has a collection of more than seven hundred clocks,” said Kobalt, as soon as he could make his voice heard. “He has a sort of weakness for clocks—like Louis XVI. But never mention Louis XV I in his Majesty’s presence; the name of that unhappy monarch strikes a not-too-pleasant note in the king’s ears. We’ll see more of each other, I hope, my dear Monsieur Dicker. I am sure that we have much in common. Much!”
Dicker bowed low, and so did I. But I was full of a new idea. If his Majesty liked clocks, he should have clocks—toys, novelties, nonsense—clocks with figures and contrivances. That was when I first conceived the Nicolas clock. Tancred Dicker and I worked on it for four and a half years. Some of the technical innovations are his, but it was I who got the credit for the whole; and so I became watchmaker to King Nicolas III.
De Kock designed, modeled, and cast the case and the figures. He had talent—almost genius, the genius of the old Dutch Masters who could portray a man, an apple, a monkey, a grape, a bit of linen or a ray of sunshine, exactly as it appeared. He had a photographic hand; and it was this that made him unhappy—he wanted to make his own things, you see—it humiliated him merely to imitate the handiwork of the Lord God Almighty. He ate his heart out in his longing to create something with life of its own, but he never could. It is a sad thing when a man like de Kock becomes at last convinced that au fond he is a mediocrity; it breaks his heart.
Although he was very popular and successful and made a great deal of money, poor Honoré was very unhappy. He had already taken to drinking. Personally, I liked him very much indeed, and had a great admiration for him. He was a craftsman rather than an artist, he could work in any medium. Bronze, ivory, wood, marble, glass, gold, iron—anything and everything. Yet, because he could not reconcile himself to the fact that God did not see fit to give him the divine spark, he was always deep in melancholy. So it may, after all, have been true that poor Honoré de Kock committed suicide in the end. But I am by no means sure of this.
But where was I? Ay, yes, Dicker and I were talking to Kobalt, that smooth, terribly dangerous nobleman. It was a marvelous thing to hear all those clocks striking at once, and afterwards, when the last chime had died away (there was one vulgar little beast of a clock that was always a little late, and arrived breathless after all the others had done)—it was marvelous, afterwards, to listen to the ticking of all those clocks. The whole palace was full of it. At night, first of all, you could not sleep; you lay awake, listening, waiting for the concert that almost deafened you every quarter of an hour. There was one silly figurine of a dancing girl. Every hour she performed a little can-can, showing her underclothes, and kicking a tambourine which she held in her right hand. Another contraption—an old French novelty
“I am very happy to meet you. His Majesty is very anxious to consult with you. He is . . . but listen!”
He raised a finger, pulling out his watch with his free hand; smiled and said: “Exactly five o’clock.” Almost before he had finished speaking, the place became full of music. Birds sang, bells rang, silver and golden gongs sounded—dozens and dozens of striking clocks chimed the hour. A German timepiece sent twelve lame-looking Apostles staggering out to strike a gold-headed Satan with bronze hammers. From a cheap wooden affair leapt a scraggy-looking little cuckoo with five hiccups, while a contraption under a glass dome let out five American-sounding twangs.
“His Majesty the King has a collection of more than seven hundred clocks,” said Kobalt, as soon as he could make his voice heard. “He has a sort of weakness for clocks—like Louis XVI. But never mention Louis XV I in his Majesty’s presence; the name of that unhappy monarch strikes a not-too-pleasant note in the king’s ears. We’ll see more of each other, I hope, my dear Monsieur Dicker. I am sure that we have much in common. Much!”
Dicker bowed low, and so did I. But I was full of a new idea. If his Majesty liked clocks, he should have clocks—toys, novelties, nonsense—clocks with figures and contrivances. That was when I first conceived the Nicolas clock. Tancred Dicker and I worked on it for four and a half years. Some of the technical innovations are his, but it was I who got the credit for the whole; and so I became watchmaker to King Nicolas III.
De Kock designed, modeled, and cast the case and the figures. He had talent—almost genius, the genius of the old Dutch Masters who could portray a man, an apple, a monkey, a grape, a bit of linen or a ray of sunshine, exactly as it appeared. He had a photographic hand; and it was this that made him unhappy—he wanted to make his own things, you see—it humiliated him merely to imitate the handiwork of the Lord God Almighty. He ate his heart out in his longing to create something with life of its own, but he never could. It is a sad thing when a man like de Kock becomes at last convinced that au fond he is a mediocrity; it breaks his heart.
Although he was very popular and successful and made a great deal of money, poor Honoré was very unhappy. He had already taken to drinking. Personally, I liked him very much indeed, and had a great admiration for him. He was a craftsman rather than an artist, he could work in any medium. Bronze, ivory, wood, marble, glass, gold, iron—anything and everything. Yet, because he could not reconcile himself to the fact that God did not see fit to give him the divine spark, he was always deep in melancholy. So it may, after all, have been true that poor Honoré de Kock committed suicide in the end. But I am by no means sure of this.
But where was I? Ay, yes, Dicker and I were talking to Kobalt, that smooth, terribly dangerous nobleman. It was a marvelous thing to hear all those clocks striking at once, and afterwards, when the last chime had died away (there was one vulgar little beast of a clock that was always a little late, and arrived breathless after all the others had done)—it was marvelous, afterwards, to listen to the ticking of all those clocks. The whole palace was full of it. At night, first of all, you could not sleep; you lay awake, listening, waiting for the concert that almost deafened you every quarter of an hour. There was one silly figurine of a dancing girl. Every hour she performed a little can-can, showing her underclothes, and kicking a tambourine which she held in her right hand. Another contraption—an old French novelty
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