A biting satirical piece by Octave Mirbeau (1896) mocking Henry Houssaye’s election to the French Academy. Mirbeau’s sharp wit exposes how mediocrity, self-abasement, and a carefully cultivated ‘medallion head’ trumped actual talent in Belle Époque literary circles.
“Perfect timing,” said M. Henry Houssaye, offering me a seat. “I’ve just got back from my travels this morning.”
“From Waterloo, I presume?”
“Where else? Some people come back from Pontoise… I’m the chap who, luckier than Napoleon, always manages to come back from Waterloo. It’s rather my thing.”
“To each his own… Will you be popping over to St Helena as well?”
“Oh yes, one of these days. Bit far though. I’m waiting for the Academy to get a yacht. Can’t think why they haven’t got one already – glaring omission! A yacht with a green flag! What do you reckon?”
“Surely some generous soul will make such a gift, now that you’ve expressed the wish, dear Monsieur Houssaye…”
“Here’s hoping. Then I could retrace Napoleon’s exact journey. Count the waves, interrogate the sharks – old veterans, those – and say to the wind: ‘Tell me about him, old boy!’ Just imagine the fascinating testimonies I could bring back under those conditions…”
“Ah! You’re a true historian, dear sir!” I couldn’t help crying out with enthusiasm.
And he, modestly, replied:
“Documentation! That’s all it is. Which explains why Michelet never made it into the Academy, and why I did.”
But our conversation, barely begun, soon flagged. I had run out of things to say, M. Henry Houssaye had run out of replies. I saw that critical moment approaching when silence would wedge itself between us. I warded it off with this abrupt question:
“Tell me, dear sir, through what extraordinary acts of favour on one side, and extraordinary self-abasement on the other, did you manage to get yourself elected to the French Academy? Because really… between us…”
M. Henry Houssaye didn’t bat an eyelid:
“I’ll explain this thing that astonishes you – and astonishes me too, when I think about it. This story needs telling… I’ll write it when I’m done with Napoleon. Meanwhile, this is just between us, yes?”
“I swear.”
“Well then! Have you noticed I have the head of a medallion? At least, through careful trimming of hair and beard, I’ve striven for it, and honestly, I think I’ve pulled it off! Haven’t I?”
“Striking,” I marvelled.
“Isn’t it? To get into the Academy when one has no talent, no talent whatsoever – which is my case – one must have the head of something, the head of anything… I opted for the medallion look. The medallion head has a certain severity, a certain gravity…”
“Engraved quality, you mean?”
“Grave and engraved, let’s not quibble… It has something already historical about it. It suits youth with a special sort of nobility; gives one an air of pre-existing celebrity, one might say. Why, whenever I was somewhere – theatre, Academy, where I never missed a public session – I’d hear people asking: ‘Who’s that young man with such a fine medallion head?’ And they’d answer: ‘That’s M. Henry Houssaye, the young fellow who translated M. Cherbuliez’s Horse of Phidias from the Swiss… Great future ahead.’ I was swimming in ancient Greece then… Alcibiades… Etruscan vases… Epaminondas… heaven knows what else! Thanks to this medallion head I’d managed to impose upon myself, I was acquiring a personality! My austere youth corrected my father’s frivolous old age, tempering his rather too flippant reputation. Against his galant heroines, I set the great figures of antiquity and the forty-first chair, where one never sits. I was aiming for the fortieth, where I now lounge at my ease.”
“You were already thinking of the Academy?”
“Naturally. What else would I think about? I’ve thought about it since I was tiny… When other children played marbles, I played academician. Sweet childhood memories that still move me!”
“And then?”
“Then what?”
“You have a medallion head – that’s something, granted. But that alone doesn’t open Academy doors. You must have undertaken some other work, if not sculptural, at least intellectual…”
“Indeed! And it wore me out terribly. For years and years, I was ever so nice, ever so good, ever so respectful. I carefully chose the influential, boring houses where I dined, and the even more boring salons where I showed my face every evening, along with opinions that wouldn’t shock anyone. And I’d tell everyone: ‘I’m nothing. I’m just a poor young man who’s ever so nice, ever so good, ever so respectful. I have no talent, and I’m perfectly happy about it. Because if I had talent, I wouldn’t be so nice, so good, so respectful, and I might have opinions that could shock you. Yes! Anything rather than shock you, shock anyone, anybody at all… Because you never know where that someone or anybody might go, whom they might meet, what secret influences they might bring to bear.’ And I’d also say to people who complimented my work: ‘No, you’re mistaken, it’s not good… I have no talent… I have nothing but niceness, goodness, respect, and forty thousand volumes. I work hard, that’s my only merit… I slog away… I’m a grinder… I read my forty thousand volumes… I do what I can… but I can do nothing. Not my fault.’ And I humbled myself endlessly, effaced myself so thoroughly that, casting no shadow on anyone, everyone liked me, pushed me forward, and said amongst themselves: ‘Really, that young Houssaye is so nice, so good, so respectful, he doesn’t shock anyone… We must do something for him!’ Anyone else would have been offered a job as tax collector or municipal librarian. I was offered the Academy, and the most extravagant decorations. When I think that Ferdinand Brunetière is merely a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour whilst I’m an Officer, soon to be Commander, and doubtless Grand Cross in a few years – doesn’t that give you a jolly idea of our sense of proportion… and what talent weighs in the scales of those charged with rewarding it?”
“And since then?”
“Since then, everything’s come my way! I don’t know what to do with all the honours heaped upon me… or where to put them… I’m overwhelmed…”
He paused in his speech and cast a deep, sweeping look over himself, as if wanting to review his whole life, and said:
“Curious, isn’t it? Incredible? My life has something unexplained about it… Like a dream! There are times when, being so paradoxically fortunate, I doubt myself! And I sometimes wonder if I haven’t played this strange trick on myself – of having had, at some point in my life, without knowing it, without anyone knowing it, actual talent!”
Then the clock struck five! M. Henry Houssaye started:
“Five o’clock!” he exclaimed. “Blast! I leave for Waterloo at six… No time to lose!”
And he showed me out.
On the stairs, I thought:
“So he doesn’t just come back from Waterloo… He goes there too!”
1896.
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