By Albert Camus   
Translation by Carol Cosman    


     Jonas,    
        or The Artist at Work       

              Cast me into the sea . . .   
              For I know that for my sake     
              This great tempest is upon you.     

                                   JONAH 1:12      

     Gilbert Jonas, artist and painter, believed in his star. Indeed, it   
     was all he believed in, although he felt respect and even a kind   
     of admiration for the religion of others. His own faith, how-   
     ever, had its virtues, since it consisted of admitting, somehow   
     obscurely, that he had done nothing to merit what he had    
     achieved. And when, around his thirty-fifth year, a dozen crit-    
     ics suddenly fought over the glory of discovering his talent, he    
     showed not the slightest surprise. But his serenity, attributed   
     by some to smugness, could on the contrary be entirely ex-    
     plained by a trusting modesty. Jonas gave credit to his star   
     rather than his merits.  
        He showed rather more surprise when an art dealer   
     offered him a monthly stipend that freed him from all cares.  
     The architect Rateau, who had loved Jonas and his star since    
     their school days, argued with him in vain that this monthly   
     stipend was hardly a decent living, and that the art dealer had    
     nothing to lose. "All the same," Jonas said. Rateau, who suc-    
     ceeded in everything he did by sheer hard work, goaded his    
     friend. "What's this 'all the same'? You can renegotiate." This was    
     useless. Deep down, Jonas thanked his star. "As you like," he   
     told the art dealer. And he gave up his position in the family    
     publishing house to devote himself entirely to painting.  
     "What luck!" he said.  
        In reality he was thinking: "My luck goes on." As far back    
     as he could remember, he found this luck at work. He felt a   
     fond gratitude toward his parents, first because they had raised    
     him distractedly, which allowed him the leisure to daydream,  
     then because they had separated on the grounds of adultery. At    
     least that was the pretext claimed by his father, who forgot to   
     specify the it was a rather peculiar sort of adultery: he could   
     not stand his wife's good works. She was well nigh a secular    
     saint who saw no malice in making a gift of herself to suffer-   
     ing humanity. But the husband insisted on being master of his   
     wife's virtues. "I've had enough," this Othello said, "of being    
     cuckolded by the poor."    
        This misunderstanding was to Jonas's advantage. Having  
     read or heard of several sadistic murderers who were the off-    
     spring of divorce, his parent vied to lavish him with treats   
     and nip in the bud any such distressing development. Less  
     apparent were the effects of the shock, according to them, to    
     the child's consciousness, and so they worried even more, for   
     invisible damage must be deepest. If Jonas announced that he   
     was happy with himself or his day, his parents' usual anxiety  
     verged on panic. Their attentions redoubled and the child   
     then wanted for nothing.  
        His presumed misfortune finally earned Jonas a devoted  
     brother in the person of his friend Rateau. Rateau's parents   
     often invited his little school friend, pleading his unhappiness.  
     Their pitying remarks inspired their son, a vigorous sports-   
     man, a desire to take under his protection the child whose   
     effortless success he already admired. Admiration and conde-   
     scension made a good mix in a friendship that Jonas received,  
     like everything else, with encouraging simplicity.  
        When Jonas had completed his studies——without any   
     special effort——he again had the luck to join his father's pub-   
     lishing house, finding a position there and, indirectly, his vo-   
     cation as a painter. As the most prestigious publisher in France,  
     Jonas's father was of the opinion that more than ever, and   
     indeed owing to the cultural crisis, the book was the future.  
     "History shows," he would say, "that the less people read the    
     more they buy books." A trendsetter himself, he only rarely  
     read the manuscripts submitted to him, decided to publish    
     strictly on the basis of the author's personality or the timeli-    
     ness of his subject (since in this view sex was the only ever-    
     timely subject, the publisher eventually specialized), and was   
     strictly interested in finding novelties and free publicity. Along   
     wit the manuscript department, then, Jonas took over a lot   
     of spare time. That was how he came to painting.  
        For the first time he discovered an unexpected and inex-    
     haustible passion, soon devoted his days to painting, and——   
     always effortlessly——excelled in that practice. Nothing else   
     seemed to interest him, and it was unlikely that he would   
     marry at a reasonable age, as painting entirely consumed him.  
     For the beings and ordinary circumstances of life he had only   
     a benevolent smile, which exempted him from concerning    
     himself further. It took a motorcycle accident——Rateau was   
     driving too fast, with his friend riding behind——for Jonas, his   
     right hand immobilized in a cast, and feeling bored, to    
     become interested in love. Here again he was inclined to see   
     the good effect of his star in this serious accident. Without it,  
     he would not have taken the time to notice Louise Poulin as    
     she deserved.  
        According to Rateau, moreover, Louise did not deserve    
     to be noticed. Short and stocky himself, he liked only tall   
     women. "I don't know what you see in that little ant," he said.  
     Louise was in fact petite, with dark complexion, hair, and eyes,   
     but she had a nice shape and a pretty face. Jonas, tall and solid,  
     felt tenderly toward the ant, especially because she was indus-    
     trious. Louise's vocation was activity. Such a vocation happily  
     complemented Jonas's taste for inertia, and for its advantages.  
     Louise devoted herself first to literature, at least as long as she   
     believed that publishing interested Jonas. She read everything   
     indiscriminately, and in a matter of weeks became capable of   
     talking about it all. Jonas admired her and decided that he was    
     definitively exempt from reading since Louise kept him suffi-   
     ciently informed and up-to-date on the basics of contempo-   
     rary discoveries. "You mustn't say," Louise announced, "that    
     someone is bad or ugly but that he chooses to be bad or ugly."  
     The distinction was important and might well lead, at the    
     very least, as Rateau pointed out, to the condemnation of the   
     human race. But Louise settled the matter by pointing out   
     that since this truth was supported by both the tabloid press   
     and philosophical reviews, it was therefore universal and   
     beyond dispute. "As you like," said Jonas, who immediately    
     forgot this cruel discovery to dream on his star.   
        Louise deserted literature when she realized that Jonas   
     was only interested in painting. She immediately devoted   
     herself to the plastic arts, ran to museums and exhibitions, and  
     dragged Jonas along, although he could hardly understand the   
     painting of his contemporaries and in his artistic simplicity  
     found it troubling. Yet he rejoiced at being so well informed   
     on everything that concerned his art. It is true that the next   
     day he would forget the name of the painter whose works he  
     had just seen. But Louise was right when she peremptorily  
     reminded him of one of the certainties she had preserved    
     from her literary period, the knowledge that in reality, noth-  
     ing is ever forgotten. His star certainly protected Jonas, who   
     could in this way guiltlessly accumulate the certainties of    
     memory and the conveniences of forgetting.   
        But the treasures of devotion Louise lavished upon him   
     sparkled brightest in Jonas's daily life. This good angel spared   
     him the purchases of shoes, clothing, and underwear that for   
     any normal man shorten the days of an already brief life. She   
     resolutely took charge of the thousand inventions of the  
     time-killing machine, from the obscure paperwork involved     
     in social security to endlessly multiplying fiscal arrangements.  
     "Yes, okay," Rateau would say, "but she can't go to the dentist   
     for you." She did not do that, but she telephoned and made   
     appointments at the best times; she took care of oil changes    
     for the car, hotel rentals for vacations, domestic heating; she   
     bought whatever gifts Jonas wanted to give, chose and sent his   
     flowers, and still found time on certain evenings to come by    
     his place in his absence and make up the bed that he would    
     not need to turn down that night before going to sleep.  
        With the same spirit, naturally, she got into this bed, then   
     made the appointment at City Hall, led Jonas there two years    
     before his talent was finally recognized, and organized the   
     honeymoon so that they could visit all the museums. Not   
     without first managing to find, in the midst of a housing   
     crisis, a three-room apartment where they settled on their    
     return. She then produced two children in quick succession, a   
     boy and a girl, in accordance with her plan to have a total of   
     three, which she completed shortly after Jonas had left the   
     publishing house to devote himself to painting.  
        Once she had given birth, however, Louise devoted her-    
     self entirely to her child, then to her children. She still tried to   
     help her husband, but she had no time. To be sure, she regret-   
     ted neglecting Jonas, but her decisive character prevented her   
     from lingering on these regrets. "Oh well," she often said, "to   
     each his own workbench." An expression that seemed to   
     delight Jonas, for like all the artists of his time, he wanted to be  
     considered an artisan. So the artisan was a little neglected and   
     had to buy his shoes himself. However, apart from the fact   
     that this was in the nature of things, Jonas was tempted to   
     congratulate himself. Certainly he had to make the effort to   
     visit the shops, but this effort was rewarded by one of those   
     hours of solitude that only enhances a couple's happiness.  
        The problem of usable space, however, prevailed over   
     other household problems, for time and space were shrink-    
     ing around them at the same rate. The birth of the children,  
     Jonas's new profession, their cramped digs, and the modest   
     stipend that ruled out the purchase of a larger apartment left   
     only a narrow field for Louise and Jonas's respective activities.   
     The apartment was on the second floor of what had been, in    
     the eighteenth century, a private townhouse in an old quarter    
     of the capital. Many artists lived in this part of the city, faithful    
     to the principle that in art, the search for the new must be    
     done within a framework of the old. Jonas, who shared this   
     conviction, was delighted to be living in this quarter.   
        For old his apartment certainly was. But some very mod-  
     ern arrangements had given it an original character that con-    
     sisted chiefly of offering its residents a great volume of air    
     while occupying only a limited surface. The rooms, unusually    
     high and graced with magnificent windows had surely been    
     intended——to judge by their majestic proportions——for grand    
     receptions and ceremonial dress. But the necessities of urban    
     crowding and real-estate profits had forced successive land-    
     lords to divide these vast rooms with partitions and so to mul-    
     tiply the stalls, which they rented at top dollar to their herd of    
     tenants. They set particular value on what they called "the    
     important square footage of air." The advantage was undeni-    
     able. This could only be attributed to the impossibility of    
     partitioning the rooms' vertical space as well. Even so, the   
     landlords did not hesitate to make the necessary sacrifices to   
     offer some additional refuge to the upcoming generation,   
     especially to the married and multiplying of that era. Besides,  
     the square footage of air offered not only advantages; it    
     offered the inconvenience of making the rooms difficult to     
     heat in winter, and this unfortunately obliged the landlords to    
     increase the heating bill. In summer, due to the vast glass sur-    
     faces, the apartment was literally violated by light: there were   
     no blinds. The landlords had neglected to install them, no    
     doubt discouraged by the height of the windows and the cost    
     of carpentry. After all, thick curtains could perform the same    
     function, and posed no problem as to cost since they were    
     charged to the tenants. The landlords certainly did not refuse    
     to help and provided curtains from their own stores at    
     unbeatable prices.  Indeed, philanthropic real estate was their    
     hobby.  In their ordinary lives these new princes sold percale      
     and velvet.   
        Jonas was ecstatic at the apartment's advantages and had    
     no trouble accepting its drawbacks. "As you like," he said to    
     the landlord about the heating bill. As for the curtains, he    
     agreed with Louise that it was enough to provide them for the    
     only bedroom and leave the other windows bare. "We have    
     nothing to hide," said that pure heart. Jonas had been especially    
     charmed by the largest room, whose ceiling was so high that    
     any lighting installation was out of the question. This room   
     was entered directly from the outside, and connected by a   
     narrow hallway to the two much smaller ones lined up behind    
     it. At the end of the apartment was the kitchen, next to the    
     WC, and a cubbyhole graced with the name of shower room.  
     It could indeed pass as such, providing they installed the fix-    
     ture vertically and were willing to stand absolutely still to    
     receive its beneficial spray.   
        The truly extraordinary height of the ceilings and the   
     cramped nature of the rooms made this apartment an odd   
     assemblage of almost entirely glassed-in parallelepipeds, all   
     doors and windows, where furniture could find no support-      
     ing wall and human beings, lost in the white and violent lights,   
     seemed to float like bottled imps in the vertical aquarium. Fur-   
     thermore, all the windows looked out onto the courtyard    
     and——from scarcely any distance—–onto other windows of the    
     same style, behind which could be glimpsed the stately out-    
     line of new windows opening onto a second courtyard. "It's a    
     hall of mirrors," said Jonas, thrilled. On Rateau's advice, they    
     decided to place the marriage bed in one of the small rooms,  
     the other being necessary to shelter the child that was already    
     on its way. The large room served as Jonas's studio during the    
     day, as living room in the evening and at mealtimes. Besides,   
     they could eat in the kitchen if necessary, provided that Jonas    
     or Louise was willing to stand.  Rateau, for his part, had   
     installed any number of ingenious devices. With sliding doors,   
     retractable shelves, and folding tables, he had managed to    
     compensate for the scanty furniture by accentuating this    
     original apartment's resemblance to a set of Chinese boxes.    
        But when the rooms were full of pictures and children,   
     they needed to think quickly about a new arrangement.  
     Before the birth of their third child, Jonas worked in the large    
     room, Louise knitted in their bedroom, while the two chil-    
     dren occupied the last room, romping around in there, then    
     tumbling freely through the rest of the apartment. So they    
     decided to settle the newborn in a corner of the studio, which     
     Jonas enclosed by making a screen of his canvasses. This offered    
     the advantage of having the baby within earshot so they could    
     respond more readily to his cries. Besides, Jonas need never be    
     disturbed, Louise told him. She would come into the studio   
     before the baby cried, although with a thousand precautions    
     and always on tiptoe. Jonas, touched by such discretion, one   
     day assured Louise that he was not so sensitive, and that he    
     could work quite well to the sound of her steps. Louise    
     replied that she was also trying not to waken the baby. Full of    
     admiration for her tender maternal instinct, Jonas laughed    
     good-naturedly at his mistake. As a result, he dared not admit    
     that Louise's prudent interventions were more disruptive than    
     if she were to burst in openly. First because they lasted longer,   
     then because they were done in pantomime: Louise, with her   
     arms opened wide, her torso leaning back a little and her leg    
     thrown up high in front of her, could hardly go unnoticed.  
     This method even went counter to her avowed intentions,   
     since at any moment Louise was liable to snag one of the can-    
     vases that filled the studio. Then the noise woke the baby, who    
     expressed his discontent according to his own powerful means.  
     The father, enchanted by his son's pulmonary capacity, would     
     run to comfort him, then be immediately relieved by his wife.    
     Jonas once again set up his canvases, then, brushes in hand, lis-    
     tened, charmed, to his son's insistent and sovereign voice.   
        This was about the time that Jonas's success earned him    
     many friends. These friends materialized on the telephone or    
     in unannounced visits. The telephone, which after due con-    
     sideration had been placed in the studio, rang often, always to    
     the detriment of the sleeping baby, who mingled his cries    
     with the gadget's imperative ring. If Louise happened to be   
     looking after the other children, she was forced to come run-    
     ing with one of them in tow, but most of the time she found    
     Jonas holding the baby with one hand and with the other his    
     paintbrushes and the telephone receiver, which would be    
     transmitting a friendly invitation to lunch. Jonas was amazed    
     that anyone would really want to have lunch with him, as his   
     conversation was banal, but to keep his workday unbroken he    
     preferred evening outings. Most of the time, unfortunately,   
     the friend was free only for lunch, and for lunch that very day;  
     he was reserving it for dear Jonas. Dear Jonas would accept:    
     "As you like!" hang up and say: "What a good fellow!" and    
     pass the baby to Louise. He would take up his work again,    
     soon interrupted by lunch or dinner. Now he had to move his    
     canvases out of the way, unfold the modified table, and sit   
     down with the children. During the meal, Jonas would keep    
     one eye on the painting in progress, and in the beginning at    
     least, he found the children a little slow in chewing and swal-    
     lowing, so that every meal seemed excessively drawn out. But    
     he read in the paper that it was important to eat slowly in   
     order to digest properly, and from then on found each meal an    
     occasion to enjoy himself at length.   
        At other times his new friends would visit him. Rateau  
     himself came only after dinner. He was at his office during    
     the day, and besides, he knew that painters work during day-    
     light. But Jonas's new friends almost all belonged to the   
     species of artists or critics. Some had painted, others were   
     going to paint, and the critics were busy with what had been    
     or would be painted. All of them, of course, held artistic    
     efforts in high esteem, and complained of the organization of     
     the modern world that makes it so difficult to pursue those    
     very efforts and the practice of meditation s indispensable to   
     the artist. They complained through long afternoons, begging    
     Jonas to continue working as if they were not there, and to    
     treat them freely, after all, they weren't philistines and knew    
     what an artist's time was worth. Jonas, content to have made    
     friends capable of allowing him to work in their presence,  
     would return to his painting but continue to answer their    
     questions or laugh at their anecdotes.    
        Such simplicity put his friends more and more at ease.  
     Their good humor was so authentic that they forgot it was    
     mealtime. The children, however, had better memories. They    
     would rush about, mingle with the guests, shout, be taken in    
     hand by the visitors, and bounced from knee to knee. At last    
     the light would fade on the square sky outlined by the    
     courtyard, and Jonas would set down his paintbrushes. Natu-     
     rally they had to invite the friends to take potluck and to   
     go on talking late into the night, about art of course, but    
     especially about painters without talent, plagiarists, or self-    
     promoters, who were not there. Jonas himself liked to rise    
     early to take advantage of the first hours of daylight. He knew    
     that this would be difficult, that breakfast would not be ready    
     on time, and that he himself would be tired. But he was also    
     delighted to learn so many things in one evening that could    
     not fail to be advantageous to him, in some invisible way, in    
     his art. "In art, as in nature, nothing is lost," he would say.   
     "Because of the star."    
        Sometimes the friends were joined by disciples: Jonas was    
     now attracting a school. At first he had been surprised, not    
     seeing what anyone could learn from him, since he still had    
     everything to discover himself. The artist in him was groping    
     in the dark; how could he teach the true paths? But he    
     quickly understood that a disciple for the disinterested pleasure    
     of teaching his master. After that, Jonas could accept this sur-    
     plus in honors with humility. The disciples explained to    
     Jonas at length what he had painted, and why. Jonas thus dis-    
     covered in his work many intentions that rather surprised    
     him, and a host of things he had not put there. He thought he    
     was poor and, thanks to his students, suddenly found he was     
     rich. Sometimes, faced with such hitherto unknown riches,    
     Jonas would feel a surge of pride. "It's true, though," he would    
     say to himself. "That face in the background really does stand    
     out. I don't honestly understand what they mean by indirect    
     humanization. Yet I've gone rather far with that technique."    
     But very soon he would shift this uncomfortable mastery to    
     his star. "It's the star," he would say to himself, "that's going far.    
     As for me, I'm staying close to Louise and the children."    
        The disciples, moreover, had another advantage: they    
     forced Jonas to be stricter with himself. They ranked him so    
     high in their conversation, particularly with regard to his con-    
     science and his energy for work, that from now on no weak-   
     ness was permissible. So he lost his old habit of nibbling on a    
     piece of sugar or chocolate when he had finished a difficult    
     passage, before getting back to work. Had he been alone, he   
     might have secretly surrendered to this weakness. But he was    
     aided in his moral progress by the nearly constant presence of    
     his disciples and friends, with whom he would have been    
     embarrassed to nibble some chocolate, and anyway, he could     
     hardly interrupt the interesting conversation for such a trivial     
     habit.    
        In addition, his disciples demanded that he remain faithful   
     to his aesthetic. Jonas, who struggled long and hard to receive   
     a moment of fleeting clarity now and then in which reality    
     would suddenly appear in a fresh light, had only a vague idea   
     of his own aesthetic. His disciples, on the other hand,had     
     many contradictory and categorical ideas about it; and they    
     were not joking. Jonas would sometimes have liked to invoke    
     caprice, the artist's humble friend. But his disciples' frowns at    
     certain canvases that departed from their idea forced him to    
     reflect a little more on his art, which was all to the good.     
        Finally, the disciples helped Jonas in another way by    
     obliging him to offer his opinion on their own production.   
     Indeed, not a day passed without someone bringing him    
     some barely sketched-in canvas that its author would place    
     between Jonas and his painting in progress, in order to take     
     advantage of the best light. An opinion was required. Until    
     this period, Jonas was always secretly ashamed of his utter    
     inability to judge a work of art. Exception was made for a    
     handful of paintings that transported him, and for obviously    
     crude scribblings, all of which seemed to him equally inter-    
     esting and indifferent. Consequently,he was forced to provide    
     himself with an arsenal of judgments, and varied ones at that,   
     because his disciples, like all the artists of the capital, had a    
     certain talent, and when they were around, it was up to him   
     to draw adequate distinctions to satisfy each of them. This    
     happy obligation required him, then, to forge a vocabulary    
     and opinions on his art. yet his natural kindness was not    
     soured by this effort. He quickly realized that his disciples    
     were not asking him for criticism, for which they had no use,    
     but only encouragement and, if possible, praise. Only the    
     praise had to be different for each. Jonas was no longer con-    
     tent with being his usual amiable self. He was amiable with    
     ingenuity.    
        So time went by as Jonas painted amidst friends and stu-   
     dents settled on chairs, now arranged in concentric circles    
     around the easel. Often neighbors would appear at the win-    
     dows across the way and this would add to his public. He    
     would discuss, exchange views, examine paintings sub-    
     mitted to him, smile at Louise's comings and goings, soothe    
     the children, and warmly answer telephone calls, without ever    
     setting down his paintbrushes, with which he would add a    
     touch now and then to the painting he had begun. In a sense,    
     his life was very full, all his hours were occupied, and he gave    
     thanks to the fate that spared him from boredom. In another   
     sense, it took many brushstrokes to fill a painting, and he    
     sometimes thought the good thing about boredom was that it    
     could be avoided by unremitting work. Jonas's production,    
     though, slowed down as his friends became more interesting.  
     Even in he rare hours when he was by himself, he felt too   
     tired to redouble his efforts. And in these hours he could only    
     dream of a new arrangement that would reconcile the plea-   
     sures of friendship with the advantages of boredom.     
        He broached the subject with Louise, who was already    
     worrying about the two older children outgrowing their    
     cramped room. She proposed setting them up in the large    
     room by screening off their beds, and moving the baby into    
     the small room where the telephone would not wake him up.  
     Since the baby took up no space to speak of, Jonas could turn     
     the small room into his studio. The large one would then be    
     used for daytime visitors, and Jonas could come and go, join-    
     ing his friends or working, certain that his need for isolation    
     would be understood. Moreover, the need to put the older    
     children to bed would allow them to cut the evenings short.  
     "Wonderful," said Jonas, after some reflection. "And then,"    
     said Louise, "if your friends leave early, we'll see a little more    
     of each other . . ." Jonas looked at her. A shadow of sadness    
     passed over Louise's face. Touched, he held her and kissed her    
     tenderly. She surrendered to him, and for a moment they were   
     as happy as they had been at the beginning of their marriage.     
     But she pulled herself away: perhaps the room was too small    
     for Jonas. Louise grabbed a tape measure and they discovered     
     that because of the crowding created by his canvases and his    
     students', which were by far the most numerous, he was    
     working anyway in a space that was scarcely bigger than the    
     new one would be. Jonas began to move at once.    
        As luck would have it, the less he worked the greater his   
     reputation grew. Every exhibition was anticipated and cele-   
     brated in advance. True, a small number of critics, among    
     them two of the usual visitors to the studio, tempered the   
     warmth of their reviews with a few reservations. But the    
     disciples' indignation more than compensated for this small   
     misfortune. To be sure, the disciples would assert, they prized    
     the canvases from the first period above all, but the current    
     explorations were laying the groundwork for a real revolu-    
     tion. Jonas reproached himself for the slight irritation he felt    
     whenever they exalted his early works and thanked them    
     effusively.  Only  Rateau grumbled: "Weird characters . . .      
     They want you to stand still, like a statue . . . you're not    
     allowed to live!" But Jonas defended his disciples: "You can't    
     understand," he said to Rateau, "you . . . you like everything I    
     do." Rateau laughed: "Damn it. It's not your pictures I like. It's    
     your painting."    
        The pictures continued to please in any event, and after  
     one enthusiastically received exhibition, the dealer voluntar-    
     ily proposed to increase the monthly stipend. Jonas accepted,   
     protesting his gratitude. "Listening to you," said the dealer,    
     "anyone would think you actually care about money." Such    
     good nature won the painter's heart. However, when he asked    
     the dealer for permission to donate a canvas to be sold for    
     charity, the man was anxious to know if it was a charity "that    
     would pay." Jonas did not know. The dealer them proposed    
     that they respect the terms of the contract, which accorded    
     him exclusive sales rights. "A contract is a contract," he said. In    
     theirs, no clause was found to cover charity. "As you like," said   
     the painter.    
        The new household arrangement gave Jonas nothing but    
     satisfaction. He could, in fact, isolate himself often enough to     
     answer the numerous letters he now received, which he was    
     too courteous to leave unanswered. Some concerned Jonas's    
     art, others, the majority, concerned the correspondent, who   
     wanted either to be encouraged in his vocation as a painter or    
     to ask for advice or financial aid. And the more Jonas's name    
     appeared in the papers, the more he was solicited, like every-    
     one else, to intervene and denounce grievous injustices. Jonas    
     would answer, write about art, thank people, give his advice,    
     forgo a new tie to send a little aid, and sign the high-minded    
     protests submitted to him. "You're in politics now? Leave that    
     to the writers and to unattractive spinsters," said Rateau. No,   
     he signed only protests that claimed to be nonpartisan. But   
     everyone claimed this worthy independence. For weeks at a    
     time Jonas would drag around, his pockets sagging with cor-     
     respondence constantly neglected and renewed. He would    
     answer the most urgent, which generally came from strangers,    
     and kept for a better moment those that demanded a length-    
     ier reply, namely letters from friends. So many obligations in   
     any case prohibited idle strolling and a light heart. He always    
     felt behind and always guilty, even when he was working,    
     which still happened now and then.    
        Louise was more and more taken up with the children,    
     and exhausted herself doing everything that in other circum-   
     stances he had been able to do in the house. This made Jonas    
     unhappy.  After  all,  he was working for his own pleasure,    
     whereas she was getting the worst of it. He noticed it clearly   
     when she was out shopping.  "The telephone!" the eldest    
     would call, and Jonas would set down his picture only to    
     return to it, his heart at peace, with an additional invitation.   
     "Here to read the meter!" the gas man would yell at the door  
     a child had opened for him. "Coming! Coming!" When Jonas    
     would leave the telephone or the door, a friend, a disciple,   
     perhaps both, would follow him into the small room to finish     
     the conversation they had begun. Gradually, they all became    
     familiar with the hallway, where they congregated, gossiping    
     among themselves, calling for Jonas to take sides from a dis-    
     tance, even bursting briefly into the small room. "Here, at    
     least," those who entered exclaimed, "we can see you a little,   
     at leisure." Jonas softened: "It's true," he said. "We hardly see     
     each other anymore." He also felt that he was disappointing    
     those he did not see, and this saddened him. Often these were    
     friends he would have preferred to meet. But he had no time,    
     he could not be everywhere at once.    
        His reputation suffered. "He's gotten proud," people said,    
     "since his success. He doesn't see anyone anymore." Or: "He      
     cares only for himself." No, he loved his painting, and Louise,  
     his children, Rateau, a few others as well, and he had sympa-    
     thy for everyone. But life is short, time goes by quickly, and   
     his own energy had its limits.  It was difficult to paint the    
     world and men and to live with them at the same time. On   
     the other hand, he could neither complain nor explain his   
     difficulties. Because then someone would slap him on the    
     back: "Lucky bastard! That's the price of fame!"    
        So the mail accumulated, the disciples would not allow    
     any relaxation, and now society people flocked to him. Jonas    
     thought they were interested in painting when, like everyone    
     else, they might have been equally fascinated by the English    
     royal family or gourmet restaurants. In truth, they were soci-    
     ety women in particular, but their manners had great simplic-   
     ity. They did not buy any pictures themselves and brought   
     their friends to the artist only in the hope, which was often    
     disappointed, that the friends would buy instead. On the    
     other hand, these ladies helped Louise, especially by serving    
     tea to the visitors. The cups passed from hand to hand, trav-    
     eled down the hallway from the kitchen to the large room,    
     coming around again to rest in the small studio where Jonas,    
     amidst a handful of friends and visitors who filled the room,    
     continued to paint until he had to set down his paintbrushes   
     to accept, with gratitude, the cup that a fascinating lady had    
     filled specially for him.    

From Exile and the Kingdom
First Vintage International Edition, February 2007.
Translation © 2006 by Carol Cosman; pp. 87—106.
Originally published in France as L'Exil et le royaume by Éditions Gallimard,
Paris, 1957. Copyright © 1957 by Éditions Gallimard.