CHAPTER 28. CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENTS.

January 28, 1888.

"On January 28, 1887, Paris sighed heavily—it was the last day of the freedom of the Champ de Mars: that very Champ de Mars which, without a doubt, for every true Frenchman, was by no means a locus minoris resistentiae[*], but a place of the greatest resistance—resistance not only to human ignorance, but also to human folly! A heavy sigh! This was all that modern Paris was capable of—that very Paris, by whose will former monarchies were instantly collapsing in that century and new ones were being created with no less speed: this city was at this very moment entirely possessed by an exceptional weariness—thanks to that century, it had not matured, but had become irredeemably old! Truly! It was no more and no less than a gray-haired old man, in the deep depths of whose soul life was still glowing—the personification of this life was the intellectual intelligentsia! It was they who now most loudly protested against the construction of a new colossus—but can this method be counted among the effective ones?

"A new colossus!"—exactly these words were continuously repeated, like an ouroboros, in the mind of that very man who was now in the depths of an extraordinarily exquisite white-faced landau.

A new colossus! Its exceedingly massive legs were in perfect accordance with that very century which it was, one way or another, meant to personify—the century of iron, metallurgy, and, most importantly... gold! But did its legs become more stable for it, if one were to compare them to the legs of the implied colossus—the Colossus of Rhodes? Absolutely not! For their foundation, as well as the foundation of the aforementioned wonder of the world, is human weakness—human vanity! But what is human vanity in the face of nature or even God Himself? Only what remains after the destruction of one colossus or another—nothing!

"Paris will never be the same again! Into the heart of France, and consequently into the heart of Paris, a no more and no less than an exceptionally sharp steel gladius has been mercilessly plunged—from now on its destiny... is only to bleed!"—the thirty-year-old Claude Lajoye thought to himself and immediately, without delay, shifted his languid gaze from the beveled glass to an extraordinarily lovely woman of twenty-two, who was not only his beloved, but also, what is important, his wife—"How magical she is! How delicate her hair is—delicate, like Arabian silks! How white her skin is—white, like the purest milk!..."

Suddenly, his mind ceased creating such thoughts—he was prompted to it by an unusually sharp, and therefore unusually piercing, fright: a fright that was connected not with the present and not with the past, but with the immediate future—looking at his lovely wife, a countless number of thoughts about his own children arose in his mind, and, to be more precise, about what not only awaits them but what could await them.

"What will this era be? What will this life be?"—Claude Lajoye melancholically mused with his alter ego—"An era of lifeless and insensitive steel? What will it be like? Cold, as if it were already fabricated steel? Or perhaps continuously blazing, like hell—a time when this steel will be tempered?... Ah! The steel monster! It managed not only to summarize our century but also to reveal a new secret to us—what will the future century be like? Will it be a time of precisely measured forms and actions—an era where everything human will wander within the limits of this sublunary world, like Ahasuerus? Will the insensitive steel be able to overcome the natural impulses and aspirations of nature? Will that steel be able to dress the beauty and loveliness of all-great nature in a straitjacket? Will Paris be able not to become a New Babylon? 'I have laid a snare for thee, and thou art also taken, O Babylon, and thou wast not aware'[*]..."—having clearly declaimed this passage from the novel, Gaston Duquette, a publisher well-known in the district, sighed heavily, just like Paris in the aforementioned text—"You see, Monsieur Marneau, these, words that are well known to your mind... the words that I just read to you... may not be to everyone's liking... I hope you understand me?... Do you understand what I want to convey to you today? 'An exceptionally sharp gladius in the heart of Paris'! Reflect on these words! After you reflect on them... I ask you, realize their ambiguity! Your hero... he has too high an opinion of himself... and too low an opinion of those around him! Who is he to judge what is incomprehensible to him? He talks about those very matters and substances whose area is unexplored by his mind! He is no more and no less than a dilettante! Do you wish to exalt ignorance in the lines of your novel? No! I will not allow this! You should change your hero's view on the current state of affairs—he should highly appreciate the creation of this tower... appreciate it as the movement of enlightened humanity on the path to an even greater revelation... a revelation not only scientific. Do you understand me?"

"But how can I change the view and thoughts of one who is subordinate only to his own nature? With the loss of freedom of thought and freedom of will, he will lose it, and consequently, he will perish! He cannot be inconsistent in his thoughts, words, feelings, and actions! Realize it! The construction of the tower is contrary to his nature, and consequently to his not only spiritual but also mental constitution!"

"Then you have no choice but to amend his constitution! Or, perhaps, is it impossible to do this without a nationwide referendum... or a plebiscite?"—Gaston Duquette said sarcastically.