Fate by The Editors — January 29

M.Brevard was a man of severe complaints.

He was neither rich nor handsome, neither distinguished nor espoused. He lived all by himself in a little apartment on the outskirts of the city, in a constant state of unhappiness and misery, and in a perpetual emotion of sunken and desolate. Nothing which he had done the day before seemed to suit him, nor did anything which he would do in the following day. By a vague reasoning he threw all the blame on fate, quite simply fate, for it had always gone the opposite of his will.

When his remaining friends, whom he detested to see as he suffered so much of their success, attempted to comfort his feelings over a broken vase he ignored them, whatever they said, whatever they remarked, whatever was laid to soothe him — he remained idle. The vase that imprinted a thin, yellow chrysanthemum was scattered into pieces in front of his very eyes. The picture wrongly arranged and the sharp, unsanded edge had disgusted him. He began to complete his usual routine of yelling at this fate in the most vulgar and dark language — fiercely denouncing its unfairness:

— Oh! You brute! My fate! You brute! Why — you must be mad?

His friend carefully joined:

— My dear friend, please! Do not be disturbed by this petite mistake! Let us move and forget what was done!

The china vase — the chrysanthemum vase he had received only a few days ago from a colleague of his, so adored and loved — was now settled numbly on the floor, and nothing of the remaining tile seemed to resemble the original image.

— Why! Why shall I reach for the matches so clumsily! Why was it placed in this position, behind the vase, that even the slightest movement would knock it off!

M.Brevard returned his eye upon the scene, observed its crumbled atmosphere, and then sighed in a fashion developed from the years of his tremendous suffering.

— My dear Brevard, please look forward! The result cannot be altered, the vase cannot be reconstructed, and therefore your cry was pointless!

The host was still unmoved. He spat out his word as hastily as a dart.

— You reminded me! What a terrible work of fate that I had lost my previous matchbox yesterday, that I must purchase a new one to replace it! What a terrible work of fate that I placed the box near the vase, and when I went up to use it, it had lead to destruction!

His friends felt quite apologetic, not necessarily devoid of certain ridicule, at his sorrow. They stared at one another, at M.Brevard, and at the scattered vase — they were in a desperate hurry to calm him, to retrieve him from a crevice of unjustified pain, thus:

— The past is the past, Brevard! Leave this misery, stop your complaint — and find happiness elsewhere, find something to do elsewhere where you will be redeemed!

On hearing this advice, this monsieur calmed down immediately, and then, after a moment’s reflection, he said to the air, crying:

— Why I lost my matchbox on a promenade around the river! Why I decided to walk to the Seine on that dreadful day!

Claude Monet, Impression Sunrise, 1872