Chapter 505

“Since you’ve come all this way, it would be rude to throw you out at the door, wouldn’t it? What I mean is, why did you come? Not why did you come inside.”

Eugène Lamour answered coldly. The other person seemed either baffled by the wordplay or simply dumbfounded, because they said nothing. I cast a concealment spell, got to my feet, and moved to where I could see them. Lamour swept his hollow eyes across the audience before pointing at one person.

“Sir Vernell Guéret.”

The middle-aged critic called Vernell Guéret nodded. He was the one who had written the article speculating that Eugène Lamour had dementia. He had a kinder-looking face than I expected, along with a mustache that was uncommon among people in this world. Vernell Guéret answered in French.

“Please, go ahead.”

“Do you own any of my paintings?”

“Of course. I’m one of Sir Lamour’s longtime clients, after all.”

“What do you have?”

“One oil painting, Genesis, from thirteen years ago, and three untitled sketches from eight years ago.”

“Are there any other critics here who own my paintings?”

None of the French critics answered. A few of the Bavarian reporters, however, looked uncomfortable as Vernell Guéret continued speaking in French. Eugène Lamour nodded and pulled a crumpled paper envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket, along with a fountain pen.

“Sir Guéret. I’ll transfer ownership of one hundred thousand francs’ worth of three-year bonds issued by the French Empire in 1895 to you. That’s considerably more than their current market value. Isn’t it?”

The entire room fell silent as if someone had poured cold water over it.

One hundred thousand.

I held my breath. Using the same principle as the Big Mac Index, it wasn’t difficult to estimate what that amount of money would be worth in 21st century Korean won by considering what one hundred thousand francs could buy at the time. One hundred thousand francs was roughly one billion won, and when you factored in France’s current economic situation and the interest on the bonds, the amount he would receive at maturity sometime this year would be even higher. Mecklenburg’s eyebrows twitched, clearly anticipating what Lamour was about to say. Lamour pulled a document from the envelope and held it out toward the audience.

“That should be enough. I’ll buy back every painting of mine that you own with this money.”

In 1941, Picasso sold a single painting, Le Rêve, for $7,000 at the time—roughly two hundred million won. The economic circumstances and investment trends of the 19th and 20th centuries in my world were quite different from those of this world, so it was difficult to make a direct comparison. Even so, Eugène Lamour certainly wasn’t selling one oil painting and three sketches for a billion won. Vernell Guéret stood frozen in surprise before shaking his head.

“I don’t really understand why you’re doing this now.”

“Just take it for now. You can sign it whenever you like.”

Eugène Lamour had his secretary deliver the document. After receiving the bond transfer agreement, Vernell Guéret raised the corners of his mouth awkwardly. He folded the agreement with a dignified motion, making it clear that he had no intention of accepting it.

Lamour watched him quietly, then lifted his head with an indifferent look. His amplified voice rang out.

“What I’m trying to say today is that I’ve had enough. I’m sick and tired of it, and I can’t take it anymore. That’s why I’m here to explain myself.”

Mecklenburg, who had followed me and stayed close by, said anxiously, “I understand he’s angry about the article that came out yesterday, but talking like that isn’t going to convince anyone…”

“Right.”

I needed to concentrate, but the sounds around me had grown muffled, as though a thin veil had been placed over my ears. I could already guess what was coming.

Elias got up and disappeared into the waiting room. He returned with his arms full of newspapers, dumped them onto a chair, and stood beside me like Mecklenburg.

Eugène Lamour spoke from the stage.

“Yes, as you’ve probably guessed, I did call this press conference after seeing that article yesterday. I’ll say this plainly. I have never done anything illegal. I have never cursed you all in private, telling you to go to hell. Honestly, do you even have the right to demand that I be blameless? You’ve all insulted me as casually as breathing, and I don’t know what my opinions of your rudeness toward my acquaintances have to do with any of this, but I swear, I have never badmouthed you anywhere. Therefore, I have no reason to put up with this from you.”

No one reacted yet. The critics—and the reporters—were probably sitting there feeling as though they were being berated out of nowhere without even knowing why. I felt the same way. At the same time, I knew where Eugène Lamour’s speech was headed, and I could tell that he wasn’t trying to blame each of us individually. Lamour muttered with his eyes only half open.

“Why on earth are people so interested in where I go that they write articles like this when I never even said I had come to Bavaria? Who actually pays money to read things like this? It’s hopeless. Even if I went to the ends of the earth, you’d find out exactly where I’d gone. I don’t think I can disappear like Rimbaud¹. I still can’t believe this…”

As the audience grew increasingly uncomfortable and confused, Eugène Lamour shouted, the veins standing out in his neck.

“It was three years ago that I first heard I had painted a forgery of another artist’s work. Apparently, it wasn’t enough to accuse me of painting someone else’s work just because our styles were similar. They even started spreading the absurd rumor that I had painted a forgery. Two years ago—one year and two months ago, to be exact—I was hounded by the rumor that I was putting my name on paintings my assistant had supposedly painted from start to finish and selling them as my own. Even if that were true, part of me would think, ‘So what?’ But fine. Let’s leave that aside. And most recently, a month ago, I heard the nonsense that I must have dementia because I no longer paint in the academic style. The earliest I heard it was seven years ago. I still receive letters at my home telling me to get treatment for my illness.”

Eugène Lamour let out a weak, breathless laugh. Mecklenburg leaned back with a serious look on his face. The audience reacted much the same way. Everyone seemed to think Eugène Lamour had gone a little off the rails. I had to admit, he looked that way to me, too.

“And what are you going to say now?”

“You simply can’t handle your own fame.”

Someone cut in before Eugène Lamour could continue. It wasn’t Vernell Guéret, but one of the French sitting beside him. I didn’t know whether he was a journalist, a critic, or another painter. Eugène Lamour nodded, giving him permission to continue. The French stood, politely inclined his head in thanks, then spread his hands as he began to speak.

“I have pointed this out in my columns before, but this same anxiety is always present in Sir Lamour’s work. The anxiety stems from your loss of a sense of self, which is why it lies at the heart of your chaotic style. At first, your anxiety over the death of your family drove you away from the academic style. Now, unable to control the anxiety you must bear as an individual, you have gone so far as to call this press conference. Sir Lamour, I’m sorry, but the public isn’t stupid.”

“…….”

“No matter how strange an article the Saxony Daily publishes, if it isn’t true and you have enough evidence to prove it false, the public will always come around to your side. Holding a press conference over something that hasn’t even happened yet is an excessive reaction. I say this only because I am concerned about your fame and reputation, Sir Lamour. So I would cautiously suggest this: since you cannot undo the press conference you have already held, please calm yourself and speak rationally.”

Eugène Lamour nodded. He took a deep breath. The French raised his eyebrows slightly, his expression saying, That’s it, and gave him an encouraging look. Once the French sat back down, Eugène Lamour opened his eyes and spoke slowly.

“I don’t know what Saxony Daily is planning to expose. But I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have done nothing that deserves your condemnation. The thing about fabrications is that they can be incredibly subtle. You’ll claim I did things I never did. You’ll piece together convincing evidence to support absurd claims that are nearly impossible to refute—lies where I am the only one who knows the truth of what I didn’t do. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to defend myself against something like that. The rumor might be so elaborate that, decades from now, on my deathbed, I might even begin to wonder if I really did those things. That is what it means to destroy someone’s character. So, if I put my hand over my conscience and swear to God, would that be enough? Would you believe my statement?”

“Of course—”

Someone raised a hand to speak, but Eugène Lamour cut them off, raising his voice.

“It won’t be enough. Because you want to take pleasure in my wrongdoing, you’re already making things up that never happened. Information pieced together from subtle, trivial truths in an irrational way will seem completely factual and provocative. I can’t claim to be blameless. I’m only human, after all. And because each of those private truths is technically true when you take them apart one by one, I won’t be able to escape the bizarre rumors you create. Let’s say I went to a bank and, at some point, picked up a banknote that had fallen on the street. Saxony Daily will say that I went to the bank and stole a bundle of banknotes from a mana-powered cash register. Then they’ll say I spent it all before anyone could even prove the theft. Now, I have no way of disproving the fact that I never went to the bank. What do you suggest I do now? For me to be blameless, I should have been compressed inside a vacuum-sealed room, but since I went ahead and walked into the bank on my own two feet…”

Eugène Lamour was speaking to no one in particular. Mecklenburg ran a hand over his mouth, looking as though he had never imagined Eugène Lamour to be this kind of person. His expression was serious, and so were the audience’s. Eugène Lamour stood there with his mouth slightly open and his shoulders slumped. Then, with eyes that had suddenly grown sharp and lucid, he spoke.

“Everyone.”

Eugène Lamour stopped after uttering the single word. It took a long while before he spoke again.

“Do you know me?”

A faint discomfort spread across the audience’s faces. Their facial muscles stiffened as the unexpected remarks continued, leaving them tense. No one openly showed just how irritated and stressed the situation was making them feel.

Eugène Lamour slowly closed his eyes, then opened them again.

“I don’t know who any of you are. You may think you know me, but why do you think you can understand the twists and turns of my life and my current state of mind through my paintings? How accurate do you think those interpretations can really be? And even if one guess out of a hundred happens to be right, don’t you think it’s rude to put that one truth into words, let alone the ninety-nine delusions? That red curve is supposedly a sign of gambling addiction? I haven’t set foot in a gambling house since I was in my twenties. And I’ve been told that the green shadows are subconscious evidence of my addiction because I’m supposedly a drug addict. Those shadows were meant to express the darkness of the Industrial Revolution² while also incorporating the regenerative nature of nature itself. They do not mean that ‘I’ do drugs. But interpretations of a painting should be varied. You’re narrowing down the infinite possibilities laid out on the canvas right now.”

Someone else opened their mouth, but Eugène Lamour once again cut them off before they could say anything more. Instead, he continued talking about himself.

“You say my paintings became bizarre because my wife died? That’s true. I’ll admit it. Losing a family member wasn’t easy. I became a different person after my wife died, and I could no longer paint in the academic style. My hands, my mind, and my heart simply won’t follow.”

Eugène Lamour squeezed his eyes shut, then snapped them open. He looked as though he were trying to regain his senses, which only made him look even stranger to everyone watching. Unlike when I had seen him at the Bavarian royal palace, Eugène Lamour began to chuckle to himself again.

“Clichéd, isn’t it? I’ve said it many times in interviews already… But it’s the truth. I know you want something more sensational. A story about how I suffered severe trauma to the brain after my wife’s death, developed an alcohol dependency, came down with early-onset Alzheimer’s, and that’s why my paintings turned out like this would be much more sensational. But I don’t drink. Would you believe me if I built a transparent box in the middle of the Earth and spent twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year inside it just to prove that I’m not dependent on alcohol?”

The images of the newspapers on the chairs all changed at once. Elias handed me a newspaper.

[Marie Boulet Saint-Paul Psychiatric Hospital Director: ‘Eugène Lamour Displays Severe Anxiety Symptoms… Even Schizophrenia Suspected’]

The article even says that schizophrenia might actually help a painter with their work. I have no idea what that is supposed to mean. It seems some news outlet is broadcasting the conference live or sending reports out almost immediately. If I had to guess, Marie Boulet is probably a media consultant who keeps getting involved in this kind of gossip and gets paid for it.

Mecklenburg, who had been glancing at the article beside me, narrowed his eyes as he read the content and voiced his doubts.

“Even famous people aren’t all attacked like this. Yet this man, in particular, seems to be taking the brunt of the press’s attacks. Why?”

There might be a reason. Or there might not. Even if there is, it might be justified—or it might not. I had no way of knowing.

“That’s why I’m asking. Have you ever seriously stopped to think that I really think, live, and breathe in this world just like you do? I’m not simply asking you to assume that I do. I mean, have you ever thought about the fact that I can feel joy and sadness just like you?”

“Of course—”

“You haven’t, have you?”

Eugène Lamour cut them off again. He ran his hands roughly through his already disheveled hair and snapped angrily.

“Then say you haven’t. If I’ve been put through all this for years even though you know I’m no different from you, then I can’t believe in hope anymore. I don’t think there’s any hope for humanity to become better.”

That was when Vernell Guéret raised his hand.

Eugène Lamour tilted his head with an utterly hopeless look in his eyes, then gave him a small wave to speak. Vernell Guéret rose with a concerned expression and bowed politely in return.

“You may or may not know me, but I am Vernell Guéret. I’m an art critic, poet, and writer of historical novels.”

“I know. Is there anyone who doesn’t?”

“You flatter me. Sir Lamour, I know all too well how much fame can corner a person. My fame as a poet can be suffocating at times, too. But I suppose that is simply the fate we have chosen.”

Vernell Guéret looked around at the other members of the audience before continuing.

“You all know that stage actors and opera singers enjoy tremendous popularity and receive countless offers from beyond the continent. They endure all kinds of rumors around the world in exchange for their fame, but in return, they receive thunderous applause on stage and earn enormous sums of money. For instance, poets like me, who are only famous within our own country, all wish to become as famous as Sir Lamour. If my poetry collections could become as famous and beloved as your paintings, I would gladly accept all the criticism and curiosity that came with it. Sir Lamour, can you really not see all the artists who look toward the place you stand today, wishing they could be where you are?”

Eugène Lamour furrowed his brows, pulled down the corners of his mouth, and twitched the muscles around his lips, all on his own. It was only after quite some time that he finally sat still. Vernell Guéret, who had been waiting patiently, spoke.

“Sir Lamour, you need to realize that you’re being arrogant right now. I understand that yesterday’s article has left you quite confused, but perhaps you should calm yourself down and think about this a little more. Wouldn’t it be better to end the press conference here?”

“I don’t know how far you intend to drive me into torment. Do you really think I’ve never thought about my childhood dreams, or about all the painters who must have had dreams like mine when they were young? Do you think I haven’t thought about it thousands upon thousands of times, only to force the words back down whenever they rose to my throat? Of course it feels good when your paintings sell well. I’m happy, and deeply grateful, that they’re selling so fast I can hardly put them into storage before they’re gone. What I longed for as a child, painting through my tears, has finally come true.”

Vernell Guéret nodded. Unlike the calm critic, Eugène Lamour threw up his hands and suddenly raised his voice.

“But that doesn’t mean I should have to put up with people saying I have dementia! Does that mean I’m supposed to accept another article claiming that I’ve become demented this time, one that is deeply insulting not only to dementia patients and their families, but to me and the people who love me as well? It doesn’t mean I have to sit here and listen to some long-winded critique stretching out the speculation that I must have gone mad because my wife died. You bought Eugène Lamour’s paintings. You didn’t buy Eugène Lamour’s medical records. If you support a theater actor who tours Europe, does that mean you need to know who they married and divorced?”

“Your logic is flawed. All of that interest comes with the popularity of Sir Eugène Lamour’s work. Everything you’re suffering from right now is precisely what comes with the popularity of your work.”

“Maybe so. At this point, you probably want to tell me that everyone else is fine, so why am I the only one making such a fuss.”

“No, no one said that. You suddenly get angry and then calm down again. I must admit, it’s rather bewildering…”

“Everyone isn’t fine. They simply don’t say that they aren’t, because you people would stone them to death for saying it. And then you have the nerve to think everything is fine! I’m done with this. It’s not like this is the first or second time I’ve been told I have dementia or that I’ve lost my mind, so let’s just keep going like this. I became a painter because I wanted to paint. Did I become a painter so I could hang from the Eiffel Tower?”

Vernell Guéret looked appalled, then put on a stern expression as he spoke.

“It sounds as though you mean to speak for the countless artists across the world, but you should remember that many of the critics sitting here are artists in their own right as well. Sir Lamour is not the only one who lives as an artist.”

Guéret looked around the room and continued in a solemn voice.

“As I and other critics have pointed out many times, there is an unbearable anxiety and fear embedded in Sir Lamour’s work. As Sir Lamour himself admitted, it stems from the death of his wife. I found an immature sense of self in Sir Lamour’s paintings, just as many others have pointed out. Your sense of self has remained stuck in adolescence, and you seem to believe that throwing a tantrum at the public, who raised you like parents, will get you what you want. Every profession has its own hardships, and an artist must also learn to endure some of the difficulties that come with fame. Sir Lamour, do you dislike the negative attention that follows you rather than your work? If you have lost sight of why you started, then go back to the vocational school you attended as a teenager! While you, a major capitalist, live in a mansion with hundreds of servants at your beck and call, proletarians are still starving to death. Instead of sitting in a cool, comfortable room and criticizing our proud Europe with nothing but a brush, go work in a factory yourself. Then perhaps you’ll begin to understand how grateful you should be for the public’s attention.”

Eugène Lamour stood there blankly, as though he had been beaten dozens of times with words alone. I heard Elias sigh. Only then did Eugène Lamour finally open his mouth.

“That is an insult, if anything is. And do I look like I’m talking about artists right now?”

Then what is he talking about? Mecklenburg looked at me with that expression on his face, but I had no idea what he expected me to do about it. I checked my watch and looked toward the waiting room, making sure no one had come into the hallway through it. Thirty minutes had passed since the press conference began, but nothing had happened yet. Was it because of these critics that Eugène Lamour said he couldn’t return to France? Or was there some other reason?

I had thought it was the latter, but after watching what was happening, the former seemed more likely. If it was the former, then there shouldn’t be any major danger to Eugène Lamour’s safety. How much longer should I keep watching this? I was trying not to think about anything, but it wasn’t going as I wanted. I pressed my fingers against the corners of my eyes.

Eugène Lamour had a lot to say after holding it in for ten years. Vernell Guéret and the other critics were no different. Since none of them wanted to back down, Lamour’s speech was effectively being extended by his exchanges with the critics. And now, despite the fact that only thirty minutes had already passed, I could hardly stand being here any longer.

Elias placed a hand on my shoulder and patted my back. He seemed to be feeling somewhat uncomfortable with Eugène Lamour and the critics’ argument as well. I checked the time again. Eugène Lamour’s voice, full of disbelief, rang out.

“You’ve been listening to me this whole time, yet you’ve completely missed the point. However you look at it, this isn’t a story about artists. It’s entirely about being famous! Sir Guéret is certainly an artist too, selling a hundred thousand copies of your poetry collections every year and churning out whatever African historical novel you happen to be writing, but you have no idea what I’m talking about. Even if you’re an artist, the less-famous me from ten years ago wouldn’t have understood the me I am today. But that young politician who shot himself in the head after being hounded by the press would understand exactly how I feel from hell. I suppose they’re jokingly telling me to come over soon.”

“Someone put him in a psychiatric hospital!”

A French shouted irritably before getting up and leaving. Several other French followed him out of the audience.

Vernell Guéret reached out his hand in disbelief, but Eugène Lamour stopped him.

“No. Let’s talk about this first. I’m over forty now, and at this point, the only thing left is for the years I have ahead of me to become fewer than the years I’ve already lived. And you’re saying I’m still stuck in the mindset of a teenage boy? How did you make a living as a critic when you find even the first opinion I’ve voiced after putting up with this for more than ten years so unbearable? The lofty words you produce on your typewriter are the truth, while my plea, simply because I’m a famous person, is nothing more than a childish tantrum? I probably suffered more during my youth than you did, making a living by judging whether this or that work was good or bad based solely on all that wonderful knowledge in your head, having been born into a wealthy bourgeois family. You grew up under a father who was a city hall official, and your mother was the only daughter of a prominent local family, wasn’t she? My parents had a respectable house in a busy part of town, but that was all. I had to work four months a year at a fertilizer factory just to pay the tuition for vocational high school. To put it bluntly, have you ever even been inside a factory?”

Elias, who had looked like he could barely stand listening to them this whole time, slowly opened his eyes and looked toward the stage, as though this had finally caught his interest.

“When I was loading fertilizer sacks onto wagons and one of them tore, costing me a day’s wages, you were probably inviting private tutors to your mansion and memorizing advanced Latin conjugations. The sack I tore only needed to be fastened back together with an iron staple, so there was no reason for my wages to be docked in the first place. The factory owner was simply using a cheap trick to pay an inexperienced high school student less. While I was protesting that I hadn’t been paid and getting beaten by the owner for it, you were probably learning how to speak elegantly in the social circles of the bourgeoisie. When I finally managed to get into art college on a scholarship, I spent years frantically making up for everything I had never had the chance to learn. Meanwhile, you drew on all the knowledge and culture you had accumulated as a teenager, earned your doctorates in literature and art history without failing a single time, and entered the intellectual circles of the bourgeoisie after making your debut with the French Empire’s Art Criticism Award.”

Vernell Guéret shook his head. His face was filled with sorrow, and he seemed genuinely sorry for Eugène Lamour. As he had been doing all along, Lamour spoke as though he had no idea what manners were.

“For ten years, you insulted my style and made a fuss about how I had supposedly become demented, going so far as to diagnose me with dementia rather than stopping at my work. Then, after I finally show up and say a single thing, you declare that I’m mentally weak. So tell me, who’s the one making a fuss now, and who’s the one going through adolescence?”

Vernell Guéret did not listen. Instead, he pulled a fountain pen from inside his jacket and signed the bond transfer agreement he had been holding. He gestured to Lamour’s secretary.

“Take it. For you to have misunderstood my intentions so completely, all the commentaries I have written until now must have been in vain. As a world-renowned painter, accepting criticism can greatly benefit your artistic vision, and developing yourself through that process is how you fulfill your duty to those who support you. A critic is not someone who torments a painter, but someone who helps elevate the painter’s work to a higher level. Therefore, every criticism offered to Sir Lamour should rightfully contribute to his next work. Am I wrong? By accepting criticism, Sir Lamour’s work can become more refined and nuanced. Sir Lamour is a creator, but he is also human, and as such, he possesses both merits and faults. Through our criticism, we can help you correct those faults. Listening carefully to our criticism, reflecting on it, repenting, and improving yourself is also a way for Sir Lamour to become a better human being.”

After finishing, Vernell Guéret fell silent for a moment before calmly looking into Lamour’s green eyes and continuing.

“‘Famous people,’ you said, was what you wanted to talk about when you called this press conference, correct? Very well. I no longer have any need for the paintings of Sir Eugène Lamour, who knows nothing about art or criticism.”

Silence fell over the room once again.

Only then did Eugène Lamour raise the corners of his mouth. He gave a small snort of laughter and raised an eyebrow.

“One last time. Is there anyone else here who owns one of my paintings?”

Just as before, no answer came.

Eugène Lamour straightened up again. His face had been grim throughout the entire press conference, but now it was calm as he said, “I’m retiring. I won’t paint another piece from now on.”

Translator Note

1. French poet Arthur Rimbaud disappeared in Java in August 1876 after deserting the colonial Dutch army in Salatiga, Central Java, Indonesia. ↩︎
2. The Industrial Revolution was a major global period from the mid-18th to the 19th century when agrarian, hand-craft societies shifted to industrial, urbanized manufacturing economies. ↩︎