How to Survive as the Second Son of a Mage Family - Chapter 494

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Team. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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“Since you’ve come, it wouldn’t be proper to turn you away at the door, would it? What I’m asking is why you came. Not why you entered.”

Eugène Ramure answered coldly. The other party seemed to think he was playing word games, or perhaps found it absurd, as they said nothing. I cast an invisibility spell and got up from my seat, moving to where I could see them. Eugène Ramure swept the audience with soulless eyes and pointed to one person.

“Count Burnel Geret.”

The middle-aged critic called Burnel Geret nodded his head. That person was the one who wrote the dementia article targeting Eugène Ramure. He had a more benevolent impression than expected and possessed a mustache rarely seen among people of this world. Burnel Geret answered in French.

“Please speak.”

“Do you own any of my paintings?”

“Of course. Am I not a long-time customer of Count Lamour?”

“What do you have?”

“One oil painting 【Genesis】 from 13 years ago, and three untitled sketches from 8 years ago.”

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

None of the French critics answered. Instead, several Bavarian journalists showed difficulty with Burnel Geret’s continued French. Eugène Ramure nodded and pulled out a crumpled paper envelope from his jacket pocket. Along with a fountain pen.

“Count Geret. I will transfer French Empire 1895 bonds worth 100,000 francs with a 3-year term to your name. That amount far exceeds the market price. Is that correct?”

The audience fell silent as if cold water had been poured on them.

100,000. I held my breath. Using the same principle as the Big Mac Index, thinking about what could be done with 100,000 francs now, converting this money to 21st century Korean won wasn’t difficult. 100,000 francs was about 1 billion won, and considering France’s current economic situation and bond interest, the money to be received sometime this year at maturity would be even more. Mecklenburg’s eyebrows twitched, anticipating what would be said next. Eugène Ramure pulled out a document from the envelope and held it toward the audience.

“It should be sufficient. With this money, I will buy all the paintings of mine that you own.”

In 1941, Picasso sold 【Le Rêve】 for 7,000 dollars at the time—an estimated 200 million won. Since the economic situations and investment trends between my world’s 19th-20th centuries and this world differ greatly, it’s difficult to consider the situations of both worlds as unconditionally similar, but Eugène Ramure also wasn’t selling one oil painting and three sketches for 1 billion won. Burnel Geret froze in surprise, then shook his head.

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

“Please accept it for now. Sign it and give it to me anytime.”

Eugène Ramure had his secretary deliver the paper. Burnel Geret, who received the bond transfer contract, raised the corners of his mouth with a troubled expression. He folded the contract with dignified movements. It meant he had no intention. Eugène Ramure, who had been quietly watching this, raised his head with indifferent eyes. His amplified voice rang out.

“What I want to say today is that I’m so sick and tired of this that I can’t stand it anymore. So I’m going to try to give some explanations.”

Mecklenburg, who had followed me and stayed close, said anxiously.

“I understand you’re angry about yesterday’s article, but speaking like that won’t be persuasive…”

“Exactly.”

I needed to concentrate, but the sound became muffled as if a layer had been placed over it. I could predict what would follow.

Elias got up from his seat and disappeared into the waiting room. He returned with newspapers clutched to his chest, threw them on the chair, and stood beside me like Mecklenburg.

Eugène Ramure spoke from the stage.

“Yes, as you suspect, I did hold this conference after seeing that article yesterday. I will speak boldly. I have never done anything illegal. I have never cursed all of you to go to hell in private places. Honestly speaking, do you even have the right to demand perfection from me? When you all insult me as naturally as breathing, I don’t know what relevance it has to how I might evaluate your rudeness to my acquaintances, but I swear I have never cursed you anywhere. Therefore, I have no reason to be tormented by you.”

No one reacts yet. Probably the critics, and the journalists, are sitting there feeling like they’re being scolded out of nowhere without knowing why. Right now I feel the same way. At the same time, I knew where Eugène Ramure’s remarks were heading, and I could guess that he wasn’t trying to resent each of us individually. Eugène Ramure muttered with half-open eyes.

“I’ve never even said I came to Bavaria, so how do some people know about my movements and write such articles? Who pays money to publish such articles? It’s truly desperate. Even if I go to the ends of the earth, you will find out exactly where I went. I don’t think I can disappear like Rimbaud. I still can’t believe that fact…”

When the audience was caught in displeasure and confusion, Eugène Ramure raised his voice with veins bulging in his neck.

“It was three years ago that I heard I had painted forgeries of other artists. Not content with accusing me of painting someone else’s work just because the style was similar, you created absurd rumors that I painted forgeries? It was 1 year and 2 months ago that I was tormented by false rumors that I sold paintings painted entirely by assistants under my name. Even if that were true, I wonder what difference it would make, but fine. This is enough. And the most recent time I heard nonsense about whether I had dementia because I no longer paint in academic style was a month ago at the closest and 7 years ago at the furthest. Letters telling me to treat my illness still arrive in my mailbox at home.”

Eugène Ramure burst into bitter laughter. Mecklenburg pulled his head back with a serious expression. The audience had a similar reaction. Everyone was thinking that Eugène Ramure had gone slightly mad. To me, it looked that way too.

“And now what else are you going to say?”

“You can’t handle your fame.”

Someone cut off Eugène Ramure’s words. It wasn’t Burnel Geret, but one of the Frenchmen sitting beside him. I don’t know if he was a journalist, critic, or fellow artist. Eugène Ramure nodded. Since it meant to continue speaking, the Frenchman stood up, politely expressed his gratitude, and spread his hands.

“As I’ve always pointed out in my columns, this kind of anxiety always appears in Count Lamour’s works too. Count Lamour’s chaotic expression method is a manifestation of loss of self-center, so anxiety becomes its premise. Initially, anxiety about family death demanded deviation to academic style, and now he can’t handle the anxiety an individual must bear and is even holding a conference. Count Lamour, I’m sorry, but the public isn’t stupid.”

“…”

“No matter how much the Saxon Daily tries to break strange articles, if it’s not true and you have sufficient evidence to prove the falsehood, the public will always return to your side. Holding a conference over something that hasn’t even happened yet is excessive. I’m only saying this because I’m worried about Count Lamour’s reputation and standing. So I’m carefully suggesting now, since you can’t retract a conference that’s already been held, please calm your excitement and speak rationally.”

Eugène Ramure nodded. He took a deep breath for a moment. The Frenchman slightly tilted his eyebrows with an expression that said ‘exactly’ and encouraged him. When the Frenchman sat down, Eugène Ramure opened his eyes and spoke slowly.

“I don’t know what the Saxon Daily is trying to break. But I’m confident. I haven’t done anything wrong to be condemned by you. You know how sophisticated manipulation can be, so you will claim I did things I never did. You’ll make plausible claims with fabricated evidence about nonsense that’s so hard to refute that only I know I didn’t do it, and I don’t know how to deal with it. Perhaps that false rumor will be so elaborate that decades later, on my deathbed, I might doubt whether I truly did such things. This isn’t anything else—this is the destruction of character. So, would it help if I put my hand on my conscience and swore to God? Would you believe my testimony?”

“Of course—”

Someone raised their hand to speak, but Eugène Ramure raised his voice and cut them off.

“It won’t help. Because you want to derive pleasure from my faults, you’re making up stories that don’t exist. Information obtained by irrationally piecing together sophisticated and trivial truths would seem very factual and stimulating. I can’t claim to be perfect. Because I’m human too. Since that pile of trivial truths is factual when examined one by one, I won’t be able to escape from the monster rumors you’ve created. Let’s say I went to the bank and once picked up a bill that fell on the street. But the Saxon Daily will say I went to the bank and stole bundles of bills from the magic-powered ATM. Then they’ll say I spent it all before theft could be proven. Now I can’t prove I didn’t go to the bank. What now? To be perfect, I should have been compressed in a vacuum room, but I walked to the bank with my own two feet…”

Eugène Ramure was talking to thin air. Mecklenburg was stroking his mouth with his hand, looking like he didn’t know Eugène Ramure was this kind of person. His expression was serious, and so was the audience’s. Eugène Ramure stood with his mouth open and shoulders drooping, then suddenly spoke with intelligent eyes.

“Everyone.”

Eugène Ramure, who had started speaking, stopped right there. It took a long time for the next words to come.

“Do you know me?”

The audience’s faces were slightly tinted with displeasure. With their facial muscles stiff, they were feeling tension from hearing consecutive unexpected words. No one was just not showing their irritation and stress with the situation.

Eugène Ramure slowly closed and opened his eyes.

“I don’t know who you are. You might think you know me, but why do you analyze my life’s struggles and current psychological state through paintings, and what accuracy do you think that will have? Even if one guess out of a hundred is correct, don’t you think it’s rude to voice not only the ninety-nine delusions but even that one fact? Red curves are signs of gambling addiction? I haven’t entered a gambling house since my twenties. They said green shadows are evidence of addiction unconsciously expressed because I’m a drug enthusiast. The shadows were meant to express the darkness of the industrial revolution while combining nature’s regenerative power, not that ‘I’ do drugs.”

“But interpretation of paintings should be diverse. You’re now reducing the infinite possibilities spread on canvas.”

Someone else spoke up, but as always, Eugène Ramure didn’t let them continue. Instead, he only talked about himself.

“You say my paintings became bizarre because my wife died? That’s right. I’ll admit it. Losing family wasn’t such an easy thing. The me before my wife’s death and after are different people, so I can no longer paint in academic style. My hands, head, and heart won’t follow.”

Eugène Ramure squeezed his eyes shut then opened them wide. He seemed to be trying to regain his senses, which was enough to make him look very strange to everyone. Eugène Ramure, completely different from when I saw him at the Bavarian palace, giggled again.

“Cliché, isn’t it? Since I’ve often said this in interviews already… But clichés are facts. I know you want more stimulating news. The story that after my wife died, I suffered a great shock to my brain and developed alcohol dependency, leading to early Alzheimer’s, which is why my paintings changed to this mess—that would be much more stimulating. But I don’t drink alcohol. Would you believe I don’t depend on alcohol only if I built a transparent house in the middle of the earth and spent 24 hours, 365 days inside it?”

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

[Marie Bulle, Director of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole Mental Hospital: ‘Eugène Ramure shows medically tremendous anxiety disorder symptoms… even schizophrenia suspected’]

The article content stated that in the case of artists, schizophrenia could sometimes help with creative activities. I can’t understand what this is supposed to mean. Some media outlet seems to be broadcasting this conference in real time or immediately sending reports. I’d guess this Marie Bulle person is probably a media consultant who continuously participates in such gossip and receives fees. Mecklenburg, who had been glancing at the article beside me, narrowed his eyes and expressed doubt after seeing the main text.

Even though he’s a celebrity, not everyone gets attacked like this, but this person seems to be receiving concentrated attacks from the media. Why? There might be reasons, or there might not be. Even if there are, they might not be justified, or they could be. Nothing can be known.

“So I’m asking, have you ever seriously thought even once that I really exist in this world, thinking and breathing alongside you? Not simply assuming so, but that I can feel joy and sorrow just like you.”

“Of course—”

“No, right?”

Eugène Ramure cut off the words again. He messed up his hair and got angry.

“Please say no. If you knew I was no different from you, yet I’ve suffered like this all these years, then I can no longer believe in hope. It seems there’s no hope for humans to get better.”

Then Burnel Geret raised his hand. Eugène Ramure tilted his head with expectationless eyes and gestured slightly. Burnel Geret stood up with worried eyes and politely greeted in the same manner.

“I don’t know if everyone knows, but I am Burnel Geret. I’m an art critic, poet, and historical novelist.”

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

“You’re too kind. Count Lamour, I also know well how fame can drive a person into a corner. Fame as a poet sometimes suffocates me too. But even that is our destiny.”

Burnel Geret looked around at the other audience members as he spoke.

“You know that theater actors and opera singers enjoy tremendous popularity and receive countless love calls from across the continent. They suffer from many rumors worldwide in exchange for fame, but they receive applause on stage and earn enormous money accordingly. For example, poets like me who only have domestic fame want to become as famous as Count Lamour. If my poetry collections could become as famous and beloved as your paintings, I would gladly accept countless criticisms and curiosity. Count Lamour, can’t you see the countless artists who look at the position you stand in today, wanting to be there?”

Eugène Ramure frowned alone, then pulled down the corners of his mouth, twitched his mouth muscles, and only after a long time remained still. Burnel Geret, who had been waiting patiently, spoke.

“Count Lamour, you should know that you’re currently in an arrogant state. You must be very confused because of yesterday’s article, but wouldn’t it be good to calm down a bit more and think? Wouldn’t it be fine to wrap up the conference at this point?”

“I don’t know how far you plan to plunge me into anguish. Do you think I haven’t thought about my childhood dreams and artists who might have such dreams now? Do you think I haven’t thought thousands and tens of thousands of times and repeatedly suppressed it in my throat? I hope your poetry sells well. I’m also happy and very grateful that my canvases sell like hotcakes without time to put them in storage. What I longed for while painting with tears in my childhood has finally been achieved.”

Burnel Geret nodded. Unlike the calm critic, Eugène Ramure spread his hands and raised them, bursting into anger.

“But that’s not a guarantee that I should listen to whether I have dementia! So are you planning to write articles saying I have dementia again this time—articles that are extremely rude to dementia patients, their families, me, and people who love me? It doesn’t mean I should listen to verbose critiques that extend the speculation that I must have gone mad because my wife died into dozens of sentences. You bought Eugène Ramure’s paintings, not Eugène Ramure’s medical records. Just because you support theater actors touring Europe, do you need to know who they married and divorced?”

“The logic is lacking. That’s all interest accompanying Count Eugène Ramure’s work popularity, and everything Count Eugène Ramure is suffering from now is precisely the popularity of his works.”

“That might be so. By now you probably want to say why I’m making a fuss alone when everyone else is fine.”

“No, nobody said that. Getting angry suddenly then becoming calm—this is really bewildering…”

“Everyone’s not fine, but if you say you’re not fine, you’ll throw stones to death, so we don’t say it. And then you shamelessly think we’re fine! I’m done now. Since I’ve heard about dementia and going crazy more than once or twice anyway, let’s just continue like this. Did I become an artist to paint or to hang from the Eiffel Tower?”

Then Burnel Geret was shocked and spoke with a deliberately stern face.

“You seem to be saying you represent countless artists on earth, but know that many critics sitting here also practice art. Count Lamour isn’t the only one living as an artist.”

Geret looked around the audience and gave a serious speech.

“As I and other critics have often pointed out, Count Lamour’s works contain unbearable anxiety and fear. As Count Lamour admitted, it’s because of his wife’s death. I discovered an immature ego in Count Lamour’s paintings. As many have pointed out. Count Lamour’s ego remains in adolescent boyhood, thinking that throwing tantrums at the public, like parents who raised him, will work. Every profession has its own hardships, and artists too must know how to handle some difficulties from fame. Count Lamour, do you dislike the negative attention that follows you rather than your works? If you’ve lost your original intention, go back to the vocational school you attended in your adolescence! While you, a giant capitalist, command hundreds of servants in your mansion, proletarians are still starving to death. Don’t criticize our proud Europe just with brushes while sitting in cool and warm rooms—go directly to factories. Then you’ll start to feel how grateful public attention is.”

Eugène Ramure stood there dazed as if he’d been beaten dozens of times with words. I heard Elias sigh. Eugène Ramure belatedly opened his mouth.

“This is an insult, nothing else is an insult. And do I look like I’m talking about artists right now?”

Then what? Mecklenburg looked at me with that expression, but I don’t know why he’s looking at me like what am I supposed to do. I checked my watch and confirmed whether anyone was entering the hallway through the waiting room. Thirty minutes had passed since it started, but nothing had happened yet. Was Eugène Ramure’s saying he couldn’t return to France because of these critics? Or was there another reason? I thought it was the latter, but watching this, the former seemed right. If it was the former, there wouldn’t be major problems with Eugène Ramure’s safety.

How long would it be good to keep watching? I’m trying not to think about anything, but it’s not working as I wish. I pressed my eyes firmly. Eugène Ramure had a lot to say after enduring for ten years. Burnel Geret and other critics were the same. Since no one wanted to lose, Eugène Ramure’s speech was essentially being continuously extended due to conversations with those critics. And now, I could hardly believe thirty minutes had passed—I found it harder to stay in this place. Elias put his hand on my shoulder and patted my back. He too seemed to feel some aversion to the conversation between Eugène Ramure and the critics. I checked my watch again.

Eugène Ramure’s incredulous voice was heard.

“You’ve been listening to my words all this time yet you’re missing the point. No matter how you look at it, this isn’t a story about artists. It’s entirely a celebrity’s problem! Count Geret, who sells 100,000 poetry books a year and even writes some African historical novels or whatever, is certainly an artist too, but he has no idea what I’m talking about. Even if he’s an artist, the less famous me from ten years ago wouldn’t understand today’s me, but the young politician who shot himself in the head after being tormented by the media probably understands my feelings well from hell. They seem to be jokingly telling me to come over quickly.”

“Someone put him in a mental hospital!”

Some Frenchman shouted in an irritated voice and left his seat. Following him, several other Frenchmen left the audience.

Burnel Geret reached out his hand in bewilderment, but Eugène Ramure stopped him.

“That’s enough. Let’s talk about this first. I’m over 40 now and only have days ahead when the days I have left to live will be shorter than the days I’ve lived, and you’re saying I remain in adolescent boyhood? When you find it so irritating to hear my opinion that I’m expressing for the first time after enduring for over ten years, how have you made a living as a critic? Are the excellent writings from your typewriter truth while my pleas as a celebrity are whining? I probably suffered more in my youth than you, who was born into a wealthy commoner family and has made a living until now just by saying this and that about works with the excellent knowledge in your head. You grew up under a father who was a city hall civil servant, and your mother was the only daughter of a local notable. My parents had a decent house in the commercial district, but that was all, so I had to work four months a year at a fertilizer factory to earn vocational high school tuition. Frankly, have you even been to a factory?”

Elias, who had been finding it hard to listen throughout, seemed interested in these words as he slowly opened his eyes and looked at the stage.

“When I burst a package while loading fertilizer sacks onto a cart and had a day’s wages docked, you were probably at your mansion inviting private tutors to memorize advanced Latin verb conjugations. The package I burst could actually just be re-secured with wire, so there was no reason to dock my wages. The boss just wanted to pay less to a naive high school student by playing a petty trick. While I was getting beaten by the boss for protesting not receiving my wages, you were probably learning how to speak with refined speech in the social circles of the commoner capitalist class. When I barely got tuition support to enter art university and spent my time frantically learning what I hadn’t been able to learn before, you earned literature and art history doctoral degrees without a single failure based on the numerous cultural knowledge you’d accumulated in your teens, debuted with the French Empire Art Criticism Award, and became a member of the capitalist intellectual class.”

Burnel Geret shook his head. His face was filled with grief and he seemed to genuinely pity Eugène Ramure. Eugène Ramure spoke like an ill-mannered person, as he had throughout.

“You cursed my painting style for ten years straight, then beyond the works, made a fuss saying I had dementia, but when I appear after ten years and say one word, you rebuke me for having weak mental strength. Who’s whining now and who’s going through adolescence?”

Burnel Geret didn’t listen. Instead, he took out a fountain pen from inside his jacket and signed the bond transfer contract he’d been holding in his hand. He gestured to Lamour’s secretary.

“Take it. To misread my intentions like this—all the commentaries I’ve written so far have become useless. As a world-class artist, accepting criticism would be sufficiently helpful to your artistic world, and developing that way is doing your duty to your supporters. Critics aren’t people who torment artists, but people who help artists’ works develop to higher levels. Therefore, all criticism dedicated to Count Lamour should contribute to Count Lamour’s next work. Isn’t that right? Through the process of accepting criticism, Count Lamour’s works become more sophisticated and delicate. Count Lamour is a creator, but since he’s human, he has both merits and faults, so we can properly correct those faults through criticism. Listening carefully to our criticism, reflecting, repenting, and improving is also a way for Count Lamour to become a better human being.”

After finishing his words and remaining silent, Burnel Geret calmly looked into Lamour’s green eyes and continued speaking.

“You said you held a press conference to talk about a ‘celebrity’s’ story? Fine. I no longer need the paintings of Count Eugène Ramure, who knows nothing about art or criticism.”

Once again, silence fell over the room.

Eugene Lamour finally raised the corners of his mouth. He chuckled and raised his eyebrows.

“I ask one last time—are there others among you who possess my paintings?”

Just as before, no answer came. Eugene Lamour straightened up again. He, who had maintained a grim expression throughout, now spoke with a peaceful face.

“I will retire. I will not paint any more pictures from now on.”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Team. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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