I won’t dwell on the discarded lottery tickets, the aborted business deals, the interrupted love affairs; still less on fate’s other petty grudges. Weary and dismayed, I realized that I would not find happiness anywhere; I went even further: I believed that it did not exist anywhere on Earth, and, since yesterday, I have been preparing myself for my great plunge into eternity. This morning, I had breakfast, smoked a cigar, and leaned out the window. After ten minutes, I saw a well-dressed man walk by, and he kept looking down at his feet. I knew him by sight; he had been the victim of many great misfortunes, but he smiled as he walked, and stared his feet, or, rather, his boots. They were new, patent leather, beautifully made, and no doubt impeccably stitched. From time to time, he looked up at the windows, or at people’s faces, but his eyes quickly darted back to his boots, as if drawn to them by a law of attraction stronger than his own will. He was a happy fellow; one could see the blissful expression on his face. He was clearly happy; and yet he may have had no breakfast; he might not even have so much as a penny in his pocket, but he was happy gazing at his boots.

Could happiness be a pair of boots? That man, so buffeted by life, had finally found fortune smiling on him. Nothing is worth nothing. No worldly preoccupation, no social or moral dilemma, neither the joys of the new generation nor the sorrows of the old, neither poverty nor class warfare, no artistic or political crisis, nothing is worth as much to him as a pair of boots. He gazes at them, he breathes them in, he glows, in them he treads the surface of an orb that belongs only to him. Thence comes the dignity of his posture, the firmness of his step, and a certain air of Olympian tranquility. Yes, happiness is a pair of boots.

So here you have the explanation for my will. Those of a superficial nature will say that I’m crazy, that the testator’s closing words are pure suicidal delirium; but I am speaking here to the wise and to the unfortunate. And there’s no point suggesting that I would be better off wearing the boots myself rather than bequeathing them to others; no, because then there would be only me. By distributing them, I make a certain number of people fortunate. Roll up, roll up, O unfortunate ones! May my final wish be granted. Farewell, and put your boots on!

Posthumous Picture Gallery

POSTHUMOUS PICTURE GALLERY

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