Camille Moutier had quickly become a very bad pupil. The punishments and the black marks were in fact much easier to endure than the thousand and one taunts of his companions. At the beginning, he had fought stoutheartedly and even now he succeeded in striking a few blows when the relics of anger were rekindled in him. But his rage had been consumed by despair. His tormentors hounded him relentlessly. And furthermore, his pride was of such a delicate nature that certain jokes which others would have put up with in good part and which can be stopped by retaliating once and for all, affected him like serious affronts whose memory tortured him. Dear Lord, we can't be good.
He would wait for night to weep without constraint. If you have not been made an apple-pie bed and if a plate full of puree has not been slipped between your two sheets, you can sob your heart out. Camille bided his time until everybody was asleep; then all his sorrow welled up in his eyes, spilled over and trickled down his cheeks. I have listened to this vast despair of a child: sobs can't be heard, nothing can be except an imperceptible snivelling at long intervals. If the monitor were awake, he might think that some hoaxer was whistling.
So the joy which holidays brought little Moutier was almost too great for him. Those holidays! He relished their every minute, they were trysts with himself; he rediscovered himself, unrestrained and gay as he had been before going to school. For a few days or weeks, he ceased to be a suffering, sobbing wretch. And his parents seeing him so gladsome, so absorbed in his games, with so much of the child about him, were disarmed by the insouciance, the unalloyed happiness of childhood; of childhood such as Madame Amable Tastu and Victor Hugo have celebrated it: the best time of life.
But the appearance of Fermina Marquez in the existence of the school stripped his holidays of much of their fine flavour for little Camille Moutier. Now he had found something to love in his place of torment. From the first minute, he was certain that he would never dare step up to her, that he would
never mean anything to her. Before he had even attracted her attention, he used to pray for her every night. He was jealous of Santos and he was jealous of Leniot. In his thoughts, he gave himself to her forever, blind to everything else around him, deaf, enraptured.
He came back to life once again. Several fights in which he had had the best of it had kept his bullies at bay for a little while. So he nerved himself to make friends with young Marquez who was in the second form as well. He was pleased to be seen around with Marquez: wasn't he by this means much closer to her; wasn't his name associated with hers in the minds of those who saw him walking at Marquez' side? The names of those who became inseparable were written up on the walls; over-exclusive friendships were ridiculed and underwent such persecution that sometimes they were successfully broken up. Well, the day Camille Moutier read on the riding school's walls the inscription: "Moutier and Marquez", he was more elated than he had ever been since his arrival at Saint Augustine's: "If only she had read that!"
He would bring all his talk around to her: to speak of her brother was also to speak of her; to speak of Paris where she was living; to speak of Colombia, South America, Spain's history, the Battle of Rocroi was to speak of her as well. The progress he made in Castillian was astounding: was not Castillian Fermina Marquez' mother tongue? And in this strange Christian name: Fermina, he saw something wonderful; for him it epitomized all earthly beauty. It was the finest word man had uttered. He would never have found the courage to say it out loud: Ferminita. This diminutive was too familiar, too close to her.
Yet if he had just had a chance to be glimpsed by her . . . just glimpsed! ... At Whitsun, he had the luck to spend the whole day in Paris; not one of those sullen, dismal Sundays, when all the shops have deliberately shut to stop schoolboys and cadets from Saint Cyr's taking a look, but a proper, bustling Paris day. The Saint Cyr boys for their part seem to smile mysteriously as they walk past the closed shop fronts: they have seen the window displays the previous Thursday. But for schoolboys, no window shopping: they might forget their compositions as a result. This goes for bookshops too which do not exist as far as they are concerned: they have to make do with editions of the classics; and contemporary literature is not for them. Besides, it is worthless: the chief monitors who furnish themselves with libraries from the pupils' confiscated novels would have you believe that to begin to show any talent, an author must be in his grave for seventy-five years.
Camille Moutier had spent an entire Saturday in Paris at the house of his guardian who having recalled the existence of the little schoolboy, had his manservant collect him from Saint Augustine's. It was a chore for the manservant: he had to put up a pretence of listening to everything this small boy told him of South America and the glories of the Castillian language. Once he had arrived at the gloomy flat in the rue des Saints-Peres, Camille Moutier was immediately entrusted to a nephew of his guardian, a young man aged twenty who was studying law.
Camille had already come across him, this grown-up law student; but he would not have been able to say where or when. This apartment and this family always struck him like objects and people seen in a dream, a dream which sometimes recurs but which never lasts long enough for a place's look and people's features to be engraved on the sleeper's memory. Even the notion of their ties of kinship was uncertain for him; was this elderly lady a regular Sunday guest, an aunt from the provinces or his guardian's mother? He mistook each one of them for the other. He was only sure of recognizing his guardian himself: he would always wear a frock coat with silk lapels and a skullcap of black velvet.
He could ignore them with impunity; for their part, they did not put themselves out for him: they continued their daily existence in front of him, speaking of affairs and people he was not acquainted with. It was a dream, neither good nor bad; rather it was wearisome, for although he was careful to avoid becoming involved in the concerns of the parties, he was obliged to watch his behaviour and reply to their enquiries. At table, for instance, you never knew if it were really you who was being asked a question.
Thus on this summer's day, beneath the streets' sky newly painted blue, Camille Moutier dreamt he was out walking with Gustave, the phantom who was studying law. Gustave felt somewhat ashamed to be seen with a schoolboy. And any conversation with this kid struck him as impossible: they had nothing in common. It was a wasted day. Yet what did it matter! He would recoup many other summer days which would make up for this one; other days spent in infinitely more interesting company. He responded monosyllabically to Camille Moutier who was offering him profuse explanations of the discovery of the Darien, the expedition of Balboa and how New Grenada had become Colombia. This little boy was well up in his geography. A few moments later, his voice quavered terribly and Gustave, who was not even thinking of him any more, had pricked up his ears: the little boy was talking about one of his companions called Francisco Marquez and this companion's sister, Fermina.
"Fermina! That's quite a name to remember! Fermina!" Gustave blasphemed. They stopped in the arcade in front of the wonderful toyshop on the corner of the rue du Louvre and the rue de Rivoli. The little boy as befits little boys, did not grow tired of gazing at the display. They had to enter the shop. And Gustave was surprised to see him buy a miniature flag, a flag printed in silk glued to an iron pole. "What could the little boy want to do with this novelty?" Truly, adults are incapable of understanding anything.
And the day after his return, at the one o'clock break, having noticed Mama Dolore and her nieces in the grounds, Camille Moutier left the yard, his heart beating very loud: once out of the monitors' sight, he began to run and like a handsome knight arrayed in his lady's colours, he passed in front of Fermina, holding in his hand a small, fluttering replica of the Colombian flag.
"Look," exclaimed the girl, "my national flag!" Camille Moutier retraced his steps and stammered: "I was going to take it to Paquito; where is he, Mademoiselle?" He did not even wait for the reply. This was already more than his nerve could endure. He took to his heels. That w
as his big adventure that year.
XVII
Santos Iturria appeared radiating well-being on return from the Whitsun holiday. He never took advantage of a break and it was some event to hear him being called to the counter of the visiting room on a leave-out day. He himself seemed not to set much store by these breaks; his nocturnal outings in the Negro's company were enough for him. But as that year's Whitsun holiday drew near, he had put everything in place to obtain leave. And he had succeeded in having himself invited by a young secretary at the Mexican legation whom he had come across in Montmartre.
Joanny Leniot understood himself clearly; he had certainly said: he was not quick-witted and he did not grasp things straight away. Even when Santos had said to him after bumping into him in a passage on the day after our return: "Leniot you squirt, there are two people you're really bothering," he hadn't cottoned on. Seeing was the only thing for it.
And he had seen.
"La Chica will be here in a moment," said Mama Dolore greeting Joanny. He replied with great calmness: "Yes; she is in the arbour with Iturria major."
"Oh really?" said Mama Dolore without concern. Pilar gave him in earnest one of her wonderful looks of dark fervour. Did this girl know? Perhaps she felt sorry for him.
That was all he needed!
"When she returns, tell her that I will be waiting on the terrace."
He stepped up to it. A few minutes later, Fermina Marquez was by his side. He did not say hello. But with a theatrical gesture, he pointed to Paris, that is to say that scant, greyish mist perceptible on the horizon. "It is thanks to my peers that this city is worthy of being called the City of Light. Do you understand?"
She said nothing in reply.
"Do you understand?"
Realizing that she had resolved to remain silent, he turned towards her and spoke the august truth: "Genius breathes in me."
She said nothing. She was expecting a scene of a different sort. She even felt relieved to see events taking this course. As for him, he was looking at her with a composure he had never before commanded in her presence. He was even able to look her in the face without being dazzled. He thought he bore an inner beauty beside which the girl's paled.
"When I told you that it was to appeal to you or a woman that I was working, I lied. I lied and I'm proud of it! I work for myself. I am possessed by so great an ambition that only the safeguard of immortal fame can ever satisfy it. I am really surprised that you didn't understand earlier on that you were dealing with a man of genius."
He gave a nervous laugh; but went on gently straight away: "I know it's possible to be mistaken. Especially with me, who have nothing but my genius and am wholly lacking in polish as they say; wholly lacking in sparkle, without conversation and social talents and am almost stupid after all! Yes, I am quite alone with the burden of my genius, which you might compare to a mountain of great height, dark and steep, the appearance of which is too forbidding for you to look at, Mademoiselle. Oh! Hear me out, I won't say anything which might distress you. Come, let us sit down."
He took her by the hand and led her off. She yielded, not even wishing to leave. She knew that he had just seen her in the arbour with Santos. Now, it looked to her as though it was no longer a question of that but of far weightier matters which she scarcely understood. He pronounced:
"No woman's love will ever be enough to fill my heart. Renown is what I want. And a genuine renown, which has not been demanded. Around me, I see gifted students who are not satisfied by being punctual and doing faultless prepared work; they feel the need to strengthen their positions through all sorts of petty intrigues: they try to be of service to the monitors, they laugh at all the teachers' classroom quips. Such behaviour is impossible for me: my appearance, just like my spirit, is too forbidding. I work without the least display of zeal; but if only you knew how ferociously I apply myself! I pretend to be indifferent to the actual compliments I receive. Finally, I like to feel that all the teachers find me disagreeable, yet despite that, have no alternative but to give me the best marks.
"I have Julien Morot, the novelist, as my guardian in Paris. It seems he is well known. I have such respect for fame that I even think well of his own, which I wouldn't want to have in the least. It's fame like that of a firm: it keeps itself going only through never-ending publicity. Rewarded by services rendered to people of influence, by dinner parties and receptions, by money itself, it is publicity which is at the root of this writer's celebrity. Moreover, he understands fame's worth! He said to me one day: 'You should make connections, it's the only way to succeed.' Do you realize, that means he holds his fame in' contempt; for him it's a business which he exploits and which yields him a return of so much a year. He would love to have the time to write for his own pleasure, to be able to release the genius in himself. But he's caught up in the system: publishers, editors of reviews overwhelm him with commissions. He's never left alone. And as for him, he knows that his celebrity is an illusion; that ten years after his death, his name will have slipped into profound oblivion; and that even that celebrity he enjoyed in his lifetime will do him no service in the view of posterity: for once scorn has settled on the works of his maturity, it will also shroud his first two or three books, which so he says, he wrote in innocence, with faith and enthusiasm, his first two or three books which are without question his greatest work. He knows all that. Sometimes I have thought: 'Why doesn't he prefer a modest fortune, obscurity in his lifetime and posthumous glory to this artificial fame and this debasement of his talent?' But one day, he gave me a terrible answer to this question I had asked myself. As I was talking to him about some modern theory of aesthetics: 'Art for art's sake is all very well,' he said; 'but you see, you've got to live.' And he looked at his wife and children; he has even lost the right to be poor.
"As I set out in life, Julien Morot's example clarifies my instincts, by contrast. To my career in politics, I will apply principles which are wholly opposed to those guiding his life as an artist. I won't be dependent on anything or anybody. My isolation will be complete; it already is. I will stay buried in silence and in darkness; I will shun the world. My youth will be like Lieutenant Bonaparte's. I will, if I have to, endure the world's scorn, the sniggering of fools, with patience, I will brave the incredulous smiles of my close relations calmly - but the day my sun rises above it, all humanity will fall to its knees before my morning radiance.
"I'll wait. I am patient. From the moment I had thoughts, sensations, I realized I had genius. So I became accustomed to being misunderstood. My mother would take me to the dressmaker's and the grocer's and to my astonishment, neither of them saw that I was a child prodigy. I shouldn't have been astonished. Even to this day, they don't understand that I am a man of genius; they are unable to see that. They don't even know that I am good at school; or if my mother told them this, they have forgotten it. They greet me obsequiously; but it's because they have been informed that my father earns two hundred thousand francs a year from the silk trade. They honour in me the power of money, which I myself despise. They will only pay tribute to my genius the day they have seen me ride in front of the entire army with a quiet and morose air! I can remember when I was nine, actually when I was seven, the elderly would come to our house. Their lives were done and they were approaching the threshold of death without renown. Without renown; the two terrible words! Had they ever even wanted fame? Did at least the majestic ruins of vast, shattered hopes lurk in their souls? No; they had never had ambition. They had been students in Paris and then came to the provinces to set themselves up as notaries or attornies. They prided themselves on never having wanted anything fanciful in their existences, in other words anything noble. And as for me, a taciturn little boy, a person of no importance, in my heart I despised them. They had passed through life in silence like animals, hunched over the ground by nature and enslaved by her to their base appetites ..."
He had a moment's hesitation: "That comes from Sallust," he said; and he carried o
n: "Yet at that time, I hardly knew what fame was; what ambition was and all these passions which are so strong in me . . . On other occasions, we had to greet and entertain tradesmen, financiers, in short every sort and kind of common person. Since I would never speak to them, because the mere sight of them was enough to sicken me, they took me for a backward child and would ask: 'So what are we called then?' One day, I answered one of them in the most deliberate and mild of ways possible: 'Im-be-cile.' My father slapped me; but I had managed to cause quite a bit of a stir, I assure you.
"Oh Mademoiselle, my modesty and humility are boundless! As long as a man hasn't expressely, disowned his own genius in front of me, I believe in it. But nearly all men, with a quite remarkable candour I admit, hasten to repudiate all claims to it. You even run across those who tell you: 'As soon as a person acquires something of the critical faculty, he only has to be intelligent to realize he isn't a genius.' It's in this way that they acknowledge their nonentity; that they inflict this appalling deminutio capitis on themselves. I have seen so many give up in this fashion! Mademoiselle, now you are able to understand my profession of faith: I despise the critical faculty, I hate science and I only respect human emotions because they alone count amidst all the follies of the modern age!"
He had not stopped looking at her. He was telling her the wildest things; things he would not even have dared admit to himself at any other time. And yet he was dominating her. As for her, she let him ramble on resignedly. There she remained, hardly listening to what he was saying, waiting for him to finish. He went on: "Consider my position a little bit. Am I not like a man possessing billions hidden underground? This fellow lives in a small town he can never leave; this small town where you can't find anything you might call luxury. He is compelled to live like the other inhabitants, without ever being able to spend his billions. And the people of this little village don't want to believe that he really has this fabulous wealth. And when he talks about his billions, they laugh in his face. Have you read The Secret of Mr Synthesis by Louis Boussenard? I read it when I was nine and I remember it still. In this book, there is a character who is the richest and most learned man in the world; this is Doctor Synthesis. He has reserves at his disposal which would allow him to become overnight 'the basic proprietor of the earth'. Just let my hour come and I too have, not in banks but within myself, what I need to become the basic proprietor of the earth! And my hour will come. It certainly did for Lieutenant Bonaparte. Doesn't Joanny Leniot have just as fine a ring to it? To flatter my parents, the lesser folk at home readily say to me: 'You will be so rich one of these days, Master Joanny.' They have scarcely any idea how rich I will be in fact. They would die of envy. Would you like a proof of my genius? Well listen to this then.
Fermina Marquez (1911) Page 7