"A few years ago, my father made me attend the classes of a primary school in our part of Lyons before sending me to Saint Augustine's. My father, I should say, intended to stand as a candidate for some state post or other. It was to curry favour with the plebs that he made me go to this school. I had to leave it at the end of a month: the pupils - all of them -harassed me and would have ended up by killing me. It was thought that they were jealous of my middle-class way of dressing, my good manners, my father's wealth, finally that they were disgruntled I wasn't like them, in other words a lout. No doubt there was something of all these feelings in their hatred for me; but this loathing was really too intense: they had sensed the man of genius in me and it was the man of genius that these young Gauls were instinctively persecuting.
Men said to each other: 'He is a stranger to us.'
"Ah! The day I pass by the front ranks of their legions once I've mixed them into the vast crucible of my army with all the peoples of the Empire; once I've made Roman citizens of these savage, inland Gauls, with what heartfelt warmth will they cry out: Ave Caesar! - and when the grandchildren of their great-grandchildren read my life story in their history books, how they will sob with admiration and love for me!"
He eyed her steadily. He could have continued to bare his soul before her in this manner. He was deriving intense pleasure from this. He had lost his respect for her or at least he was no longer going to put himself out for her. He rose to his feet, wishing to bring the meeting to an end himself.
"I had come to tell you, Mademoiselle, that I will no longer have the pleasure of spending my breaks in your company. I had asked my father's permission to take one or two watercolour lessons before the summer holidays so as to have an outdoor pastime next August and September. My father has given me his permission; I have been to see the drawing master ... we are to make a start with flowers; it will be very interesting. In short, my afternoon breaks will be employed in the drawing school from now on. I bid you farewell. I will take my leave of your dear aunt and sister . . . Mademoiselle ..."
He bowed ceremoniously. He was surprised to see that she offered him her hand. And her handshake was remarkably vigorous; she really did hold on to his hand.
He immediately went to say goodbye to Mama Dolore, giving the same excuse, trotting out the same lie. "Does she realize that these watercolour lessons are just a pretext?" he wondered — Pilar had unquestionably understood. He thought he saw regret in her parting glance: "I wouldn't have said no." But can one ever tell? "After all, I may have interpreted this look in the wrong way; and surely I have my share of innate self-conceit like everybody else?" reasoned Joanny to himself.
Nevertheless, he went to request a meeting with the prefect of studies. As from the next day, he had to start his watercolour lessons without waiting for his father's authorization which he was already sure of obtaining and which he would write to ask for this very evening. The usher made him wait in the anteroom. He found himself sitting opposite a mirror. As there was nothing inside the school to reflect your face, your own traits soon ceased being familiar to you and you knew your companions' features better than your own. There were a few narcissistic youths who possessed a number of small pocket mirrors which they would use affecting an air of mystery. But Joanny was not one of those; and he became reacquainted with his image in this mirror as one does with a person one knows and whose face one studies at each fresh encounter. It is by observing himself in his looking-glass that a man manages to modify his facial expressions, as much as it is in his power to. Joanny saw some of his customary states of mind written plainly across his features with a surprise mingled with concern. The overwatchful look in his eyes; this crease in his brow; these were what he had to eliminate. Yes, a "severe countenance"; that was indeed what it was. A matt complexion, brown eyes, and above all practically motionless facial muscles, cheeks incapable of breaking into a smile; a
heavy, hard face, though delicately drawn, almost classical; Roman.
The ring of an electric bell summoned the usher into the office of the prefect of studies. Then the usher returned to announce "pupil Leniot".
Pupil Leniot greeted the prefect of studies. He indicated to him his desire to take lessons in watercolouring; and in a few minutes, everything was settled. Next, he said that since his breaks would be taken up by these lessons in the future, he would no longer be able to accompany "the Marquez ladies" in their walks through the grounds. "It would perhaps be appropriate to name another pupil to take my place with them," he added with a slight intonation of irony which the prefect of studies did not notice at all.
"Indeed; but which pupil?"
"I am sure that they will be only too happy to accept Santos Iturria."
"Good. You will tell Iturria major that I wish to speak to him, that he should come here . . . Ah! Mr Leniot," added the prefect of studies, as Joanny was making for the door. "I can certainly inform you straight away; you have been chosen by the teaching board to deliver the speech in Latin for His Eminence. His Eminence will be honouring us with a visit in a fortnight's time; hold yourself in readiness. I congratulate you in all sincerity and I have no doubt that in this matter you will uphold the school's reputation as well as your own. I shan't detain you any longer."
Prep had already started. Leniot, passing by the sixth-form room, pushed the door open and walked in. He conveyed the prefect of studies' command, summoning Santos Iturria to his office, to the monitor. "So he will realize that it is me who is smoothing the path to their meetings," mused Joanny. He felt no jealousy.
He was even glad. Once he was seated at his place in his prep room and at peace, he enquired into the reasons for his contentment. It was first of all this tremendous piece of news that the prefect of studies had just announced to him: he had been singled out to deliver the speech in Latin for the Archbishop. That was a distinction he had never dared hope for.
"When the others find that out! - And as for my parents!" But there was something else which he was still more pleased about: this was the oration he had just made to Fermina Marquez. He had improvised it swiftly, as he would his best compositions in French while walking in the yard at break: he would keep them "in his head" for several days, modifying them, touching them up, doing away with an adverb, moving the whole of a phrase around. And an hour before the time set for the scripts to be handed in, he would write out his composition directly as a tidy copy without any crossing-out. So it was that he had been able to recite the entire speech he had made to the girl, breaking off with her, from beginning to end without hesitation. This caused him satisfaction: he was quite sure that this time he had not been ridiculous.
He barely regretted the somewhat quick-tempered words: "Tradesmen, financiers, every sort and kind of common person", and Marquez senior was a banker! But no, this was no foolishness. All the time he had been speaking, Joanny had felt that from the depths of his consciousness, a hidden force was urging him to say this and that it had all been imbued with a significance more full than he had thought. In short, he had lied once again. His genius for example. It was the first time he asserted the existence of his genius to himself. When he read that Life of Franklin, he had no faith in his own gifts. When some other pupil's prepared work was read out in class, he would marvel at the thousand and one subleties of thought, the deftness of translation in scores of places which he himself would never have hit upon. Times without number, he had experienced the truth of the feeling expressed by this line:
My astonished genius trembles before his.
There were in fact in his life, for the few moments when it seemed to him that his personality filled the world, days upon days when he would feel reduced to an atom and when the universe was so vast that the idea of his own nothingness would terrify him. About his modesty and humility he had thus been sincere. But again, he had used a device when supplying what he had called a proof of his genius. While he was talking about persecution, he had associated the following ideas in a vague way: Jean-J
acques Rousseau — persecution mania —genius. His proof was a twofold one: inductive, in his claim to be persecuted because of his genius; and deductive, because the man of genius often believes he is being persecuted. Oh! What brilliance that was!
In sum, all his eloquence amounted to this: "Between Santos Iturria and me you have made your choice. So be it. But know then whom you have spurned and rue me!" Not for a moment had he thought to reproach her for her flirtatiousness, to tell her how much this coquetry was at variance with her religious talk; in short, to accuse her of hypocrisy. "So that was what she was dreading!" So that was why her farewell had been so warm.
Without pausing, he thought of her little sister's beautiful, solemn eyes, "I wouldn't have said no." He remembered all Pilar's gestures and all her pretty manners. One day when her large ribbon had come undone, he had seen her unadorned hair spread out across her shoulders, absolutely black tresses, which must have been dense and resistant to the touch. Fermina had tied the ribbon up again, taking the locks in handfuls . . . Did they sleep in the same room? ... "I wouldn't have said no." He retained the memory of this glance as if it had been one of an actual caress which made him redden and wholly electrified his blood.
Almost every Thursday, the sisters of Requena (a little boy in the juniors' penultimate class) came with their mother to spend the afternoon at Saint Augustine's. They were three young girls from Cuba with saucy eyes: Pilar, Encarnacion and Consuelo, sixteen, fifteen and fourteen years old respectively. Joanny had often heard them talked about and he had occasionally seen them. It was said that they would allow themselves to be kissed in any corner of the grounds. They liked kissing for its own sake and not because of those who were doing the kissing. Consequently, they were not at all jealous and it was possible to make comparisons and determine whether the lips of a sixteen-year-old were softer than those of a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old.
A fifteen-year-old. Joanny noticed that there was something sensual simply in the designations of these ages: fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, etc. Pronounce these words out loud and think of girls ... As from the start of the next school year, he would find a way to spend Thursday afternoons in the grounds . . . Oh! To subdue a girl of that proud race. They were rumoured to be so caressing, despite all their haughty airs . . . And even if the little Requenas were to come next Thursday . . .
Or again during the holidays; he would no doubt find an opportunity. One day when he had wandered a long way away from his parents' house in the country (it was during the last summer holidays), a young shepherdess, standing in the middle of a field, had hailed him to ask for news of a serving girl at his parents'. And he hadn't understood, the oaf, that this was merely a pretext seized upon by the young peasant girl to make contact with "the little master from the big house". Ah! If a similar opportunity presented itself again, he wouldn't let it pass by. Just so, he was going to be sixteen towards the end of August; it was high time for him to learn a thing or two.
He could remember as well a little maid his parents had had in days gone by. He was scarcely twelve years old at that time. The maid was called Louise and was nineteen. One day, she had pinched a lead soldier from him, a general to which he was particularly attached. She had pretended to conceal this plaything in her blouse between her skin and her chemise, and she had said to Joanny: "If master wants it, he'll have to look for it." |
And he had looked for "it", feigning great anger but actually wholly confused and flushed with pleasure . . . Perhaps he was going to find a little maid of that Louise's sort during these holidays at his parents'. She was so neat and so sweet, that Louise. A serving girl? Bah! A girl is always a girl. And if need be, he could reach Regny, the nearest station, by bicycle from his parents' house in the country. By leaving immediately after the midday meal, he would have enough time to spend a whole two hours in Roanne. He would be back for dinner and nobody at home would suspect him of having gone into town. A woman is always a woman whatever clothes she's wearing. Joanny pressed his two hands to his heart; he was losing his head; he was seeing red. He thought he would die.
. . . The dream in which I thought I saw wise Mentor descend to the Elysian Fields ended by disheartening me: a secret and pleasant languor was taking hold of me. I was already enjoying the insinuating poison which slipped from vein to vein and soaked right through to the marrow of my bones. Yet I let out more deep sighs; I shed bitter tears; I roared like a lion in my rage. Oh unhappy youth! I said: oh Gods, you who play cruelly with men, why do you make them pass through that age, which is a time of folly and feverish ardour? Oh! Would that I were covered with white hair, bowed and near my grave like Laertes, my grandfather! Death would be sweeter to me than the shameful weakness in which I find myself.
Throughout the whole of Telemachus, Joanny only really liked two passages: the description of the Cretan sages in Book Five and that passage where Telemachus, with the very passion and exaggeration of the young, curses youth. He had wanted to reread this passage. Up until that point, he had admired it, above all because he could see in it a portrayal of what the youth of others amounted to. These frenzies, "this time of folly and feverish ardour", that was what other young people experienced. He himself was absolutely sure of escaping all that, buried as he was in his texts and his exercise books, cuirassed by his pride and armed by his ambition. And now, quite on the contrary, he liked this passage because he discerned in it the exact expression of his own state of mind.
For the moment, he felt soothed but in a few days, in an hour perhaps, sin would renew its attack, and the swirl of desires would once again sweep away his reason. His childhood was over. His youth was beginning and beginning against his will. How long would this ferment, this giddiness last for him? Would he have to abandon those plans for fame? Was his career going to be held up by five, by ten years possibly? Henceforth, an end to tranquillity. Without doubt, he would continue to come top of his class; he would stand out in his exams. But at the price of what struggles; amidst what agitation? If he had at least kept his faith, he would have had God as an ally in his tussle with his passions. But for a long time, religion was no more to him than the outdated ideal of a few pious old women.
Joanny invoked, not old age, but that time of life when once the turbulence of youth was spent, he could sit down again once and for all with his dictionaries and his papers in front of him — or with his life before him, which was more interesting than all the books ever written. A girl had just turned him down and he would have thanked her for it, had she restored him to his books and the elaboration of his great career. But she had returned him to her sister — her sisters, the family of women.
Oh, how weary he was! Life was insipid. He took no pleasure at all in thinking about his most recent first place. Fame itself was without interest. Encarnacion, the prettiest of the little Cuban girls - no, much better not to dwell on her. That was perhaps yet another disappointment he was storing up for himself. He followed his form to the dormitory, worn
out sickened, discontented with the world and himself, desiring nothing more than the oblivion of sleep.
He slept extremely badly and woke up only on the summons of the drum roll. All night, he had been dreaming that he was reciting a speech in Latin in the Archbishop's presence and it had seemed to him as though he were uttering, ore rotundo, an infinite number of fine endings and noble inflections: abunt, arentur, ibus, arum . . .
XVIII
And so Santos Iturria remained the untroubled master of his conquest. In a month's time, he was due to sit the papers of the second part of the baccalaureate in Paris and he had every chance of passing with distinction. Whilst his sixth-form friends spent their breaks cramming themselves with textbook formulas, Santos would stroll privately with Fermina Marquez in the grounds. Mama Dolore permitted these tete-a-tetes. She had always had a fondness for the Iturria brothers. And she had begun to cherish Santos most especially since that Whit Sunday when at the way out of the Spanish chapel in the Avenue Friedland, a very ele
gant young man had advanced to meet her, all smiles, and she had suddenly recognized the broad, handsome face of Santos, fresh and open, under a truly gleaming top hat. There was no gainsaying he was a real man; "and a man of the best society," the Creole lady would say.
She had nevertheless already seen him on two occasions in Paris; but it was at night-time and half dozing or inattentive, she had barely made him out. "Well, well, so you have managed to be given time off?" One evening at a late hour, he had come to the avenue Wagram to return to La Chica a bracelet she had dropped, that fool, while playing tennis in the grounds of Saint Augustine's. On another occasion, she and her nieces had met him quite by chance as they were leaving the Opera Comique: he had difficulty in concealing the little uniform of the pupils from Saint Augustine's beneath a civilian overcoat. Mama Dolore was unable to follow any of this and all the less so since La Chica had implored her (but without caring to explain herself) never to speak of Mr Iturria to Saint Augustine's' prefect of studies.
Fermina Marquez (1911) Page 8