The next day he conceived a great desire to see her as she was in everyday life, dressed for the streets. It would be a sort of intimacy merely to pass her on the pavement. One evening, when she was playing, he watched for her at the stage-door, through which emerged one after the other scene-shifters, actors, constables, firemen, dressers, and actresses. At last she appeared, muffled in her fur cloak, a bouquet in her hand, tall and pale — so pale in the dusk her face seemed to him as if illumined by an inward light. She stood waiting on the doorstep till a carriage was called.
He clasped both hands on his breast and thought he was going to die.
When he found himself alone on the deserted Quai, he plucked a leaf from the overhanging bough of a plane tree. Then, setting his elbows on the parapet of the bridge, he tossed the leaf into the river and watched it borne away by the current of the stream that lay silvery in the moonlight, spangled with quivering lights. He watched it till he could see it no longer. Was it not the emblem of himself? He, too, was abandoning himself to the waters of a passion that shone bright and which he thought profound.
X
That year the Champs de Mars was occupied by one of the series of Expositions Universelles. Under the trees, in the heat and dust, crowds were swarming towards the entrance. Jean passed the turnstiles and entered the palace of glass and iron. He was still pursuing his passion, for he associated the being he loved with all manifestations of art and luxury. He made for the park and went straight to the Egyptian pavilion. Egypt had filled his dreams from the day when all his thoughts had been centred on one woman. In the avenue of sphinxes and before the painted temple he fell under the glamour that women of olden days and strange lands exercise on the senses, — on those of lovers with especial force. The sanctuary was venerable in his eyes, despite the vulgar use it was put to as part of the Exhibition. Looking at the jewels of Queen Aahotep, who lived and was lovely in the days of the Patriarchs, he pondered sadly over all that had been in the world and was no more. He pictured in fancy the black locks that had scented this diadem with the sphinx’s head, the slim brown arms these, beads of gold and lapis lazuli had touched, the shoulders that had worn these vulture’s wings, the peaked bosoms these chains and gorgets had confined, the breast that had once communicated its warmth to yonder gold scarabæus with the blue wing-cases, the little royal hand that once held that poniard by the hilt wrought over with flowers and women’s faces. He could not conceive how what was a dream to him had been a reality for other men. Vainly he tried to follow the lapse of ages. He told himself that another living shape would vanish in its turn, and it would be for nothing then that it had been so passionately desired. The thought saddened and calmed him. He thought, as he stood before these gewgaws from the tomb, of all these men who, in the abyss of bygone time, had in turn loved, coveted, enjoyed, suffered, whom death had taken, hungry or satiated, and made an end of the appetites of all alike. A placid melancholy swept over him and held him motionless, his face buried in his hands.
XI
It was at breakfast the next morning that Jean noticed, for the first time, the venerable, kindly look of his father’s face. In truth, advancing years had invested the bookbinder’s appearance with a sort of beauty. The smooth forehead under the curling white locks betokened a habit of peaceful and honest thoughts. Old age, while rendering the play of the muscles less active, veiled the distortion of the limbs due to long hours of labour at the bench under the more affecting disfigurements which life and its long-drawn labours impress on all men alike. The old man had read, thought, striven honestly to do his best, and won the saving grace a simple faith bestows on the humble of heart; for he had become a religious man and a regular attendant at the church of his parish. Jean told himself it would be an easy and a grateful task to cherish such a father, and he resolved to inaugurate a life of toil and sacrifice. But he had no employment and no notion what to do.
Shut up in his room, he was filled with a great pity for himself and longed to recover the peace of mind, the calm of the senses, the happy life that had vanished along with the leaf he had abandoned that evening to the drifting current. He opened a novel, but at the first mention of love he pitched the volume down, and fell to reading a book of travel, following the steps of an English explorer into the reed palace of the King of Uganda. He ascended the Upper Nile to Urondogami; hippopotamuses snorted in the swamps, waders and guinea-fowl rose in flight, while a herd of antelopes sped flying through the tall grasses. He was recalled from far, far away by his aunt shouting up the stairs:
“Jean! Jean! come down into the shop; your father wants you.”
A stout, red-faced man, with the bent shoulders that come of much stooping over the desk, sat beside the counter. Monsieur Servien’s eyes rested on his face with a deprecating air.
When the boy appeared, the stranger asked if this was the young man in question, adding in a scolding voice:
“You are all the same. You work and sweat and wear yourselves out to make your sons bachelors of arts, and you think the day after the examination the fine fellows will be posted Ambassadors. For God’s sake! no more graduates, if you please! We can’t tell what to do with ‘em…. Graduates indeed! Why, they block the road; they are cab-drivers, they distribute handbills in the streets. You have ’em dying in hospital, rotting in the hulks! Why didn’t you teach your son your own trade? Why didn’t you make a bookbinder of him? … Oh! I know why; you needn’t tell me, — out of ambition! Well, then! some day your son will die of starvation, blushing for your folly — and a good job too! The State! you say, the State! it’s the only word you can put your tongues to. But it’s cluttered up, the State is! Take the Treasury; you send us graduates who can’t spell; what d’ye expect us to do with all these loafers?”
He drew his hand across his hot forehead. Then pointing a finger to show he was addressing Jane:
“At any rate, you write a good hand?”
Monsieur Servien answered for his son, saying it was legible.
“Legible! Legible!” repeated the great man — throwing his fat hands about. “A copying clerk must write an even hand. Young man, do you write an even hand?”
Jean said he did not know, his handwriting might have been spoilt, he had never thought very much about it. His questioner frowned:
“That’s very wrong,” he blustered; “and I dare swear you young fellows make a silly affectation of not writing decently…. I may have a bit of influence at the Ministry, but you mustn’t ask me to do impossibilities.”
The bookbinder shrunk back with a scared glance. He certainly did not look the man to ask impossibilities.
The other got up:
“You will take lessons,” he said, turning to Jean, “in writing and ciphering. You have eight months before you. Eight months from now the Minister will hold an examination. I will put your name down. Do you set to work without losing a minute!”
So saying, he pulled out his watch, as though to see if his protégé was actually going to waste a single minute before beginning his studies. He directed Monsieur Servien to get to work without delay on the books he was giving him to bind, and walked out of the shop. After the bookbinder had seen him to his carriage:
“Jean, my boy,” said he, “that is Monsieur Bargemont; I have spoken to him about you and you have heard what he had to say; he is going to help you to get into the Treasury Office, where he holds a high post. You understand what he told you about the examinations; you know more about such things, praise God! than I do. I am only an ignoramus, my lad, but I am your father. Now listen; I want to have a word of explanation with you, so that from this day on till I go to where your dear mother is we can look each other calmly in the face and understand one another at the first glance. Your mother loved you right well, Jean. There’s not a gold mine in the world could give a notion of the wealth of affection that woman possessed. From the first moment you saw the light, she lived, so to say, more in you than in herself. Her love was stronger than she could
bear. Well, well, she is dead. It was nobody’s fault.”
The old man turned his eyes involuntarily towards the darkest corner of the shop, and Jean, looking in the same direction, caught sight of the sharp angles of the hand-press in the gloom.
Monsieur Servien went on:
“On her death-bed your mother asked me to make an educated man of you, for well she knew that education is the key that opens every door.
“I have done what she wished. She was no longer with us, Jean, and when a voice comes back to you from the grave and bids you do a thing ‘that a blessing may come,’ why, one must needs obey. I did my best; and no doubt God was with me, for I have succeeded. You have your education; so far so good, but we must not have a blessing turn into a curse. And idleness is a curse. I have worked like a packhorse, and given many a hard pull at the collar, in harness from morning to night. I remember in particular one lot of cloth covers for the firm of Pigoreau that kept me on the job for thirty-six hours running. And then there was the year when your examination fees had to be paid and I accepted an order in the English style; it was a terrible bit of work, for it’s not in my way at all, and at my time of life a man is not good at new methods. They wanted a light sort of binding, with flexible boards as flimsy as paper almost. I shed tears over it, but I learned the trick! Ah! it is a famous tool, is a workman’s hand! But an educated man’s brain is a far more wonderful thing still, and that tool you have, thanks to God in the first place, and to your mother in the second. It was she had the notion of educating you, I only followed her lead. Your work will be lighter than mine, but you must do it. I am a poor man, as you know; but, were I rich, I would not give you the means to lead an idle life, because that would be tempting you to vices and shaming you. Ah! if I thought your education had given you a taste for idleness, I should be sorry not to have made you a working man like myself. But then, I know you have a good heart; you have not got into your stride yet, that’s all! The first steps will be uphill work; Monsieur Bargemont said so. The State services are overcrowded; there are over many graduates — though it is well enough to be one. Besides, I shall be at your back; I will help you, I will work for you; I have a pair of stout arms still. You shall have pocket-money, never fear; you will want it among the folks you will live with. We will save and pinch. But you must help yourself, lad; never be afraid of hard work, hit out from the shoulder and strike home. Good work never spoiled play yet. Your job done, laugh and sing and amuse yourself to your heart’s content; you won’t find me interfere. And, when you are a great man, if I am still in this world, don’t you be afraid; I shall not get in your way. I am not a fellow to make a noise. We will hide away in some quiet hole, your aunt and I, and nobody will hear one word said of the old father.”
Aunt Servien, who had slipped into the shop and been listening for the last few moments, broke into sobs; she was quite ready to follow her brother and hide away in a corner; but when her nephew had risen to greatness, she would insist on going every day to keep things straight in his grand house. She was not going to leave “the little lad” to be a prey to housekeepers — housekeepers, indeed, she called them housebreakers!
“The creatures keep great hampers,” she declared, “that swallow up bottles of wine, cold chickens, and other titbits, fine linen, old clothes, oil, sugar, and candles — the best pickings from a rich man’s house. No, I’ll not let my little Jean be sucked to death by such vampires. I mean to keep your house in order. No one will ever know I am your aunt. And if they did know, there’s nobody, I should hope, could object. I don’t know why anyone should be ashamed of me. They can lay my whole life bare, I have nothing to blush for. And there’s many a Duchess can’t say as much. As for forsaking the lad for fear of doing him a hurt, well, the notion is just what I expected of you, Servien; you’ve always been a bit simple-minded. I mean to stay all my life with Jean. No, little lad, you’ll never drive your old aunt out of your house, will you? And who could ever make your bed the way I can, my lamb?”
Jean promised his father faithfully, oh! most faithfully, he would lead a hardworking life. Then he shut himself up in his room and pictured the future to himself — long years of austere and methodical labour.
He mapped out his days systematically. In the morning he wrote copies to improve his handwriting, seated at a corner of the workbench. After breakfast he did sums in his bedroom. Every evening he went to the Rue Soufflot by way of the Luxembourg gardens to a private tutor’s, and the old man would set him dictations and explain the rules of simple interest. On reaching the gate adjoining the Fontaine Médicis the boy always turned round for a look at the statues of women he could discern standing like white ghosts along the terrace. He had left behind on the path of life another fascinating vision.
He never read a theatrical poster now, and deliberately forgot his favorite poets for fear of renewing his pain.
XII
This new life pleased him; it slipped by with a soothing monotony, and he found it healthful and to his taste. One evening, as he was coming downstairs at his old tutor’s, a stout man offered him, with a sweep of the arm, the bill of fare advertising a neighbouring cook-shop; he carried a huge bundle of them under his left arm. Then stopping abruptly:
“Per Bacco!” cried the fellow; “it is my old pupil. Tall and straight as a young poplar, here stands Monsieur Jean Servien!”
It was no other than the Marquis Tudesco. His red waistcoat was gone; instead he wore a sort of sleeved vest of coarse ticking, but his shining face, with the little round eyes and hooked nose, still wore the same look of merry, mischievous alertness that was so like an old parrot’s.
Jean was surprised to see him, and not ill-pleased after all.
He greeted him affectionately and asked what he was doing now.
“Behold!” replied the Marquis, “my business is to distribute in the streets these advertisements of a local poisoner, and thereby to earn a place at the assassin’s table to spread the fame of which I labour. Camoens held out his hand for charity in the streets of Lisbon. Tudesco stretches forth his in the byways of the modern Babylon, but it is to give and not to receive — lunches at 1 fr. 25, dinners at 1 fr. 75,” and he offered one of his bills to a passer-by, who strode on, hands in pockets, without taking it.
Thereupon the Marquis Tudesco heaved a sigh and exclaimed:
“And yet I have translated the Gerusalemme Liberata, the masterpiece of the immortal Torquato Tasso! But the brutal-minded booksellers scorn the fruit of my vigils, and in the empyrean the Muse veils her face so as not to witness the humiliation inflicted on her nursling.”
“And what has become of you all the time since we last saw you?” asked the young man frankly.
“God only knows, and ‘pon my word! I think He has forgotten.”
Such was the Marquis Tudesco’s oracular answer.
He tied up his bundle of papers in a cloth, and taking his pupil by the arm, urged him in the direction of the Rue Saint-Jacques.
“See, my young friend,” he said, “the dome of the Panthéon is half hidden by the fog. The School of Salerno teaches that the damp air of evening is inimical to the human stomach. There is near by a decent establishment where we can converse as two philosophers should, and I feel sure your unavowed desire is to conduct your old instructor thither, the master who initiated you in the Latin rudiments.”
They entered a drinking-shop perfumed with so strong a reek of kirsch and absinthe as took Servien’s breath away. The room was long and narrow, while against the walls varnished barrels with copper taps were ranged in a long-drawn perspective that was lost in the thick haze of tobacco-smoke hanging in the air under the gas-jets. At little tables of painted deal a number of men were drinking; dressed in black and wearing tall silk hats, broken-brimmed and shiny from exposure to the rain, they sat and smoked in silence. Before the door of the stove several pairs of thin legs were extended to catch the heat, and a thread of steam curled up from the toes of the owners’ boots. A heavy
torpor seemed to weigh upon all this assemblage of pallid, impassive faces.
While Monsieur Tudesco was distributing hand-shakes to sundry old acquaintances, Jean caught scraps of the conversation of those about him that filled him with a despairing melancholy — school ushers railing at the cookery of cheap eating-houses, tipplers maundering contentedly to one another, enchanted at the profundity of their own wisdom, schemers planning to make a fortune, politicians arguing, amateurs of the fair sex telling highly-spiced anecdotes of love and women — and amongst it all this sentence:
“The harmony of the spheres fills the spaces of infinity, and if we hear it not, it is because, as Plato says, our ears are stopped with earth.”
Monsieur Tudesco consumed brandy-cherries in a very elegant way. Then the waiter served two dantzigs in little glass cups. Jean admired the translucent liquor dotted with golden sparkles, and Monsieur Tudesco demanded two more. Then, raising his cup on high:
“I drink to the health of Monsieur Servien, your venerable father,” he cried. “He enjoys a green and flourishing old age, at least I hope so; he is a man superior to his mechanic and mercantile condition by the benevolence of his behaviour to needy men of letters. And your respected aunt? She still knits stockings with the same zeal as of yore? At least I hope so. A lady of an austere virtue. I conjecture you are wishing to order another dantzig, my young friend.”
Jean looked about him. The dram-shop was transfigured; the casks looked enormous with their taps splendidly glittering, and seemed to stretch into infinity in a quivering, golden mist. But one object was more monstrously magnified than all the rest, and that was the Marquis Tudesco; the old man positively towered as huge as the giant of a fairy-tale, and Jean looked for him to do wonders.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 25