Even though it was the depth of winter, the school at Trim seemed far less foreboding to Arthur on his return from Dangan. Though he had few friends, most boys seemed happy to see him again and he felt the warm glow of acceptance, of finding a place for himself in the small world of the school. But only with Dr Buckleby did he feel free to express himself more openly, and only then because what passed between them was sufficiently far removed from the school that there was no prospect of any word of their discussions filtering back. The music teacher - as music teachers must be - proved to be an excellent listener and sat quietly as the child told of his despair that he would never master his school studies and achieve anything worthy of acclaim.
‘Why do you crave acclaim so much, Arthur?’ Dr Buckleby asked him one time.
‘Why?’ Arthur stared back at him. ‘What else is there?’
‘What do you mean, young man?’
‘I have only this life.When it is done, I will look back and ask myself what I have achieved. I want to be able to give a satisfactory answer.’
‘Don’t we all?’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘And the question is somewhat more pressing for a man of my advanced years.’
‘I see.’Arthur looked at him intently.‘And how will you answer it, sir?’
‘Putting aside the youthful impertinence of such a query, I should say that I have done the thing that most matters to me. Each time I pick up an instrument I create a moment of sublime order and beauty. What better thing can a man achieve in this world?’
Arthur frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
Dr Buckleby sighed. ‘I have the blood of a commoner and am therefore precluded from any hope of making my mark on the world. Faced with that, what can a man like me achieve? My talent with the violin was once the talk of London. But what was the value of that? I did not change the world. The only arenas where my class is permitted to parade its achievements are the arts and sciences. And why? Because the former provides pleasure for our rulers, and the latter sundry comforts and the tools of power. So, I have retreated from the world, and live here in Trim, where my needs are satisfied and my achievement is my own. Does that answer your question?’
Arthur considered this for a moment before replying, ‘Not entirely. How can you be sure an achievement is worthwhile unless other men agree that it is? What if you were wrong? What if you were fooling yourself that you had achieved something worthwhile when you hadn’t? How could you ever know?’
‘I know I have achieved greatness with my music. That is all a man of my background could do.’ Dr Buckleby patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s much harder for you, Arthur. You’re an aristocrat. You have opportunities that I never had. You can choose your path to greatness. You don’t have to be a musician. But at the end of the day you will have to account for your decisions. And then live with the perpetual anxiety of making the wrong decision . . . All you will have to ease that anxiety is the word of other men. Now, then, are you still so sure of the value of such acclaim?’
Arthur stared at Dr Buckleby for a moment, and reflected. For the first time Arthur gained an insight into the character of his father, who had chosen to compose an ordered universe about himself from which ugliness and discordance were banished. He looked down at the rich veneer of his violin and then raised it to his shoulder and prepared his bow.
‘Can we continue the lesson now, sir?’
Dr Buckleby nodded. ‘I should be delighted to.’
Before the end of the term Arthur received a letter from his father informing him that a house had been found for the family in London. His mother was busy transferring the household from Dangan. As soon as they were settled in London they would find schools for the children and then send for them. Arthur was shocked by the news, and not certain how he felt about it. The idea of living in London was undeniably exciting. But it would mean leaving behind the house and grounds at Dangan, places he had known for as long as he remembered and which felt like a part of him. He would be leaving the school at Trim as well, a matter of some regret since he now felt comfortable there and would have to repeat the whole agonising experience of entering some new school in London. But worst of all the move would mean losing Dr Buckleby.
Arthur kept the news to himself and continued attending the violin lessons, concentrating on improving his technique as far as possible before it was time to quit Trim for the distant cosmopolitan world of London. For his part, the music teacher was bemused by the boy’s sudden intense concentration, but the rapid improvement in his skill diverted Dr Buckleby’s attention from anything that might be amiss. So, in the few months that remained to them Arthur continued to master the violin and his teacher continued to delight in the boy’s progress.
Until one day Arthur turned up at the small cottage and knocked at the door. The heavy tread of shoes announced Dr Buckleby’s approach on the far side and the door was opened. From the expressionless features on the man’s face Arthur knew at once that something was wrong. Something had changed. His teacher led him through to the music room without a word and sat heavily on his chair while Arthur took out his instrument.
Dr Buckleby coughed.‘As this will be our last lesson, I thought we might try something a little different.’
Arthur felt the blood chill in his veins. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Our last lesson, Arthur. You know what I’m talking about. I received a letter from your father yesterday. To thank me for teaching you and to settle accounts. It seems you are shortly to leave Trim for London. Of course, I shall be sad to lose such a promising student. Boys of your calibre are few and far between.’
‘I - I shan’t forget what you have taught me. Everything that you have taught me.’
‘I sincerely hope not. Now, then . . .’ Dr Buckleby leaned forward, removed Arthur’s sheet music and replaced it with a new composition. ‘We’ll try this.’
Arthur’s eyes scanned the sheets and at once realised the challenge that had been set for him. The fingering and timing were far more sophisticated than anything he was used to.Yet, he had read enough music to pick up the sense of the melody and was immediately struck by its melancholic tone.
‘I don’t recognise this.’
‘I’m not surprised. Come, let us see how you cope with it.’
After an hour of struggling with the composition Dr Buckleby finally relented and permitted his student to set down his instrument.
‘It would seem that there’s still much to learn.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur felt he had let the man down.
‘And now our time is up. Pack up your instrument.’
Arthur placed it back in its case in silence as Dr Buckleby retrieved the new piece from the stand and stood by the door. He escorted Arthur from the room and then held the front door open. Arthur stepped outside of the cottage, then hesitantly turned round and offered Dr Buckleby his hand.
‘Farewell then, sir.’
‘Goodbye, young Wesley.’ The teacher pumped his hand. ‘Remember, keep your back straight and your scroll up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And, er, this is for you.’ Dr Buckleby’s heavy cheeks coloured as he held the new piece of music out to his student. Arthur received it with a nod of thanks.
‘You’re very kind. May I ask who composed it, sir?’
‘I did.’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘I wrote it for you. Perhaps one day, when you have mastered it, you might come and play it for me.’
Arthur’s heart ached with gratitude for the man’s kindness. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then I’ll bid you good day, sir. I must prepare for my next student.’
Both knew it was a deceit.There were no other students today. Arthur took his leave and turned down the path, hearing the door close gently behind him.
Chapter 13
France, 1779
The school at Autun was a far larger institution than Abbot Rocco’s establishment in Ajaccio, and Giuseppe and Naboleone regarded it with a mixture
of awe and fear as they walked through the gateway, followed by a porter carrying their trunks. He directed them to the staff room to one side of the imposing entrance hall.
Naboleone stepped up to the door and rapped sharply on the gleaming varnish. The door opened and the boy was confronted by a tall, severe-looking man in a dark suit and stockings.
‘Yes?’
‘I am Naboleone Buona Parte,’ Naboleone said in his best French. ‘This is my brother Giuseppe.’
The man frowned at the grating accent. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Naboleone repeated his introduction and the man seemed to understand a bit better on the second attempt. He turned back into the staff room.‘Monsieur Chardon? I think these must be the two boys you were expecting. From Corsica?’
‘Yes,’ Naboleone nodded. ‘From Corsica.’
The man stood aside and a moment later a stocky man in a cassock was smiling down at them.‘Welcome to Autun. My name is Abbot Chardon.’ He glanced from boy to boy and nodded at the smaller, darker-featured one. ‘You must be, let me think . . . yes, I have it, Napoleone.’
‘Naboleone, sir.’
‘Yes, well, since your father was so adamant that the first priority was to get you speaking French like a Frenchman, we might as well start now, with the French version of your names. Giuseppe will be Joseph, and you, young man, have caused me a bit of a problem.’ He smiled kindly.‘The best approximation I can do is Napoleon.’
‘Napoleon?’The boy repeated. He was not sure he cared for a French version of his name, but the first teacher had evidently struggled with the Corsican name and so, inevitably, would everyone else at the school. He already felt like enough of an outsider. He looked up at the abbot and shrugged. ‘As you wish, sir. I shall be Napoleon.’
‘Good! Then that’s settled. Let me take you to your dormitory.’
He led them towards a staircase at the rear of the hall and they climbed three flights to reach a corridor that stretched out under the eaves on both sides. Napoleon saw that it was lined with beds with a chest at the foot of each.
‘There’s no one about at the moment,’ the abbot explained. ‘The rest of the boys will be in lessons until supper.You will have a chance to meet them then. Since the first task is to improve your French we’ve decided to put you at opposite ends of the dormitory, beside a proper French boy, so you can correct your accent, which is still a bit thick, if I may say so.’
Napoleon coloured the moment he heard this, but his brother took his hand and when Napoleon glanced sidelong at him Joseph shook his head in warning.
The abbot wafted a hand. ‘As soon as your trunks arrive please unpack then, and then return to the staff room. I’ll take you to your teachers and introduce you to your classmates.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Joseph replied. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The abbot smiled quickly, turned away and strode back down the corridor.
When they were alone again Joseph turned to his younger brother. ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Seems comfortable enough.’
‘I wasn’t talking about that. Napoleon - well? Makes you sound like a real Frenchman.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he replied unhappily. ‘Napoleon . . . and Joseph. What would Mother say if she could hear me now?’
Chapter 14
Abbot Chardon was standing in his study overlooking the courtyard of the school at Autun. It was morning break and outside the boys were playing in the snow. Wrapped in coats, scarves and mittens, they were indulging in snowball fights as usual, shrill shrieks of excitement and surprise filling the air, and clearly audible even this side of the glass in the window.Then his attention fixed on a figure standing at the school gate and his smile faded.The stiff posture of the distant boy was unmistakable. Little Napoleon Buona Parte on his own once again.
It was over a month since the two Corsican boys had joined the school, and while Joseph had begun to settle in and make some friends, the younger child resolutely held himself apart and only associated with his brother, and only then when the latter was not playing with his new friends. It surprised Chardon that the older brother seemed so timid and obviously in awe of Napoleon. But then the young boy had a fierce and forceful personality, such as the abbot had never before encountered. Despite coming to Autun to learn French and benefit from perhaps the best education that Europe had to offer, the boy was defiantly Corsican and was more than willing to resort to a shouted tirade, or fists, if anyone impugned his native land.Which, of course, had made him the prime target for all those boys predisposed to tease or bully any of their peers who stood out from the rest.
Napoleon crossed his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. He had been still long enough for his toes to start feeling numb, and now he began to slowly pace up and down in front of the gateway. He hated this numbing cold, and the clinging damp on his face and bedclothes when he rose each morning. In Corsica at this time of year the air would be cool but dry, and the winds blowing off the Mediterranean kept the skies above Ajaccio clear and blue. Thoughts of home were never far from his mind, and they tormented him terribly, especially that last moment before the ship had set sail from Bastia. He could almost smell his mother, feel her touch and the warmth of her breath on his ear as she had whispered her final word of farewell.
He clenched his hands and stiffened his lips. He would not give in to this homesickness. He would not be seen to be as weak and self-indulgent as other people.
A snowball struck him on the back of his head and a chorus of cheers filled the air. They died instantly as Napoleon whirled round, eyes blazing and gloved fists snatched out from under his arms.
‘Who did that?’ he screamed. ‘Who did that?’
Someone giggled at his fierce expression and then like a current it flowed through those boys who were staring at him until laughter rang in his ears.
‘Who did it?’ he shouted.‘Tell me! Tell me or I’ll fight you all!’
But the laughing continued, so Napoleon charged forward towards the nearest knot of boys. At once, they broke up and ran away, still laughing nervously. Kicking spurts of snow up behind him Napoleon ran after them, but he was too small and too slow, and they kept their distance easily. After a few more steps he gave up and stopped, breathing heavily as he shouted after them, ‘Come back and fight! Cowards! Cowards! Cowards . . .’
‘Napoleon!’
He glanced round and saw his brother warily approaching. Joseph held up his hand, a concerned expression on his face. ‘Napoleon. Calm down . . . Calm yourself.’
Napoleon continued breathing deeply as he lowered his fists and felt the tight tension in his chest begin to ease, flowing out of his body like a poison and leaving him feeling cold and weary. Joseph stepped up to his side and put an arm around his brother’s shoulders.
‘You’re shivering. Come inside. We’ll go to the boot room - there’s a fire there where we can warm up. Come.’
He steered his brother towards the outbuildings behind the school, away from the boys in the courtyard. Some still jeered, hoping to provoke another explosion of rage, but quickly lost interest as Napoleon allowed himself to be led away.They entered the boot room and Joseph shut the door. Wooden boot racks stretched down one side of the room, each one numbered for one of the pupils. On the other side, flanking the fireplace, were rows of pegs. This was where wet footware and coats could be dried and the atmosphere was warm and humid, and smelled musty. Joseph pulled up a pair of stools, positioned them in front of the glowing grate and eased his brother down.
‘You missed breakfast. You must be hungry. Here.’ Joseph pulled a hunk of bread out of one pocket and a small lump of hard cheese from the other. He smiled. ‘I saved these for you.’
Napoleon looked at the offerings for a moment before he reluctantly accepted them with a nod of thanks. He began to eat, and soon appetite got the better of him and he gnawed hungrily on the cheese. Joseph watched him for a moment, and then reached for another log from the
woodpile and placed it over the glowing embers in the grate.
‘Feeling better?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘What are brothers for?’ Joseph grinned. ‘I’m supposed to look after you.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Yes. I noticed.You were doing a fine job . . .’
Napoleon glared at him, and his brother could not help laughing as he wagged a finger at him. ‘Now don’t you start that again! I was just joking.’
For a moment the familiar wild expression burned in Napoleon’s eyes. Then he relented and turned his gaze towards the fire as Joseph continued, ‘You really must stop reacting like a madman every time someone says something.You have to control that temper. I thought you wanted to be a soldier.’
‘I do.’
‘Well, you can’t go mad in the middle of a battle.You have to have a cool head, especially if you want to be an officer.’
Napoleon considered this, and reluctantly nodded his agreement. ‘I will learn to control my feelings one day.’
‘You’d better learn sooner than that,’ Joseph said quietly.
His brother looked at him curiously. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you’ll be leaving Autun next month.’ Joseph forced himself to smile.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Father has sent us a letter. I found it on my bed at the start of break. That’s why I came to find you outside. Just in time, it seems.’
Napoleon stiffened his back and held out his hand.‘Let me see the letter.’
Joseph’s cold fingers fumbled inside his coat for a moment, before emerging with a folded sheet of paper bearing a broken wafer seal. He passed it to Napoleon and the young boy opened the letter out and began to read, his eyes eagerly scanning the spidery lines of his father’s script.
‘Brienne.’ He looked round at Joseph and smiled. ‘A military college.’
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