For the pupils, however, there is a slight shadow over this idyllic scene. It is the mathematics course—elementary math, but math all the same. It always seems rough and forbidding, at least to most of them. No cinema possible, nothing to alleviate the subject somewhat and facilitate its ingestion.
The arbors fill up with the quantity of tumult permitted in the grounds. Even the oldsters of the sixth form are seen playing leap-frog as they move toward their places, and a few others advance walking on their hands. Physical culture: the form-masters can only approve; relaxed minds can only be fresher for study as a result.
Gustave arrives late at a great gallop. He has gone to his room in search of a rather large package, which he is clutching to his heart.
“What’s that you’ve got under your arm, Turbille?” asked Monsieur Radoux, snapping out of his reverie.
“It’s a hammock, Monsieur. I ask your permission to hang it between these two linden trees.”
“A hammock?” says Monsieur Radoux, reflectively. “But I don’t think a hammock has been seen at the school, as yet…”
Turbille has already unwrapped his package and is preparing to hang the hammock. “I think, Monsieur, that if I’m comfortably installed, I shall only work harder in consequence—isn’t that so?”
“Wait. The hammock is unanticipated; I shall have to refer it to the administration. I’ll telephone the headmaster…”
Having finished hanging the hammock, Gustave sways back and forth in it serenely.
“Always good ideas, Turbille!” exclaims Tony Lubin. “That’s what a truly maternal university ought to give us.”
“Even for indoor classes,” says Béguinot. “You’d see rapid progress!”
Monsieur Radoux comes back, shaking his head. “As I told you, Turbille, there’s no provision for hammocks. We’ll have to wait for ministerial authorization.”
“Meanwhile, Monsieur,” Gustave Turbille complains, “the grass has its defects. I must tell you that I have a horrible dread of rheumatic ailments. It seems to me that the grass did me no good last year…”
“Sit on a bench, if you wish, but wait for the minister’s decision regarding the hammock.”
Monsieur Radoux’s attention is called away. A ball is circulating very visibly among the pupils, who have just stolen it from 3B in the neighboring bower.
Gustave takes advantage of the moment, goes to the professor’s chair and spends a considerable time examining the phonograph at close range, doubtless to calm his bad mood—and he succeeds, for he comes back smiling.
Monsieur Virgile Radoux comes back. The school siren announces the beginning of the lesson. Monsieur Radoux switches on the phonograph’s loudspeaker. The math professor appears on the screen of the telephonoscope beside the phono, making gestures in front of a blackboard, with a piece of chalk in his hand. His voice rises, clear and authoritarian, vibrant enough to make the leaves on the trees tremble as if in a strong breeze. The same voice is also heard, albeit muffled, in the neighboring arbors, where the ubiquitous professor is likewise giving his lecture to forms 3B, C and D.
Pens suspended over notebooks, the pupils sitting comfortably on the grass are all ears—but the pens are not writing and brows furrow in an effort of perception and comprehension.
“A little obscure…for me, at least,” said Koufra, anxiously.
“A little too much!” declare his neighbors. “It’s a truly difficult lesson—there’s been a mistake; this must be the advanced math course!”
“Bah!” says Gustave. “Just wait—the meaning will become clearer. I’m picking up the thread, myself.”
But the pens still remain inactive. Only Koufra, brimming over with determination, scribbles a few notes. The pupils writhe on the grass as if on a grill, those in rocking-chairs swaying furiously, doubtless to shake up their mulish brains.
A murmur went up. Monsieur Radoux finally perceived a certain agitation in his class. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, taking advantage of a moment when the professor on the tele paused to draw a diagram on the blackboard.
“A little difficult, Monsieur. It’s hard to grasp—yes, particularly hard!”
“Bah! You’re not paying enough attention—I noticed that. You know that I don’t like punishment, preferring to appeal to your conscience, but I insist that my class behaves well. Get on with it, conscientiously—I’ll keep an eye on the inattentive ones. At school, sharpen your intellect, always be on the alert, ready for anything! You’ve got your entire life afterwards to be distracted…”
The phono loudspeaker resumed.
“No, it’s not as obscure as all that,” said Monsieur Radoux, going back to his table. “It’s clear—crystal clear!”
“You don’t say,” said Gustave, nudging Koufra, who was scratching his head dolefully. “Don’t be too hard on yourself—there’s something…I tell you. If the lecture’s a little hard to grasp, it’s my fault; just now, as I was tyrannically forbidden to settle down to swallow it at my ease, I wanted at least to gain a little time…for me and everyone else…”
“How?”
“I retuned the phono to make it go faster—you know that I’m good with machines. Gaining time, no matter how, is always a victory. But I think…”
“What?”
“I was in a hurry; I must have mistaken the switch…”
“So?”
“So, the phono’s out of order; it’s doing the lecture backwards. If you were a little stronger in the subject you’d have realized it immediately. Which proves that I’m the most knowledgeable in the class, without making any effort!”
When they returned to their studies after two hours devoted to games and sports, all the pupils of 3A still had furrowed brows. They had taken few notes during the math lesson, and had brought away very vague ideas on the subject; the work would be hard.
Monsieur Virgile Radoux, when consulted, tried to offer a few explanations, and then declared that there would certainly be a lavish distribution of bad reports and extra work assignments.
The study period remained silent. No sound of typewriting broke the awkward silence. For half an hour, the whole of 3A looked alternately at the floor and the ceiling, without finding anything.
“Hang on, you simpletons,” murmured Gustave. “You’ll see what good work I’ll do, myself. I’ll consult my private tutor and pass the information on…”
“He has a private tutor!” sighed Koufra, who had a great many notes but could not find his way through the confusion.
Having gone up to his room, Gustave did not take long to return.
“Your tutor was busy?” said Koufra, sadly, his overburdened head drooping.
“No—here it is!” said Gustave, placing a minuscule phonograph on his fiend’s desk. “A pocket tutor, my boy—a great advantage, never ill, much more comfortable. I’ve got the number of the course; it will repeat it to us quietly, but in the proper order this time…”
The work of the class at the end of the study-period consoled Monsieur Radoux for the disastrous beginning. All the pupils were sighing gratefully, the sky was bluer and life had become rosy again. “You know, Turbille,” he said to Gustave, whose typewriter he had heard galloping at a remarkable speed, “you’re a good pupil. In consideration of your zeal, while awaiting the minister’s decision on the matter, with the headmaster’s authorization, I shall tolerate your hammock in the open air classes.”
“Thank you, Monsieur; my work will be all the better for it, you’ll see!”
“I’m counting on it!” Rubbing his hands, Monsieur Radoux went on: “Today, even the dunces have distinguished themselves. Excellent work, the whole of 3A, although things didn’t seem to be going well at first…”
“We were meditating, Monsieur, turning over the lesson in our brains before putting them in gear…”
Turbille was top of the class, naturally, but Alfred Koufra, who had lost his way while trying to utilize all his notes, found himself 46th out of 46.
&nbs
p; I fear, thought Monsieur Radoux, that that boy might be destined to become one of our most conspicuous duffers; I’ll keep an eye on him!
VI. Mademoiselle Yes Uncle, and her various vocations.
“Today,” Gustave Turbille said to his friend Koufra one morning, “we’re going to beat my sister Colette and the entire girls’ school over there…”
“What?” said Koufra.
“Yes—you know that it’s the agronomy lecture…”
“I know.”
“Well, it’s the same professor for Villennes School—I’ve already told you that, you weren’t paying attention. Between Chambourcy and Villennes girls’ school there’s an era of 80 hectares, used by the two schools for the course in modern agronomy, given in both schools simultaneously by Professor Thomassin. An 80-hectare farm cultivated by us, old chap, according to rigorously scientific methods—the very latest thing in truly modern agronomy. Colette was talking about it the other day to Valérie Mérindol. So, today, it’s laboring, digging, autumn sowing, and full speed ahead the automotive plow!”7
Every Sunday, on returning from walks in Paris with his friend, Koufra met Gustave’s sister Colette and her cousin Valérie Mérindol. Colette, who was a year younger than Gustave, and Cousin Valérie were in their fourth year at Villennes School, very near Chambourcy. They were boarders, and only came out on Sundays. Monsieur Turbille did not allow them to risk flying by themselves in an aeroclette as yet—an excess of pusillanimity, Gustave said—and it was the Villennes dirigible that took them back with the other boarders.
The lively and cheerful face and mannerisms of Colette Turbille—who was always in motion, her curly blonde hair always streaming behind her as if borne away by a crazy breeze (“Collette’s flighty, not serious,” Gustave claimed)—contrasted strangely with the physical appearance of young cousin Valérie, whose character, much more composed, seemed almost grave at first sight.
Monsieur and Madame Turbille imagine that their daughter Colette is a veritable bird, light and fluttering—and given to mockery, Gustave adds—but Valérie Mérindol has nothing birdlike about her. Tall and strong for 14, she possesses strongly-emphasized features, to which her black eyes and dark, markedly-arched eyebrows give a willful and determined expression. And yet, beneath that resolute appearance, she really is the gentlest and least combative girl in the world. Colette and Gustave are well aware of that. Colette tyrannizes her and Gustave, who initially nicknamed her the black lamb, now calls her Mademoiselle Yes Uncle.
Valérie Mérindol, the black lamb, is an orphan. She has four uncles—excellent, beloved uncles, who also cherish her a great deal and take a serious interest in her—but these four uncles, unfortunately, are scattered in different provinces, in the four corners of France, very busy with important projects and situations. When business affairs permit, they race by express tube from North, South, East or West to embrace their niece and check up on the progress of her education. They descend upon cousin Turbille or Villennes School, or even, most commonly—for their time is limited—embrace her8 by telephonoscope, interrogating her and offering her advice.
As there are four of them, the tele is always going. Every day, at the school or in Monsieur Turbille’s house, there is at least one uncle on the apparatus, making affectionate recommendations or long speeches. Valérie has to sort herself out; the school years are flying by; the time is coming when she will have to launch herself into a career; the decisive turning of her life is approaching. Each of the four uncles is deeply preoccupied with the matter, and every day, there are long sessions of advice for their niece, on the direction of her studies, with a view to an enjoyable and brilliant career.
Koufra has been brought up to date by Gustave. Every Sunday, moreover, he hears Valérie’s replies to the telephonoscope, a constant refrain of: “Yes, Uncle…Yes, Uncle…Yes, Uncle!”
On the previous Sunday, when it rained and they were taking tea in Monsieur Turbille’s house, with a few school friends, vaguely following a theatrical recital, the four uncles succeeded one another on the tele, in the room next to the drawing-room, and the refrain of “Yes, Uncle” had almost worried and slightly aggravated the slightly noisy company. The “Yes, Uncle” at the end of the fourth session seemed exceedingly plaintive.
“You see, my dear child, nothing is finer than the bar; there’s no career more glittering than that of an advocate, for a young woman who shows a real inclination toward it, as you do…I would even say—so much the worse for your modesty—who possesses, like you, certain gifts of natural eloquence, which you will develop, of course, and very easily, with a little advice and a little work. It’s superb, the bar! Think, therefore, of the defense of innocence accused and sometimes overwhelmed, the fight for the truth, causing the great breath of conviction to pass through souls, the vibrant court of assizes, the inflamed speech that snuffs out…no, I mean, the torrential eloquence that drowns accusations—false ones, of course—and confounds the vile accusers…”
“Yes, Uncle!”
“Or better still, the defense of great interests! A business advocate—that’s even finer…”
“Yes, Uncle…”
“And the bar leads everywhere…Parliamentary tribunals…the ministry…imagine yourself, one day, an elected deputé…and then, who knows…?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“I’m glad to have discerned your vocation! The road is open, you have only to follow it. After school and advanced classical studies, the law, the great principles…and then one enters a solicitor’s office for practical case-studies…that’s the program, my dear child!”
“Yes, Uncle…”
“That’s Uncle Georges,” Gustave told his friend. “I know exactly what he’s saying to Valérie. He’s an engineer with important mining project in the North; he preaches in favor of the bar and wants his niece to be an advocate—isn’t that so, Maître Valérie Mérindol?”
“Yes, Unc…yes, Gustave,” said Valérie, coming back into the drawing-room.
There were scarcely ten minutes for the young woman to listen, in the midst of the laughter of the young company, to a series of popular tunes from Guatemala and Venezuela, before the bell of the tele in the next room rang again.
This time it was Uncle Lucien, an advocate at the Marseille bar, who was taking advantage of a moment of liberty to come and talk affectionately to his niece.
“Hello? Hello? Still well, little one? Good, delighted! Your aunt too…we embrace you from afar… Your aunt concurs entirely with my opinion, absolutely with my opinion… that’s very rare, you know, and proves that I’m right on the subject of your career! You’re right, and we’re glad to see that your inclinations are taking you in that direction… medicine, an admirable career when one senses a vocation like yours! The curative art! To engage in a dogged battle against disease and suffering, every day! To soothe! To heal! It’s fine and it’s good! Your heart is already beating, full of ardor, at that thought! I can hear it from here…tick, tick!”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“That’s very good, my child! It will be necessary to work hard, but you’re courageous. After school, medical chemistry, microbiological studies…do a great deal of natural science and chemistry at school in order to prepare yourself… Au revoir, well content—your aunt too, well content… We embrace you, Madame Physicienne. Keep going! Your aunt would already like to ask you for a consultation…”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Another quarter of an hour of tranquility and laughter with Gustave and Colettes’s friends, then a further ringing at the tele. It was Uncle Pierre who appeared on the telephone screen, smiling at his niece from afar—from Bordeaux, where he practices medicine.
“Oof!” he said. “It’s me, between two visits—demanding invalids who think themselves doomed and disturb my for the most trivial matters. I can breathe for a minute, therefore, and take advantage of it to come and have a little chat. All is well? Yes, indeed: imperturbable health; my niece is constructed
from reinforced concrete…solidity, resistance, very good: I’m glad to know it. And the work—that’s going well too? Perfect—continue, my child, continue! By the way, the more I think about it, the more delighted I am with your resolution to prepare for a career in industrial science.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“You see, these days, that’s the only thing! Large-scale industry, vast enterprises, great works…you shall be an engineer! It’s magnificent! The spirit of invention, intuition, a flair for great discoveries and their practical applications…for the development of general or individual wealth…it’s superb! I’m glad to see your studies making good progress with a view to the École Centrale. That will be nice, eh, Madame Engineer! Hold on, I’m being called for a consultation…another invalid! Never quite for more than five minutes, damn it! I have recommendations to make to you, though…I embrace you, your aunt too…”
“Yes, Uncle…”
On the tele screen, Uncle Pierre’s silhouette flickered and faded; the doctor hurried to his patient.
“Well?” Colette Turbille asked Valérie, when she reappeared in the circle, pale and slightly distressed. “That was your Uncle Pierre—have you confessed to him that the engineering profession definitely has no appeal for you?”
“Yes, Colette…that is to say, I didn’t have time…my uncle was called away on an urgent case, you see…”
“Then he’ll continue to sing the praises of practical science to you…the École Centrale…large-scale industry…”
“Yes, Uncle…yes, Colette…that is to say, no; the next time, I’ll hasten to tell him that I’m not yet entirely decided.”
Laughing, Gustave had just begun to imitate the speech of one of Valérie’s Uncle’s urging his niece to aim at the career of mortgage broker or registrar when Mademoiselle Yes Uncle was summoned to the telephone yet again by a strident ringing.
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