At first he gave his lessons with exemplary regularity. He hadtaken a liking to these repetitions of nouns and verbs, which helistened to with a dignified, condescending air, slowly unrollinghis screw of snuff the while; he only interrupted to interjectlittle playful remarks with a geniality just touched with a traceof ferocity, that bespoke his real nature as an unctuous, cringingbully. He was jocular and pompous at the same time, and alwaysmade a pretence of being a long time in seeing the glass of wineput on the table for his refreshment.
The bookbinder, regarding him as a clever man of ill-regulatedlife, always treated him with great consideration, for faultsof behaviour almost cease to shock us except among neighbours,or at most fellow-countrymen. Without knowing it, Jean found afund of amusement in the witticisms and harangues of his oldteacher, who united in himself the contradictory attributes ofhigh-priest and buffoon. He was great at telling a story, andthough his tales were beyond the child's intelligence, they didnot fail to leave behind a confused impression of recklessness,irony, and cynicism. Mademoiselle Servien alone never relaxed herattitude of uncompromising dislike and disdain. She said nothingagainst him, but her face was a rigid mask of disapproval, hereyes two flames of fire, in answer to the courteous greetingthe tutor never failed to offer her with a special roll of hislittle grey eyes.
One day the Marquis Tudesco walked into the shop with a staggeringgait; his eyes glittered and his mouth hung half open in anticipationof racy talk and self-indulgence, while his great nose, his pinkcheeks, his fat, loose hands and his big belly, gallantly carried,gave him, beneath his jacket and felt hat, a perfect likeness toa little rustic god his ancestors worshipped, the old Silenus.
Lessons that day were fitful and haphazard. Jean was repeatingin a drawling voice: _moneo, mones, monet ... monebam, monebas,monebat..._ Suddenly Monsieur Tudesco sprang forward, dragginghis chair along the floor with a horrid screech, and clappinghis hand on his pupil's shoulder:
"Child," he said, "to-day I am going to give you a more profitablelesson than all the pitiful teaching I have confined myself toup to now.
"It is a lesson of transcendental philosophy. Hearken carefully,child. If one day you rise above your station and come to knowyourself and the world about you, you will discover this, thatmen act only out of regard for the opinion of their fellows--and_per Bacco!_ they are consummate fools for their pains. Theydread other folks' blame and crave their approval.
"The idiots fail to see that the world does not care a strawfor them, and that their dearest friends will see them glorifiedor disgraced without missing one mouthful of their dinner. Thisis my lesson, _caro figliuolo_, that the world's opinion is notworth the sacrifice of a single one of our desires. If you getthis into your pate, you will be a strong man and can boast youwere once the pupil of the Marquis Tudesco, of Venice, the exilewho has translated in a freezing garret, on scraps of refusepaper, the immortal poem of Torquato Tasso. What a task!"The child listened to the tipsy philosopher without understandingone word of his rigmarole; only Monsieur Tudesco struck him asa strange and alarming personage, and taller by a hundred feetthan anybody he had ever seen before.
The professor warmed to his subject:
"Ah!" he cried, springing from his seat, "and what profit didthe immortal and ill-starred Torquato Tasso win from all hisgenius? A few stolen kisses on the steps of a palace. And hedied of famine in a madhouse. I say it: the world's opinion,that empress of humankind, I will tear from her her crown andsceptre. Opinion tyrannizes over unhappy Italy, as over all theearth. Italy! what flaming sword will one day come to break herfetters, as now I break this chair?"In fact, he had seized his chair by the back and was poundingit fiercely on the floor.
But suddenly he stopped, gave a knowing smile, and said in a lowvoice:
"No, no, Marquis Tudesco, let be, let Venice be a prey to Teutonsavagery. The fetters of the fatherland are daily bread to theexiled patriot."His chin buried in his cravat, he stood chuckling to himself,and his red waistcoat rose and fell in jerks.
Mademoiselle Servien, who sat by at the lesson knitting a stockingand for some moments had been watching the tutor, her spectaclespushed half-way up her forehead, with a look of amazement andsuspicion, exclaimed, as if talking to herself:
"If it isn't abominable to come to people's houses in drink!"Monsieur Tudesco did not seem to hear her. His manner was quietand jocular again.
"Child," he ordered, "write down the theme for an essay. Writedown: 'The worst thing... yes, the worst thing of all,' writeit down... 'is an old woman with a spiteful temper.'"And rising with the gracious dignity of a Prince of the Church,he bowed low to the aunt, gave the nephew's cheek a friendlytap, and marched out of the room.
However, beginning with the very next lesson, he lavished everymark of respect on the old lady, and treated her to all his choicestairs and graces, rounding his elbows, pursing his lips, struttingand swaggering. She would not relax a muscle, and sat there assilent and sulky as an owl.
But one day when she was hunting for her spectacles, as she wasalways doing, Monsieur Tudesco offered her his and persuaded herto try them; she found they suited her sight and felt a trifleless unamiable towards him. The Italian, pursuing his advantage,got into talk with her, and artfully turned the conversation uponthe vices of the rich. The old lady approved his sentiments, andan exchange of petty confidences ensued. Tudesco knew a sovereignremedy for catarrh, and this too was well received. He redoubledhis attentions, and the _concierge_, who saw him smiling to himselfon the doorstep, told Aunt Servien: "The man's in love with you."Of course she declared: "At my time of life a woman doesn't wantlovers," but her vanity was tickled all the same. Monsieur Tudescogot what he wanted--to have his glass filled to the brim everylesson. Out of politeness they would even leave him the pint jugonly half empty, which he was indiscreet enough to drain dry.
One day he asked for a taste of cheese--"just enough to makea mouse's dinner," was his expression. "Mice are like me, theylove the dark and a quiet life and books; and like me they liveon crumbs."This pose of the wise man fallen on evil days made a bad impression,and the old lady became silent and sombre as before.
When springtime came Monsieur Tudesco vanished.