"Do you want to see the Director? He is in his study with mamma.
Then he forgot his anxieties, forgot he was there to beg foremployment, shook off the instinctive dread that had seized himon the threshold of the great silent house. He forgot his fearsand hopes--hopes of being promoted usher! He was absorbed bythis cruel domestic drama revealed to him in the inscription.
A scion of one of the greatest families of France, a pupil ofthe Abbé Bordier, attacked by phthisis in the midst of his nowprofitless studies and leaving school, not to enjoy life andtaste the glorious pleasures only those contemn who have drainedthem to the dregs, but to die at a southern town in the arms ofhis mother whose overwhelming, but still self-conscious griefwas symbolized by this pompous memorial of her sorrow. He couldfeel, he could see it all. The three Latin words that representthe stricken mother saying: "Children, praise ye the Lord whohath taken away my child," astonished him by their austere piety,while at the same time he admired the aristocratic bearing thatwas preserved even in the presence of death.
He was still lost in these day-dreams when an old priest beckonedhim to walk into an inner room. The worthy man took the letterof recommendation which Jean handed him, set on his big nose apair of spectacles with round glasses for all the world likethe two wheels of a miniature silver chariot, and proceeded toread the letter, holding it out at the full stretch of his arm.
The windows giving on the garden stood open, and a tendril ofwild vine hung down on to the desk at the foot of a crucifix ofold ivory, while a light breeze set the papers on it flutteringlike white wings.
The Abbé Bordier, his reading concluded, turned to the young man,showing a deeply lined countenance and a forehead beautifullypolished by age. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
Then the worn eyelids lifted slowly and discovered a pair of greyeyes of a shade that somehow reminded you of an autumn morning.
He lay back in his armchair, his legs stretched out in front ofhim, displaying his silver-buckled shoes and black stockings.
"It seems then, my dear boy," he began, "you wish, so my venerablefriend the Abbé Marguerite informs me, to devote yourself toteaching; and your idea would be to prepare for your degree whileat the same time performing the duties of an assistant masterto supervise the boys at their work. It is a humble office; butit will depend entirely on yourself, my dear young friend, todignify it by a heartfelt zeal and a determination to succeed.
I shall entrust the studies of the _Remove_ to your care. Ourbursar will inform you of the conditions attaching to the post."Jean bowed and made to leave the room; but suddenly the Abbé Bordierbeckoned him to stop and asked abruptly:
"You understand the rules of verse?""Latin verse?" queried Jean.
"No, no! French verse. Now, would you rhyme _tr?ne_ with _couronne_?
The rhyme is not, it must be allowed, quite satisfactory to theear, yet the usage of the great writers authorizes it."So saying, the old fellow laid hold of a bulky manuscript book.
"Listen," he cried, "listen. It is St. Fabricius addressing theProconsul Flavius:
_Achève, fais dresser l'appareil souhaité De ma mort, ou plut?t de ma félicité.
Le Roi des Rois, du haut de son céleste tr?ne, Déjà me tend la palme et tresse ma couronne._"Do you think it would be better if he said:
_Achève, fais dresser l'appareil souhaité De ma mort, ou plut?t de ma félicité.
Je vois le Roi des Rois me tendre la couronne, Quel n'en est le prix quand c'est Dieu qui la donne!_"Doubtless these latter lines are more correct than the others,but they are less vigorous, and a poet should never sacrificemeaning to metre.
_Le Roi des Rois, du haut de son céleste tr?ne, Déjà me tend la palme et tresse ma couronne."_This time, as he declaimed the verses, he went through thecorresponding gestures of tendering a gift and plaiting a garland.
"It is better so," he added, "better so!"Jean, in some surprise, said yes, it was certainly better.
"Certainly better, yes," cried the old poet, smiling with thehappy innocence of a little child.
Then he confided in Jean that it was a very difficult thing indeedto write poetry. You must get the c?sura in the right place,bring in the rhyme naturally, make your rhythm run in diverscadences, now strong, now sweet, sometimes onomatopoetic, useonly words either elevated in themselves or dignified by thecircumstances.
He read one passage of his Tragedy because he had his doubtsabout the number of feet in the line, another because he thoughtit contained some bold strokes happily conceived, then a thirdto elucidate the two first, eventually the whole five acts fromstart to finish. He acted the words as he read, modulating hisvoice to suit the various characters, stamping and storming,and to adjust his black skullcap--it _would_ tumble off at thepathetic parts--dealing himself a succession of sounding slapson the crown of his head.
This sacred drama, in which no woman appeared, was to be playedby the pupils of the Institution at a forthcoming function. Theprevious year he had staged his first tragedy, _le Baptêmede Clovis_, in the same approved style. A regular, MonsieurSchuver, had arranged garlands of paper roses to represent thebattlefield of Tolbiac and the basilica at Rheims. To give awild, barbaric look to the boys who represented Clovis' henchmen,the sister superintendent of the wardrobe had tacked up theirwhite trousers to the knee. But the Abbé Bordier hoped greaterthings still for his new piece.
Jean applauded and improved upon these ambitious projects. Hissuggestions for scenery and costumes were admirable. He wouldhave the ruthless Flavius seated on a curule chair of ivory,draped with purple, erected before a portico painted on the backcloth. The costumes of the Roman soldiers, he insisted, mustbe copied from those on Trajan's Column.
His words opened superb vistas before the old priest's eyes;he was enchanted, ravished, yet full of doubts and fears. Alas!
Monsieur Schuver was quite helpless if it came to designing anythingmore ambitious than his paper roses. Then Jean must needs takea look round in the shed where the properties were stored, andthe two discussed together how the stage must be set and theside-scenes worked. Jean took measurements, drew up a plan, workedout an estimate. He manifested a passionate eagerness that wassurprising, albeit the old priest took it all as a matter ofcourse. A batten would come here, a practicable door there. Theactor would enter there...
But the worthy priest checked him:
"Say the reciter, my dear boy; _actor_ is not a word forself-respecting people."Barring this trifling misunderstanding, they were in perfectaccord. The sun was setting by this time and the Abbé Bordier'sshadow, grotesquely elongated, danced up and down the sandy floorof the shed, while the old, broken voice declaimed tags of versethat echoed to the furthest recesses of the court. But Jean Servienwas smiling at the vision only _his_ eyes could see of Gabrielle,the inspirer of all his enthusiasm.