Fermina Marquez (1911) (6 page)
XI
Henceforth, Joanny was to enjoy three hours of brilliance in his day, of such radiance that they were to light up every other hour with a new light. This was between one and two o'clock and between four and six o'clock in the afternoon.
Never had he woken up more joyfully. As the summer progressed, dawn appeared an hour at least before the drum roll signalled it was time to rise. Awake before everyone else, Joanny would watch the day broaden; still drowsy, his ideas in a jumble, he felt a happiness deep within him, in some part of him, though where exactly he could not say; then he would ask himself why life was so wonderful and, fully awake, he would realize: "Fermina Marquez is the reason."
It was because he was going to see
La Chica
that life was so wonderful. Lying in bed, he viewed things as one does at the start of a convalescence. The windows above all were splendid; vast, curtainless, with their slender iron frames, they entirely encompassed the daybreak. The mist had been, as it were, enclosed, and beyond there were layers of soft blue, of silvery blue, more beautiful than the azure in First Communion pictures of which this colour sky made him think.
Joanny especially remembered one of the pictures he had seen in the country, in a little girl's mass book. On the back there was a prayer by Henri Perreyve to the Virgin; and in this prayer could be read: "Take pity on those who used to love each other and have been parted . . . Pity the heart's isolation." The heart's isolation? Now, Joanny understood what that could be; his egoism was disarmed and be felt like* telling Fermina all his secrets and all his hopes.
After a while he could no longer stay lying down like this; he got up quietly, went over to the washbasin, came back, dressed; and as he was ready even before the drum roll reverberated, he remained sitting at the foot of his bed, facing the marvellous windows which were, he did not doubt, less splendid than his own future.
Then, divided up by classes and in rows, we would go for a walk; it was a quarter of an hour in which we covered the walkways of the grounds - the grounds which night had just relinquished and which, fresh and imposing, now threw open their majestic avenues to the sun after awaiting the day in silence. We drank in the air as one might a cold, sweetened drink and when we returned to our studies, we would fill every passage with the scent of the leaves and the dew with which we were imbued.
An unparalleled level of activity swept Joanny through all the physical exercises and morning classes. And from the summons to the dining-hall onwards, his heart would begin to beat for joy and impatience. Finally, on leaving the refectory, he would feign an indifferent air for others and, without hurrying, he would enter the grounds and join Fermina Marquez on the terrace. Here they stayed, strolling at an uneven pace, or they would sit down on a wooden bench standing against a privet hedge. Nobody was able to see them there. And Joanny was extremely anxious not to flaunt the exceptional privilege which Mama Dolore had procured for him in front of his fellow pupils. It was blatantly preferential treatment. But he knew how to mitigate the damaging effect it had had on those he now called "his rivals"; he announced to a group in which Santos, Demoisel, Ortega and a few others were to be found:
"Fermina Marquez sends you her regards and hopes that the games of tennis can start again soon."
He himself had asked her whether she had anything for him to relay to the gang. He wanted to put all his cards on the table. He had said to himself that the day he obtained a token of undoubted affection, then, at that point but not before, he would walk past all his companions congregated in the yard, by her side. At the moment however, those plans of seduction seemed so far away! It was like that theory about honest women and women of easy virtue: my God, what childishness! He was ashamed of this now. What was the good of philosophizing and of trying to make himself attractive in a systematic way, when each day was bringing him his stock of happiness? When each day he would hear that low and impassioned voice, just a little foreign sounding, with which his own would mingle without constraint and in delight, like breathing.
At two o'clock he returned to his own studies and at three he attended classes. During this time, Mama Dolore and her nieces went for a drive. Having conveyed them from Paris, their victoria used in fact to await them in front of the school gates. They would travel by this means as far as Sceaux and Clamart or to Robinson, where they took tea several times amongst the massive trees. And at four o'clock precisely, they were back at Saint Augustine's.
The Creole lady always had a basket full of sweetmeats for her nephew, who was ruining his teeth by sucking sweets or eating cakes which were too sugary. As only Joanny remained to be looked after, every day she brought a sort of travelling kitchen. This was a small trunk in fine leather, lined with silvered metal; it contained a stove, a silver teapot, a chocolate pot, silver cups with their saucers, spoons, porcelain bowls for sandwiches and butter, caddies for sugar, chocolate and tea, embroidered napkins, a large, flat bottle for milk. It contained such an array of things, you might have thought it was a conjuror's box. All that would be spread out on a bench, and Pilar with Mama Dolore and young Marquez, helped by the footman, would get tea ready, while Joanny and
La Chica
stayed on the terrace. They only came when they were called, hungrily ate what had been prepared for them and returned to the seclusion where they were coming to know each other.
Her manner of speaking always had a certain self-control, a reticence, as if some lofty thought lay behind everything she uttered, as if she related her entire life to this exalted notion. Joanny said to her:
"You make me think of Cervantes'
Espagnole Ang/aise',
you know where he says that she was remarkable
'par su hermosura y
par su recato ."
He stammered these words out rather than articulating them. It was the first compliment he had paid her; then he was afraid that she would make fun of his Spanish pronunciation; finally, wasn't there something pedantic, something so hopelessly like a schoolboy in the way he had shown off about his reading?
What astonished Joanny even more was the insistence she would display in talking of humility and in denouncing pride as an especially hideous sin.
"How can you, who are so beautiful, speak of self-abasement?" He had said this quite naturally: the initial flattery had paved the way. But she turned pale and muttered with vehemence: "What, I who am no better than dirt!"
Joanny maintained an embarrassed though respectful silence. He was deeply sensitive, and expressions of immoderation never made him smile . . .
They went on an expedition. He took her on a visit of the classrooms, prep rooms and dormitories. He said to her:
"Look, here's where I sit for prep."
She glanced at the grimy walls, the bare floor covered with stains, the desk on the rostrum, the blackboard. It was so strange to see her there in her gorgeous, light-coloured dress and her wide-brimmed summer hat! He plucked up courage to say: "Sit down in my place; see how hard the bench is and how the desk ..."
He wanted to express this idea that the desk, by jutting out too much, constrained the pupil's chest; but he could not find any appropriate and seemly way to say it. She had sat down at his place. How good it would feel to work there from now on! He took her to dormitory La Perouse, which was his own. As she entered, she crossed herself because of the- crucifix hanging on the wall. Cautiously, she moved across the overly polished tile floor. Joanny, blushing foolishly (he could have kicked himself for vexation), said to her:
"Here is my bed."
She stood a little away from the beds, taking in the dormitory as a whole rather than any spot in particular.
"Our beds are terribly narrow and jolly hard," Joanny added.
She motioned to the crucifix with her finger: "Remember that for a deathbed the cross was much narrower and harder!"
Dumbfounded, Joanny looked at her. He felt he was really beginning to understand her. Yet how differently they thought. He, for his part, was reflecting how piquant it was that she should be in the middle of the boys' dormitory; and she, at the same moment, was abandoning herself to the transports of a mystical passion.
They went downstairs in silence; and encountering the grounds' freshness once again, they breathed more freely. Pilar, having caught sight of them, called them. "What have you got for tea?" asked Fermina in her steady, unconcerned voice.
Pilar imitated the action of a spatula in her hands stirring a chocolate pot.
As they were drawing closer, Mama Dolore asked them where they had been. And on their reply, she became annoyed. While she was talking, her anger mounted. Her reproaches followed one another so quickly that Joanny could no longer make out the words. She concluded her harangue abruptly by standing up and slapping Fermina in the face. The girl caught hold of her aunt's hand, this hand which had just struck her and kissed it reverentially. Joanny, taken aback, was rendered speechless. And what about the footman who had witnessed this domestic scene?
Fermina took the cup of chocolate which her sister was holding out to her. The cheek which her aunt had bruised became quite livid, and the other remained a ghastly pale. Joanny would have liked to throw himself at her feet and cover the hem of her dress with kisses; or considering that his presence could only make her humiliation worse for the girl, he longed to disappear. Soon however, she said in a barely altered voice:
"Pilarcita, do let Mr Leniot have a little napkin." Trembling all over, his nerves jangling, Joanny had indeed just spilt chocolate on his waistcoat.
Never had he woken up more joyfully. As the summer progressed, dawn appeared an hour at least before the drum roll signalled it was time to rise. Awake before everyone else, Joanny would watch the day broaden; still drowsy, his ideas in a jumble, he felt a happiness deep within him, in some part of him, though where exactly he could not say; then he would ask himself why life was so wonderful and, fully awake, he would realize: "Fermina Marquez is the reason."
It was because he was going to see
La Chica
that life was so wonderful. Lying in bed, he viewed things as one does at the start of a convalescence. The windows above all were splendid; vast, curtainless, with their slender iron frames, they entirely encompassed the daybreak. The mist had been, as it were, enclosed, and beyond there were layers of soft blue, of silvery blue, more beautiful than the azure in First Communion pictures of which this colour sky made him think.
Joanny especially remembered one of the pictures he had seen in the country, in a little girl's mass book. On the back there was a prayer by Henri Perreyve to the Virgin; and in this prayer could be read: "Take pity on those who used to love each other and have been parted . . . Pity the heart's isolation." The heart's isolation? Now, Joanny understood what that could be; his egoism was disarmed and be felt like* telling Fermina all his secrets and all his hopes.
After a while he could no longer stay lying down like this; he got up quietly, went over to the washbasin, came back, dressed; and as he was ready even before the drum roll reverberated, he remained sitting at the foot of his bed, facing the marvellous windows which were, he did not doubt, less splendid than his own future.
Then, divided up by classes and in rows, we would go for a walk; it was a quarter of an hour in which we covered the walkways of the grounds - the grounds which night had just relinquished and which, fresh and imposing, now threw open their majestic avenues to the sun after awaiting the day in silence. We drank in the air as one might a cold, sweetened drink and when we returned to our studies, we would fill every passage with the scent of the leaves and the dew with which we were imbued.
An unparalleled level of activity swept Joanny through all the physical exercises and morning classes. And from the summons to the dining-hall onwards, his heart would begin to beat for joy and impatience. Finally, on leaving the refectory, he would feign an indifferent air for others and, without hurrying, he would enter the grounds and join Fermina Marquez on the terrace. Here they stayed, strolling at an uneven pace, or they would sit down on a wooden bench standing against a privet hedge. Nobody was able to see them there. And Joanny was extremely anxious not to flaunt the exceptional privilege which Mama Dolore had procured for him in front of his fellow pupils. It was blatantly preferential treatment. But he knew how to mitigate the damaging effect it had had on those he now called "his rivals"; he announced to a group in which Santos, Demoisel, Ortega and a few others were to be found:
"Fermina Marquez sends you her regards and hopes that the games of tennis can start again soon."
He himself had asked her whether she had anything for him to relay to the gang. He wanted to put all his cards on the table. He had said to himself that the day he obtained a token of undoubted affection, then, at that point but not before, he would walk past all his companions congregated in the yard, by her side. At the moment however, those plans of seduction seemed so far away! It was like that theory about honest women and women of easy virtue: my God, what childishness! He was ashamed of this now. What was the good of philosophizing and of trying to make himself attractive in a systematic way, when each day was bringing him his stock of happiness? When each day he would hear that low and impassioned voice, just a little foreign sounding, with which his own would mingle without constraint and in delight, like breathing.
At two o'clock he returned to his own studies and at three he attended classes. During this time, Mama Dolore and her nieces went for a drive. Having conveyed them from Paris, their victoria used in fact to await them in front of the school gates. They would travel by this means as far as Sceaux and Clamart or to Robinson, where they took tea several times amongst the massive trees. And at four o'clock precisely, they were back at Saint Augustine's.
The Creole lady always had a basket full of sweetmeats for her nephew, who was ruining his teeth by sucking sweets or eating cakes which were too sugary. As only Joanny remained to be looked after, every day she brought a sort of travelling kitchen. This was a small trunk in fine leather, lined with silvered metal; it contained a stove, a silver teapot, a chocolate pot, silver cups with their saucers, spoons, porcelain bowls for sandwiches and butter, caddies for sugar, chocolate and tea, embroidered napkins, a large, flat bottle for milk. It contained such an array of things, you might have thought it was a conjuror's box. All that would be spread out on a bench, and Pilar with Mama Dolore and young Marquez, helped by the footman, would get tea ready, while Joanny and
La Chica
stayed on the terrace. They only came when they were called, hungrily ate what had been prepared for them and returned to the seclusion where they were coming to know each other.
Her manner of speaking always had a certain self-control, a reticence, as if some lofty thought lay behind everything she uttered, as if she related her entire life to this exalted notion. Joanny said to her:
"You make me think of Cervantes'
Espagnole Ang/aise',
you know where he says that she was remarkable
'par su hermosura y
par su recato ."
He stammered these words out rather than articulating them. It was the first compliment he had paid her; then he was afraid that she would make fun of his Spanish pronunciation; finally, wasn't there something pedantic, something so hopelessly like a schoolboy in the way he had shown off about his reading?
What astonished Joanny even more was the insistence she would display in talking of humility and in denouncing pride as an especially hideous sin.
"How can you, who are so beautiful, speak of self-abasement?" He had said this quite naturally: the initial flattery had paved the way. But she turned pale and muttered with vehemence: "What, I who am no better than dirt!"
Joanny maintained an embarrassed though respectful silence. He was deeply sensitive, and expressions of immoderation never made him smile . . .
They went on an expedition. He took her on a visit of the classrooms, prep rooms and dormitories. He said to her:
"Look, here's where I sit for prep."
She glanced at the grimy walls, the bare floor covered with stains, the desk on the rostrum, the blackboard. It was so strange to see her there in her gorgeous, light-coloured dress and her wide-brimmed summer hat! He plucked up courage to say: "Sit down in my place; see how hard the bench is and how the desk ..."
He wanted to express this idea that the desk, by jutting out too much, constrained the pupil's chest; but he could not find any appropriate and seemly way to say it. She had sat down at his place. How good it would feel to work there from now on! He took her to dormitory La Perouse, which was his own. As she entered, she crossed herself because of the- crucifix hanging on the wall. Cautiously, she moved across the overly polished tile floor. Joanny, blushing foolishly (he could have kicked himself for vexation), said to her:
"Here is my bed."
She stood a little away from the beds, taking in the dormitory as a whole rather than any spot in particular.
"Our beds are terribly narrow and jolly hard," Joanny added.
She motioned to the crucifix with her finger: "Remember that for a deathbed the cross was much narrower and harder!"
Dumbfounded, Joanny looked at her. He felt he was really beginning to understand her. Yet how differently they thought. He, for his part, was reflecting how piquant it was that she should be in the middle of the boys' dormitory; and she, at the same moment, was abandoning herself to the transports of a mystical passion.
They went downstairs in silence; and encountering the grounds' freshness once again, they breathed more freely. Pilar, having caught sight of them, called them. "What have you got for tea?" asked Fermina in her steady, unconcerned voice.
Pilar imitated the action of a spatula in her hands stirring a chocolate pot.
As they were drawing closer, Mama Dolore asked them where they had been. And on their reply, she became annoyed. While she was talking, her anger mounted. Her reproaches followed one another so quickly that Joanny could no longer make out the words. She concluded her harangue abruptly by standing up and slapping Fermina in the face. The girl caught hold of her aunt's hand, this hand which had just struck her and kissed it reverentially. Joanny, taken aback, was rendered speechless. And what about the footman who had witnessed this domestic scene?
Fermina took the cup of chocolate which her sister was holding out to her. The cheek which her aunt had bruised became quite livid, and the other remained a ghastly pale. Joanny would have liked to throw himself at her feet and cover the hem of her dress with kisses; or considering that his presence could only make her humiliation worse for the girl, he longed to disappear. Soon however, she said in a barely altered voice:
"Pilarcita, do let Mr Leniot have a little napkin." Trembling all over, his nerves jangling, Joanny had indeed just spilt chocolate on his waistcoat.
XII
The next day he asked her:
"You are very devout, aren't you?" She hesitated, then said to him: "Do you mind, but let's not talk about that." But she came back to the subject of her own accord. The walkways of the grounds had names: avenue La Perouse, avenue Sibour, avenue Bixiou; these names were painted on metal plaques, nailed here and there to the trees.
"Are these the names of former pupils of Saint Augustine's?" "Yes"; and he told her what he knew of them. She was full of admiration for Archbishop Sibour.
"He died for truth," she said with fervour. "No, it's a tale of revenge. Verger, his murderer, was a defrocked priest and half mad.
"You speak of all this so coldly; are you not a believer then?" Of course he believed; but not in the same way as she. So she realized that her duty was to rekindle the zeal of this Christian, who was so lukewarm. She spoke, she gave free rein to her exaltation. Thus had she come eventually to think only of the Saviour, even when talking about unimportant or frivolous matters. And even in sleep she could feel His presence within her.
"And all my thoughts are His to dispose of; I feel my life is in His dreadful hands and I have to humble myself, wholly purify myself through Communion so that He does not cast me off, repelled by the stench of my sins!"
She would gladly welcome ill health and disease which cleansed her, she thought. Her love and respect for poor people were so great that she would have liked to be able to kneel before them in the .roadway. She wished she could be as them. These elegant dresses, all this worldly vanity were burdensome to her; she transformed them into instruments of mortification, for she only wore them to obey her aunt who exercised a mother's authority over her. Occasionally even, she thought she resembled the poor so closely that it seemed to her that she was walking along clothed in rags. Yet was not this very idea prideful? One day, when they had gone out on foot, somebody in a shop had said to them: "No doubt you can't afford it." Mama Dolore had kicked up a fuss and had left furious. But as for her, how happy she had been!
"Just think, we had been taken for poor people!" He asked her whether she gave many alms.
"You well know that these are never matters for discussion; the money we bring the poor, these are trysts we keep with their Father, the King of Heaven."
Joanny looked at this Christian in astonishment; slightly uneasily as well: wasn't there something irreverent in this chatting about matters sacred, in these words spoken in such a manner, out in the open air, in a place and in circumstances which were wholly secular? The religious instruction we received at Saint Augustine's seemed to ignore these transports of ecstasy. We were carefully kept away from theology and mysticism. Our chaplain, formerly with the army, looked more like an old nobleman and soldier than a priest. Sunday mass and vespers also had something military about them: we attended in dress uniform and the servants, in their best livery, were mixed in with us. The result for most of us was that religion was associated with feelings of discipline and decorum. It was an infallible guide when conscience wavered; through it, we could abandon ourselves to Providence; it was a great and shining hope. And we revered it all the more because we did not talk about it.
"You do surprise me," murmured Joanny.
"Perhaps you think that it's the desire for a reward that attracts me to my God? Yet how can one see Him on His Cross and not love Him; love Him for Himself without hope of resurrection and salvation? But to love Him is also to trust in Him, it is to be ready for Him at any time!"
Joanny, while listening to her, thought he was seeing the reverse side of life. Earthly joys, wealth, fame itself became contemptible and unbearable. She stirred up so many ideas in him that he did not resent her for disparaging things he valued most. He heard a jumbled panegyric of Saint Rose of Lima, whom she said she was striving to resemble; and she told him that she would have liked to endure all the agonies of the Cross. One day when she was really thirsty, she had followed her aunt and sister into a boulevard cafe. They had ordered iced drinks. And at the moment she put her glass to her lips, she had reflected that He had been thirsty in His death throes, and this thought was so appalling that the thirst she herself was experiencing seemed to be full of delight to her; and she had given her glass to Pilar without touching it ...
She was saying all this in a muffled, breathless voice. Joanny listened without interrupting her. This was her life's secret which she was unveiling to him. After such confidences, could she forget him? She did not display so little constraint with Mama Dolore. She seemed rather to regard her as a tyrannical and capricious mother God had bestowed upon her to try her patience. And Pilar was most certainly not her sister's confidante. Well then? Well, was he not then her friend?
When they took their leave of each other that evening, they shook hands more firmly and for longer than usual. This was a tacit promise to keep their secrets. She said that she would bring him a
Life of Saint Rose of Lima
the next day.
Leniot arrived a little late for prep for the first time. All the pupils were already working. Walking past the sixth-form
room, through the half-open door he saw Santos standing by the blackboard which he was covering with equations. "He can have hardly any idea that he has played tennis with a saint!" This thought made Joanny smile. So he was alone in knowing that beneath this gaiety, this flirtatiousness itself, there was such an intense faith, such scorn for the world and riches.
"You are very devout, aren't you?" She hesitated, then said to him: "Do you mind, but let's not talk about that." But she came back to the subject of her own accord. The walkways of the grounds had names: avenue La Perouse, avenue Sibour, avenue Bixiou; these names were painted on metal plaques, nailed here and there to the trees.
"Are these the names of former pupils of Saint Augustine's?" "Yes"; and he told her what he knew of them. She was full of admiration for Archbishop Sibour.
"He died for truth," she said with fervour. "No, it's a tale of revenge. Verger, his murderer, was a defrocked priest and half mad.
"You speak of all this so coldly; are you not a believer then?" Of course he believed; but not in the same way as she. So she realized that her duty was to rekindle the zeal of this Christian, who was so lukewarm. She spoke, she gave free rein to her exaltation. Thus had she come eventually to think only of the Saviour, even when talking about unimportant or frivolous matters. And even in sleep she could feel His presence within her.
"And all my thoughts are His to dispose of; I feel my life is in His dreadful hands and I have to humble myself, wholly purify myself through Communion so that He does not cast me off, repelled by the stench of my sins!"
She would gladly welcome ill health and disease which cleansed her, she thought. Her love and respect for poor people were so great that she would have liked to be able to kneel before them in the .roadway. She wished she could be as them. These elegant dresses, all this worldly vanity were burdensome to her; she transformed them into instruments of mortification, for she only wore them to obey her aunt who exercised a mother's authority over her. Occasionally even, she thought she resembled the poor so closely that it seemed to her that she was walking along clothed in rags. Yet was not this very idea prideful? One day, when they had gone out on foot, somebody in a shop had said to them: "No doubt you can't afford it." Mama Dolore had kicked up a fuss and had left furious. But as for her, how happy she had been!
"Just think, we had been taken for poor people!" He asked her whether she gave many alms.
"You well know that these are never matters for discussion; the money we bring the poor, these are trysts we keep with their Father, the King of Heaven."
Joanny looked at this Christian in astonishment; slightly uneasily as well: wasn't there something irreverent in this chatting about matters sacred, in these words spoken in such a manner, out in the open air, in a place and in circumstances which were wholly secular? The religious instruction we received at Saint Augustine's seemed to ignore these transports of ecstasy. We were carefully kept away from theology and mysticism. Our chaplain, formerly with the army, looked more like an old nobleman and soldier than a priest. Sunday mass and vespers also had something military about them: we attended in dress uniform and the servants, in their best livery, were mixed in with us. The result for most of us was that religion was associated with feelings of discipline and decorum. It was an infallible guide when conscience wavered; through it, we could abandon ourselves to Providence; it was a great and shining hope. And we revered it all the more because we did not talk about it.
"You do surprise me," murmured Joanny.
"Perhaps you think that it's the desire for a reward that attracts me to my God? Yet how can one see Him on His Cross and not love Him; love Him for Himself without hope of resurrection and salvation? But to love Him is also to trust in Him, it is to be ready for Him at any time!"
Joanny, while listening to her, thought he was seeing the reverse side of life. Earthly joys, wealth, fame itself became contemptible and unbearable. She stirred up so many ideas in him that he did not resent her for disparaging things he valued most. He heard a jumbled panegyric of Saint Rose of Lima, whom she said she was striving to resemble; and she told him that she would have liked to endure all the agonies of the Cross. One day when she was really thirsty, she had followed her aunt and sister into a boulevard cafe. They had ordered iced drinks. And at the moment she put her glass to her lips, she had reflected that He had been thirsty in His death throes, and this thought was so appalling that the thirst she herself was experiencing seemed to be full of delight to her; and she had given her glass to Pilar without touching it ...
She was saying all this in a muffled, breathless voice. Joanny listened without interrupting her. This was her life's secret which she was unveiling to him. After such confidences, could she forget him? She did not display so little constraint with Mama Dolore. She seemed rather to regard her as a tyrannical and capricious mother God had bestowed upon her to try her patience. And Pilar was most certainly not her sister's confidante. Well then? Well, was he not then her friend?
When they took their leave of each other that evening, they shook hands more firmly and for longer than usual. This was a tacit promise to keep their secrets. She said that she would bring him a
Life of Saint Rose of Lima
the next day.
Leniot arrived a little late for prep for the first time. All the pupils were already working. Walking past the sixth-form
room, through the half-open door he saw Santos standing by the blackboard which he was covering with equations. "He can have hardly any idea that he has played tennis with a saint!" This thought made Joanny smile. So he was alone in knowing that beneath this gaiety, this flirtatiousness itself, there was such an intense faith, such scorn for the world and riches.
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