Read Fermina Marquez (1911) Online

Authors: Valery Larbaud

Tags: #text

Fermina Marquez (1911) (7 page)

BOOK: Fermina Marquez (1911)
13.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
 
XIII
They had a further conversation, in which they talked of Christian love. Then he read the
Life of Saint Rose of Lima.
Never would this girl who proposed to model her life on such a person, be able to love a man. What a disillusionment! Yet when he placed this book, which she must so often have leafed through, amongst his own in his desk, he was pleased to have at least this one thing of hers.
"Poor little thing," he said to himself as a fresh idea had just flashed through his mind, "poor little thing,
if they
had heard you speaking in this way, how they would have made fun of you!"
They
were the young ladies from his region, the ones who had made him suffer so with their mocking remarks. For stupidity is dreadful in this one respect, that it can resemble the deepest wisdom. When it opens its mouth, it gives itself away immediately; but where it remains hidden, where it resembles wisdom, is when it merely laughs. These girls were "very religious and well brought-up"; intellectually, they were the products of eminently right-thinking boarding schools; and anything which struck them as extraordinary without nevertheless frightening them, seemed absurd to them at the same time. They would whisper, their looks were always hinting at something, they had pursed smiles and as for their laughter, it was of that appalling, thoughtless sort which greets all the noble and lofty ideas of young, over-enthusiastic schoolboys. Their piety of the "properly brought-up" young lady, proud of the dowries they were to have, was so far beneath that impassioned holiness which lit up the young South American girl's features! Ah! How he despised them and how he was beginning to love Fermina Marquez at the thought alone that her spiritual grandeur could be derided by these "eligible matches" from the provinces. Now he was sure he was in love with her —without hope of course; but naturally forever too.
He acknowledged his defeat: he had thought to win her love and it was he who had fallen enamoured. What he dreaded most of all had occurred. Above all he was surprised that his work did not suffer from this. Far from growing slack or from permitting himself to be distracted, he was in fact working harder than ever. He had formed the habit of supposing her always present at his side. At first, it had simply been a game, of his imagination; he would have reddened to disclose this childishness to anyone. Now it was almost an hallucination. The timbre of her voice had become so familiar to him that he thought he heard it in her absence. Wasn't that the rustling of her dress? Wasn't that the weight of her beloved body settling on the bench? Her body ... he did not like to think about it. It would have been a desecration. Just as the rest of us live in our guardian angel's presence, so did he in hers. Thus, when meeting her every day in the grounds, he felt as if he had left her only a few moments before. He would have liked to say to her: "It is for you that I work; for you and while thinking of you. And if my desire is to carry off all the prizes in my form, it is to have a little fame to present to you; it is because he whom you have chosen to confide in, can't not be the first among men!"
 
XIV
"Yes of course I believe; but not in the same way as you. Haven't I told you this already?"
Joanny felt that he had to share his most secret thoughts with her in his turn. For a long time, he had been wanting to tell them to somebody. From an early age, he had abandoned any disclosure of his heart to his parents. Our parents are not made for our emotional revelations. For them, we are simply heirs apparent. They demand only two things of us: firstly, that we take advantage of the sacrifices they make; and then, that we allow ourselves to be shaped as they please, in other words that we become men without delay, so as to take over their affairs; sensible men who will not squander their fortunes acquired at such cost. "Ah, dear parents! We may perhaps grow to manhood; but we will never be sensible." We say that until the age of twenty because we believe we are destined for greatness.
Besides, Joanny's parents had betrayed his trust. The stories he had recounted to them in the initial instances of his homecoming from school — for example, the one about the deserted classroom where cigarettes were smoked in secret and the one where a bottle of champagne had been brought to the sixth-form boys by a servant — they had all been mysteriously reported to the prefect of studies. When the idea that his father was the sneak had crossed his mind, Joanny had felt a sudden shame: the sweetest of ties hitherto binding him to his folks had just snapped. From that moment on, he confided nothing to them any longer. As for them, they did not notice this change: the boy had good marks for his conduct and his work. What more could they ask for?
Above all, the secrets Joanny had to impart were not such as any person whosoever is able to hear. They were grand, sublime thoughts, intended to regenerate the world. Now the serious-minded middle classes, those who work, do not care for abstract politics, pure ideas, Utopias. They do not lose sight of material interests. Joanny was aware of a contrast between his parents' opinions and his own dreams which was distressing, almost absurd. And besides, Joanny Leniot's great notion would have made all straightforward people smile. He advocated a return to the hegemony of the Roman Empire, as it existed under Constantine and Theodosius.
We read Victor Duruy reluctantly and it was our loss. For if Duruy's
History of Rome
does not abound in enthusiasm, at least it was supposed to in us. At an age when we were starting to gorge ourselves on Emile Zola and Paul Bourget, sheltered behind our desks, Joanny Leniot was becoming intoxicated by Roman history. The mythical era, the monarchy and the beginnings of the Republic mattered little to him. It was from the Third Punic War that it became truly interesting. But the civilized world, once settled in the Pax Romana, presented a yet more admirable spectacle. Finally, the founding of a line of emperors had crowned off the work.
Oh! Why had the Empire not been better able to assimilate the Barbarians? Why all those little kingdoms? Doubtless, Clovis was raised to the consular purple; was he any less the King of the Francs for this? It was true that the Church lived on powerful and respected, as if the Empire, by dint of being divine, had merged with it — the Church becoming a spiritual Empire. And still to this day, the Church was what was left of the Empire.
"Yes I revere this residue of the Empire, I am hopelessly caught up in it," Joanny was explaining to his new friend. "Why did Charlemagne allow the division of the Empire? Why didn't Charles the Fifth reconquer the Gauls? Why didn't Napoleon have himself crowned Western Emperor? What is this name of a barbarian tribe which is attached to me: the French? I am not French. My catechism tells me that I am Roman Catholic and I construe that in this way: a Roman and ruler of the world! My sovereign, my only master is this great, lean old man always depicted in white vestments, the divine and august Leo, Emperor of the West! I have seen him; I so implored my parents that they took me to Rome last Easter holidays. We obtained an audience; I spoke to him. I had to say: 'Yes, Holy Father; no, Holy Father' but in my heart of hearts, I was crying out: Caesar!"
"Whereas he himself in his humility only wanted to be called the servant of God's servants!"
"Yes, you believe I'm a heathen. I can quite see it. You think I worship God, not because He is He who is, but because He is the God of Rome. But the God of Rome, the one who has taken the place of Jupiter Capitolinus, might he not be the true God? If only you knew how close to the heavens Rome appears, seen from the Pincio! . . . You cannot imagine what I feel during mass."
Joanny fell silent, breathless. These were no longer secrets now; this was a passionate appeal. In the fervour of his enthusiasm, he had no doubt that he would sweep his interlocutor's opinion along with him.
"When I look at the altar, it isn't lighted candles, covers and flowers of gold but the majesty of Rome that I see. The priest, the faithful are all gathered together there as Roman Catholics; you might as well say as Romans, don't you think? The City is in the hands of infidels; the imperial gods are insulted every day; and yet those in that house glory in being called Romans. O shades of Cato, these are the last citizens! . . . There in that house of the Lord, I hear the language of my true country still spoken: Latin. For your Castillian and our French and Italian as well are simply dialects stemming from spoken Latin," continued Joanny, reciting his grammar despite himself; "These are vulgar tongues, old peasant patois. A time will come I tell you, when Latin, classical Latin will once again be taught in all the schools of the Empire and when all the vulgar languages will be forgotten. And this day is possibly not so far away as may be supposed . . .
"Do you mind my saying something to you, Mademoiselle? You won't repeat this to anybody though, you promise me? Well then, I have learnt to pronounce Latin all by myself, more or less as the ancient Romans did. It took me a long time. In the first place, because I was unable to practise out loud; in French schools, Latin is pronounced according to certain rules and if there is any departure from them, the other pupils laugh and besides, the masters are not keen on it. When the South Americans are new here, they pronounce Latin in the Spanish manner; but they are very quickly taught to articulate it as the French do. It's not just a question of certain letters; it is also a matter of the number of vowels. It is because I thoroughly grasped this that I am good at Latin verse. Sometimes when I am alone and above all while on country walks during the holidays, I recite long extracts from Lucretius, Virgil and Ovid to myself, stressing the words in the Roman style. You cannot know what pleasure this gives me. I feel that I am conversing with all these great men of antiquity in their own tongue and that they understand me! My misfortune is that I have to watch myself closely when reciting my lessons and reading out the texts of the unseen translations; I have no wish to be noticed for an accentuation which is different from everybody else's . . .
"Mademoiselle, I hope at least I'm not boring you?"
"No, you're not boring me," she replied. And with a sigh she added: "Mr Leniot, why don't you make better use of the gifts which God has bestowed upon you?"
"Fancy that, she has spotted that I am gifted," mused Joanny, gratified.
 
He carried on: "The whole problem stemmed from the splitting up of the Empire. The number of inhabitants had increased, I admit. Yet two empires, one in the east, the other in the west, or rather one Empire but which like Janus presented the two faces of the civilized world to the barbarism of the universe, were quite enough. Why were usurpers allowed to assume the titles of King of England, Duke of Burgundy, King of France? No, no, we are on imperial ground wherever there sounds Romanic speech: survey the Gauls all around us in the fullness of their summer; see Lutetia yonder. Of course Lutetia of the Parisians has grown since the days when the Emperor Julian would come to spend the winter months there — no it was before he became emperor. The Empire's population has expanded: more state servants will be needed than in days gone by, that is all. There are also the Americas, Australia, the European colonies in Africa. But an administration which has governed half the Empire will surely be able to govern half the world. — At least you don't think what I'm saying is laughable?"
She was listening to him with no lack of interest.
"It's just that on the one or two occasions I have spoken about it, I have been made fun of. My guardian in Paris, one Sunday, first listened to me without saying anything, then advised me to read a novel by Flaubert,
Bouvard et Pecuchet,
in order to find 'my kind' of idea. I clearly understood from his tone that he meant this in jest, and I have no desire to read these modern books, written by authors who would perhaps be incapable of translating their own works into good Latin! . . . On another occasion, I wanted to explain my views to an old family friend, who struck me as more intelligent than the rest of the gathering. He started to laugh immediately and told me that he had run across many reactionaries in his life but never a man as reactionary as myself, and that it was not good for the son of an old republican to have such ideas. You see in the interior, or as we say, in the provinces, the children are obliged to have the same political opinions as their parents: if they don't, they are shown little regard. Ah! mademoiselle, you cannot imagine how backward the interior still is! Anyway, this man was laughing. So, to annoy him, I told him that I saw myself not so much as a Frenchman but as a Roman citizen. I had surmised correctly: that put him into a temper straight away. I had disturbed his pathetic grubs of ideas and they writhed about in his cramped skull. He was completely red. How small, how petty-minded he seemed to me; I had him in my hand; there he twitched like an insect being tormented. I saw in him not so much a man as a manufactured product, a machine which talks and thinks in the approved manner. Ah! If ever I felt superior to somebody else, it really was to that imbecile!"
"Oh! Mr Leniot, it isn't right to speak in such a manner!"
There was such a note of reproach in the girl's voice that Joanny fell silent, wholly discomposed. Up until that point, he had held forth with the unshakable self-assurance given by the certainty of commanding his listener's whole-hearted approval. Yet, which was quite the reverse, here she was remonstrating against what he had said, at the end of her patience. In short then, he had displeased her; and this was the worst thing which could have befallen him. He continued to speak but his heart was no longer in his words. Everything he was preparing to give brilliant expression to a moment before, suddenly appeared ludicrous, hollow and without interest. He embarked upon a digression and broached the subject of Roman virtues. He exalted poverty especially:
"Rome," he said, "is Need's eldest daughter: herein lies the secret of her power. The poets of the Augustan era were conscious of this themselves. Listen to what Horace says:
"Hunc . . .
This word refers to Fabricius of whom he has just spoken.
Hunc et incomptis Curium capillh,
Utilem hello tulit, et C ami Hum
Saeva paupertas et avitus arto
Cum lare fundus!
 
"Saeva paupertas:
cruel destitution" . . .
Joanny was struck dumb; he had just read in the girl's eyes a thought which threw him into turmoil. These eyes seemed to say: "Does he mean to be insolent? Is he making fun of me?" Then he remembered that a lady to whom he had declaimed a passage from Tacitus one day, had said to him in an angry tone of voice: "If you want to insult me, just go ahead. I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
The call to evening prep parted them straight away. She did not hold out her hand to him . . .
Throughout the evening, Joanny felt a throbbing in his temples and his cheeks were on fire. He had displeased her. He had been ridiculous at first; and then odious! Ah! those long, idiotic and childish tirades: "Leo, Emperor of the West" and the invocation to the shades of Cato! There was enough in this to die of shame. He would have liked to disavow these phrases. At least if he had written them, he could have erased them with a rubber. But there is no rubber in the world that can erase in other people's memories what we have said to them. He ought to have apologized for that Latin quotation as well. But what must have shocked her deeply was the disparagement of his fellow citizens and the repudiation of his country.
"This must seem monstrous to that poor girl! There can be nothing more conservative than a woman; her ideas are always a generation behind the times at least!"
When he had jeered at the crassness of the provincial republican from the pinnacle of his intellect, how her sense of decency, her loathsome, insulted sense of decency had quivered within her! What, she was the same on all counts as the "manufactured product" who had excited his anger. Then he regretted he had not shocked her more, had not goaded her to snapping point. It was a game: with a few well-chosen paradoxes you could scourge the wits of fools: first of all, they lost their tempers and then they ended up by howling like dogs. Oh! What pleasant little parlour games!
A fool? But what was meant by that? Did this distinction he drew so clearly correspond with reality? It was truly an oversimplification to say that there were two types of people: those without and those with brains, and naturally to number oneself amongst the latter! And yet classical poets considered it a virtue to hold the vulgar herd in contempt. Ah! He was tired of these reflections. The truth was that there were certain things which were not for anybody's ears. Just as one did not take exceptional pains to dress up to go into town, because of the street urchins' chorus of shrieks, so the unusual thoughts one had should not be revealed to anybody whomsoever: one might hear the words: "Oh! Mr Leniot, it isn't right to speak in such a manner."
And he who thought he had found, if not a lover, at least a friend, a companion to whom there would be nothing he could not say, an equal!
An equal! —
fine! He was once again sinking back into his theories about human stupidity. He had displeased her and that was all there was to it.
On the next day he apologized the best he could: "Yesterday evening I distressed you deeply with my paradoxes and I was so ill-mannered as to quote Latin. Admit that I really bored you?"
BOOK: Fermina Marquez (1911)
13.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Flat-Out Celeste by Jessica Park
Forever Yours by Candy Caine
Darkness Before Dawn by Ace Collins
The Eighth Veil by Frederick Ramsay
Rueful Death by Susan Wittig Albert
Hemlock by Kathleen Peacock
That Fatal Kiss by Lobo, Mina
Lost Among the Living by Simone St. James