The Thibaults (21 page)

“Well, you see,” he said at last, in a toneless voice, “the tutor is quite old and he doesn’t care much whether I work or not. He comes because he’s been told to come, that’s all. He knows nobody will check what he does. And he prefers having nothing to take home with him to correct. He stays for an hour, and we just chat; he’s very friendly with me, he tells me about Compiègne and his other pupils and all sorts of things. He’s not very happy, either. He’s told me about his daughter who has stomach trouble and quarrels with his wife, because he’s married again; and about his son who was a company sergeant-major, but was cashiered because he ran into debt over a woman. We just pretend to be reading, doing lessons, but we don’t do anything, really.”

He stopped. Antoine found nothing to say. He felt almost intimidated by this youngster who already had such wide experience of life. Besides, he had nothing more to ask. The boy resumed speaking, of his own accord, in a low, monotonous voice; but, in the disconnected flow of phrases, it was impossible to make out the associations between his ideas, or even what, after his previous taciturnity, was impelling him to pour his heart out.

“It’s like what I do about the wine and water at the meals—I leave it to them, you see. Léon asked me to at the start, and it’s all the same to me, you know; I’d just as soon drink plain water from the jug. What really annoys me is that they’re always prowling about in the corridor; with their soft slippers one can’t hear them. Sometimes, almost, they frighten me. No, I’m not really frightened; only the dreadful thing is that I can’t make a movement without their seeing and hearing me. One’s always alone, but never really alone, you understand. Not on my walks, not anywhere at all. It’s nothing so very terrible, but in the long run, you know—oh, you’ve no idea of the effect it has, it makes one feel as if—as if everything was going round. There are days when I’d like to hide under my bed and cry. Not just to cry, you know, but to cry
without being seen
. It’s like when you came this morning. They told me in the chapel. The superintendent sent the chief clerk to see what I was wearing and they brought my overcoat and my hat, as I was bare-headed. Oh, don’t think they did it to deceive you, Antoine. No, not at all; it’s just the custom here. It’s like that on Mondays, the first Monday in the month, when Papa comes for the committee meeting, they always do things like that; just little trifles to make Papa pleased. It’s the same thing with the bed-linen; what you saw this morning is clean linen that’s always kept in my cupboard, to put out in the room if anyone comes. It’s not that they leave me with dirty linen; no, they change it quite often enough and, when I ask for an extra towel, they always give it. But it’s the custom, you know, to make things look nice when a visitor comes… .

“It’s wrong of me to tell you all this, Antoine; it’ll make you fancy all sorts of things that aren’t true. I assure you I’ve nothing really to complain of, that the discipline isn’t at all irksome, they don’t try to make things hard for me; not a bit of it. But it’s just this—this softness, do you seep And then, having nothing to do all day, tied up like that with nothing, absolutely nothing to do. At first the hours seemed to me so, so long, you’ve no idea. But one day I broke the mainspring of my watch, and since then it’s been better, little by little I’ve got used to it. But I don’t know how to express it, it’s as if one had gone asleep deep down in oneself. One doesn’t really suffer, because it’s like being asleep, but it’s disagreeable all the same, you understand.”

He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again it was in broken phrases and the words seemed to come with an immense effort.

“And then, Antoine … no, I can’t tell you everything. But you must know… . Left alone like that, one gets to have a whole lot of ideas … ideas one shouldn’t have. Especially as … Well, there are Léon’s stories, you know. And the drawings. Well, in a way it helps to pass the time, you know. I make them in the daytime and at night somehow my mind comes back to them. I know it’s not right, I oughtn’t to. Only … When one’s alone … you understand, don’t you? Oh, I’m wrong to tell you all this, I feel I shall regret it. But I’m so tired this evening, I can’t hold myself in.”

Suddenly he gave way to a flood of tears.

He had a strange feeling of frustration, as if, for all his efforts, he could not help lying, and the more he tried to tell the truth, the worse he succeeded in doing so. Yet nothing of what he had said was actually untrue. But by his tone, by overcolouring his troubles, and by the choice of facts he had described, he was conscious of having given a false impression of his life—and yet he could not do otherwise.

They had been making slow progress and were only half-way back. And it was half-past five. There was plenty of daylight left, but a mist was rising from the river, brimming over into the fields and swathing them in drifting vapour.

Antoine, as he helped the stumbling youngster on his way, was thinking hard. Not of what he must do; on that score his mind was made up: he must get the boy out of it. But he was wondering how to get his consent, and that looked like being difficult. At his first words Jacques clung to his arm, sobbing, reminding him of his promise to say nothing, do nothing.

“But of course, old man; I’ve sworn it! I’ll do nothing you don’t want me to do. Only, listen. Do you want to go on like this, frittering your life away in idleness, with no one of your own kind to talk to, in these sordid surroundings? And to think that only this morning I imagined you were happy here!”

“But I
am
happy!” In a moment all he had complained of fled from his mind, and all he now was conscious of was the languid ease of his seclusion, the somnolent routine and absence of control, not to mention his isolation from the family.

“Happy? If you were, I’d be ashamed of you! No, Jacques, I can’t believe you really enjoy rotting away in that place. You’re degrading yourself, ruining your brains—and it’s been going on for far too long. I’ve promised you not to act without your consent; I’ll keep my word, don’t worry. But do think seriously about it; let’s look the facts squarely in the face, like two friends, you and I—for we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then? What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t want to go back to Paris.”

“Look here, Jacques, after the picture you’ve given me of your life here, family life couldn’t be worse.”

“Yes, it could!”

The bitterness in his voice stunned Antoine into silence, and he began to feel less sure of himself. “Damn it!” he muttered, vainly racking his brain for a solution. Time pressed, and he felt as if he were walking in pitch darkness. Then suddenly he saw light, he had hit on the solution! In a flash the whole plan was outlined in his head. He laughed.

“Jacques!” he cried. “Now listen to me and don’t interrupt. Or, rather, answer. Suppose we found ourselves, you and I, alone in the world, wouldn’t you like to come and live with me?”

At first the boy failed to understand what Antoine meant.

“But, Antoine,” he said at last, “what ever do you mean? There’s Papa… .”

Menacing, between them and the future, loomed their father’s figure. The same idea crossed the minds of both: how easy things would be if he …! Catching its reflection in his brother’s gaze, Antoine felt suddenly ashamed and averted his eyes.

“Of course,” Jacques was saying, “if I’d lived with you and only you, I’d have turned out quite different. I’d have worked well … I would work well; I might become, perhaps, a great poet.”

Antoine stopped him with a gesture. “Well, then, listen; if I gave you my word that no one except myself should have anything to do with you, would you agree to leave this place?”

“Ye-es,” Jacques murmured doubtfully. It was his craving for affection and his reluctance to offend his brother that led him to agree.

“But would you promise to let me plan out your life and studies, and keep an eye on you generally, just as if you were my son?”

“Yes.”

“Right!” For a while Antoine kept silent, thinking things out. His desires were always so imperative that he never questioned their feasibility, and indeed he had never failed so far in bringing off what he had set his heart on, definitely and doggedly. He turned to the youngster, smiling.

“It’s not a daydream, Jacques.” His tone was emphatic, though the smile did not leave his lips. “I know what I’m embarking on. Within a fortnight—do you hear?—within a fortnight it shall happen; take my word for it. Now, you’ve got to go back to your precious institution, looking as innocent as a lamb. Got it? And within two weeks, I swear it, you shall be free.”

Though he had hardly heard what his brother was saying, Jacques pressed against Antoine, seized by a sudden longing for affection; he would have liked to take him in his arms and hug him and to stay thus, unmoving, pressed to the comforting warmth of his big brother’s chest.

“You can depend on me,” Antoine repeated.

He, too, was feeling comforted and uplifted in his own esteem, rejoicing in a welcome sense of power. He compared his life with Jacques’s. “Poor devil,” he thought, “things are always happening to him that would never happen to anyone else!” He meant: “the sort of things that have never happened to me.” He pitied Jacques, but above all he felt a very keen joy at being the man he was, so levelheaded and so well equipped for happiness, for becoming a personality, a great doctor. He felt inclined to quicken his step, to whistle a gay tune. But Jacques seemed tired, and could make only slow progress. Anyhow, they were coming into Crouy.

“Trust me,” he murmured once again, tightening his pressure on Jacques’s arm.

M. Faîsme was smoking a cigar in front of the entrance-gate. No sooner did he catch sight of them than he came tripping along the road towards them.

“Hallo, my friends! Had a good time, eh? I don’t mind betting you’ve been to have a look at Compiègne.” Laughing out of sheer high

spirits, he waved his arms in the direction of the town. “You went along the towpath, didn’t you? Such a nice walk that is! Really, the country round here is charming, too charming for words!” He took out his watch. “I don’t want to hurry you, doctor, but if you don’t want to miss your train again …”

“I’m off,” Antoine said. There was emotion in his voice as he said quietly: “
Au revoir
, Jacques!”

Night was falling. Jacques had his back to the fading light, and Antoine dimly saw a young, submissive face and eyes gazing towards the dark horizon. Again he said:

“
Au revoir
!”

Arthur was waiting in the quadrangle. Jacques would have preferred to take leave of the superintendent politely, but M. Faîsme had turned his back on him. He was bolting the entrance-gate, as he did every evening. The dog was barking loudly and across the noise Jacques made out Arthur’s voice.

“Now then! Are you coming?”

He followed Arthur obediently.

He came back to his cell with a feeling of relief. Antoine’s chair was still there by the table, and his elder brother’s affection seemed still lingering round it. He put on his old suit. His body was tired, but his brain active. There seemed to be within him, beside the everyday Jacques, a second self, an immaterial being, new-born today, who watched the first self going about its tasks, and dominated it.

Somehow he found it impossible to sit still and he began pacing round and round the room. He was in the grip of a new and powerful emotion, which kept him on his feet, a vital force that thrust itself upon his consciousness. He went to the door and stood there, his forehead resting on the glass pane, his eyes fixed on the lamp in the deserted corridor. The stifling atmosphere from the hot pipes increased his fatigue. He was half asleep now. Suddenly on the far side of the glass a shadow loomed up. The double-locked door opened; Arthur was bringing his dinner.

“Come along, get a move on, you little Schwein!”

Before starting on the lentils, Jacques removed from the tray the slice of gruyere and the mug of wine and water.

“For me?” the young man asked. Smiling, he took the piece of cheese and moved across to the wardrobe before starting to eat it, so as not to be visible from the door. It was the time when, before beginning his dinner, M. Faîsme made a round of inspection along the corridors. He always wore slippers and oftener than not his visits became known only after his departure, by the reek of cigar-smoke wafted through the grating.

Jacques ate what remained of his bread, dipping the pieces into the lentil juice. No sooner had he finished than Arthur called to him.

“Now, young man, turn in!”

“But it’s not eight yet.”

“Don’t you know it’s Sunday and the boys are waiting for me downtown? Get a move on!”

Without answering, Jacques began to undress. Arthur, his hands in his pockets, watched him. There was a touch of unexpected, almost feminine grace in the coarse face and stalwart, stocky figure of the fair-haired young man.

“That brother of yours,” he said with a knowing air, “he’s a bit of all right; a real gent he is!” Smiling, he made as if to slip a coin into his pocket, then took the empty tray and went out.

When he returned Jacques was in bed.

“Mighty quick you’ve been tonight.” The young man kicked Jacques’s shoes under the washstand. “Look here, can’t you tidy up your things a bit before turning in?” He came up to the bed. “Hear what I say, you little
Schwein
?” He pressed his hands on Jacques’s shoulders and gave a little laugh. The smile on the boy’s face grew more and more strained. “Quite sure you aren’t hiding anything between the sheets? No books? No candles?”

He slipped his hand between the sheets. But with a movement that Arthur could neither foresee nor forestall, the boy broke free and flung himself away, his back to the wall. His eyes were dark with hatred.

“Aha!” Arthur chuckled. “We’re very high and mighty tonight, ain’t we? … But I could tell some tales, too—and don’t you forget it!” He spoke in a low tone, keeping an eye on the door. Then, without paying any more attention to Jacques, he lit the oil-lamp that remained on all night, shut off the electric circuit with his master-key, and went out, whistling.