n new year’s day m. bergeret was always in the habit of dressing himself in his black suit the first thing in the morning. nowadays, it had lost all its gloss and the grey wintry light made it look ashen-colour. the gold medal that hung from m. bergeret’s buttonhole by a violet riband, although it gave him a false air of splendour, testified clearly to the fact that he was no knight of the legion of honour. in fact, in this dress he always felt strangely thin and poverty-stricken. even his white tie seemed to his fancy a wretchedly paltry affair, for to tell the truth, it was not even a fresh one. at length, after vainly crumpling the front of his shirt, he recognised the fact that it is impossible to make mother-of-pearl buttons stay in buttonholes that have been stretched by long wear: at the thought he became utterly disconsolate, for he recognised the fact sorrowfully that he was no man of the58 world. and sitting down on a chair, he fell into a reverie:
“but, after all, does there in truth exist a world populated by men of the world? for it seems to me, indeed, that what is commonly called the world is but a cloud of gold and silver hung in the blue of heaven. to the man who has actually entered it, it seems but a mist. in fact, social distinctions are matters of much confusion. men are drawn together in flocks by their common prejudices or their common tastes. but tastes often war against prejudices, and chance sets everything at variance. all the same, a large income and the leisure given by it tend to produce a certain style of life and special habits. this fact is the bond which links society people, and this kinship produces a certain standard which rules manners, physique and sport. hence we derive the ‘tone’ of society. this ‘tone’ is purely superficial and for that very reason fairly perceptible. there are such things as society manners and appearances, but there is no such thing as society human nature, for what truly decides our character is passion, thought and feeling. within us is a tribunal with which the world has no concern.”
still, the wretched look of his shirt and tie continued to harass him, till at last he went to look59 at himself in the sitting-room mirror. somehow his face assumed a far-off appearance in the glass, quite obscured as it was by an immense basket of heather festooned with ribands of red satin. the basket was of wicker, in the shape of a chariot with gilded wheels, and stood on the piano between two bags of marrons glacés. to its gilded shaft was affixed m. roux’s card, for the basket was a present from him to madame bergeret.
the professor made no attempt to push aside the beribboned tufts of heather; he was satisfied with catching a glimpse of his left eye in the glass behind the flowers, and he continued to gaze at it benevolently for some little time. m. bergeret, firmly convinced as he was that no one loved him, either in this world or in any other, sometimes treated himself to a little sympathy and pity. for he always behaved with the greatest consideration to all unhappy people, himself included. now, dropping further consideration of his shirt and tie, he murmured to himself:
“you interpret the bosses on the shield of ?neas and yet your own tie is crumpled. you are ridiculous on both counts. you are no man of the world. you should teach yourself, then, at least, how to live the inner life and should cultivate within yourself a wealthy kingdom.”
on new year’s day he had always grounds for60 bewailing his destiny, before he set out to pay his respects to two vulgar, offensive fellows, for such were the rector and the dean. the rector, m. leterrier, could not bear him. this feeling was a natural antipathy that grew as regularly as a plant and brought forth fruit every year. m. leterrier, a professor of philosophy and the author of a text-book which summed up all systems of thought, had the blind dogmatic instincts of the official teacher. no doubt whatever remained in his mind touching the questions of the good, the beautiful and the true, the characteristics of which he had summarised in one chapter of his work (pages 216 to 262). now he regarded m. bergeret as a dangerous and misguided man, and m. bergeret, in his turn, fully appreciated the perfect sincerity of the dislike he aroused in m. leterrier. nor, in fact, did he make any complaint against it; sometimes he even treated it with an indulgent smile. on the other hand, he felt abjectly miserable whenever he met the dean, m. torquet, who never had an idea in his head, and who, although he was crammed with learning, still retained the brain of a positive ignoramus. he was a fat man with a low forehead and no cranium to speak of, who did nothing all day but count the knobs of sugar in his house and the pears in his garden, and who would go on hanging61 bells, even when one of his professional colleagues paid him a visit. in doing mischief he showed an activity and a something approaching intelligence which filled m. bergeret with amazement. such thoughts as these were in the professor’s mind, as he put on his overcoat to go and wish m. torquet a happy new year.
yet he took a certain pleasure in being out of doors, for in the street he could enjoy that most priceless blessing, the liberty of the mind. in front of the two satyrs at the corner of the tintelleries, he paused for a moment to give a friendly glance at the little acacia which stretched its bare branches over the wall of lafolie’s garden.
“trees in winter,” thought he, “take on an aspect of homely beauty that they never show in all the pomp of foliage and flowers. it is in winter that they reveal their delicate structure, that they show their charming framework of black coral: these are no skeletons, but a multitude of pretty little limbs in which life slumbers. if i were a landscape-painter....”
as he stood wrapt in these reflections, a portly man called him by name, seized his arm and walked on with him. this was m. compagnon, the most popular of all the professors, the idolised master who gave his mathematical lectures in the great amphitheatre.
62 “hullo! my dear bergeret, happy new year. i bet you’re going to call on the dean. so am i. we’ll walk on together.”
“gladly,” answered m. bergeret, “since in that way i shall travel pleasantly towards a painful goal. for i must confess it is no pleasure to me to see m. torquet.”
on hearing this uncalled-for confidence, m. compagnon, whether instinctively or inadvertently it was hard to say, withdrew the hand which he had slipped under his colleague’s arm.
“yes, yes, i know! you and the dean don’t get on very well. yet in general he isn’t a man who is difficult to get on with.”
“in speaking to you as i have done,” answered m. bergeret, “i was not even thinking of the hostility which, according to report, the dean persists in keeping up towards me. but it chills me to the very marrow whenever i come in contact with a man who is totally lacking in imagination of any kind. what really saddens is not the idea of injustice and hatred, nor is it the sight of human misery. quite the contrary, in fact, for we find the misfortunes of our fellows quite laughable, if only they are shown to us from a humorous standpoint. but those gloomy souls on whom the outer world seems to make no impression, those beings who have the faculty of ignoring the entire universe—the63 very sight of them reduces me to distress and desperation. my intercourse with m. torquet is really one of the most painful misfortunes of my life.”
“just so!” said m. compagnon. “our college is one of the most splendid in france, on account of the high attainments of the lecturers and the convenience of the buildings. it is only the laboratories that still leave something to be desired. but let us hope that this regrettable defect will soon be remedied, thanks to the combined efforts of our devoted rector and of so influential a senator as m. laprat-teulet.”
“it is also desirable,” said m. bergeret, “that the latin lectures should cease to be given in a dark, unwholesome cellar.”
as they crossed the place saint-exupère, m. compagnon pointed to deniseau’s house.
“we no longer,” said he, “hear any chatter about the prophetess who held communion with saint radegonde and several other saints from paradise. did you go to see her, bergeret? i was taken to see her by lacarelle, the préfet’s chief secretary, just at the time when she was at the height of her popularity. she was sitting with her eyes shut in an arm-chair, while a dozen of the faithful plied her with questions. they asked her if the pope’s health was satisfactory, what64 would be the result of the franco-russian alliance, whether the income-tax bill would pass, and whether a remedy for consumption would soon be found. she answered every question poetically and with a certain ease. when my turn came, i asked her this simple question:
“‘what is the logarithm of 9’? well, bergeret, do you imagine that she said 0,954?”
“no, i don’t,” said m. bergeret.
“she never answered a word,” continued m. compagnon; “never a word. she remained quite silent. then i said: ‘how is it that saint radegonde doesn’t know the logarithm of 9? it is incredible!’ there were present at the meeting a few retired colonels, some priests, old ladies and a few russian doctors. they seemed thunderstruck and lacarelle’s face grew as long as a fiddle. i took to my heels amid a torrent of reproaches.”
as m. compagnon and m. bergeret were crossing the square chatting in this way, they came upon m. roux, who was going through the town scattering visiting-cards right and left, for he went into society a good deal.
“here is my best pupil,” said m. bergeret.
“he looks a sturdy fellow,” said m. compagnon, who thought a great deal of physical strength. “why the deuce does he take latin?”
65 m. bergeret was much piqued by this question and inquired whether the mathematical professor was of opinion that the study of the classics ought to be confined exclusively to the lame, the halt, the maimed and the blind.
but already m. roux was bowing to the two professors with a flashing smile that showed his strong, white teeth. he was in capital spirits, for his happy temperament, which had enabled him to master the secret of the soldier’s life, had just brought him a fresh stroke of good luck. only that morning m. roux had been granted a fortnight’s leave that he might recover from a slight injury to the knee that was practically painless.
“happy man!” cried m. bergeret. “he needn’t even tell a lie to reap all the benefits of deceit.” then, turning towards m. compagnon, he remarked: “in my pupil, m. roux, lie all the hopes of latin verse. but, by a strange anomaly, although this young scholar scans the lines of horace and catullus with the utmost severity, he himself composes french verses that he never troubles to scan, verses whose irregular metre i must confess i cannot grasp. in a word, m. roux writes vers libres.”
“really,” said m. compagnon politely.
m. bergeret, who loved acquiring information66 and looked indulgently on new ideas, begged m. roux to recite his last poem, the metamorphosis of the nymph, which had not yet been given to the world.
“one moment,” said m. compagnon. “i will walk on your left, monsieur roux, so that i may have my best ear towards you.”
it was settled that m. roux should recite his poem while he walked with the two professors as far as the dean’s house on the tournelles, for on such a gentle slope as that he would not lose his breath.
then m. roux began to declaim the metamorphosis of the nymph in a slow, drawling, sing-song voice. in lines punctuated here and there by the rumbling of cart-wheels he recited:
the snow-white nymph,
who glides with rounded hips
along the winding shore,
and the isle where willows grey
girdle her waist with the belt of eve,
in leafage of oval shape,
and palely disappears.[2]
[2] la nymphe blanche
qui coule à pleines hanches,
le long du rivage arrondi
et de l’?le où les saules grisatres
mettent à ses flancs la ceinture d’ève,
en feuillages ovales,
et qui fuit pale.
67 then he painted a shifting kaleidoscope of:
green banks shelving down,
with the hostel of the town
and the frying of gudgeons within.[3]
[3] de vertes berges,
avec l’auberge
et les fritures de goujons.
restless, unquiet, the nymph takes to flight.
she draws near the town and there the metamorphosis takes place.
fretted are her hips by the rough stone of the quay,
her breast is a thicket of rugged hair
and black with the coal, which mingled with sweat,
has turned the nymph to a stevedore wet.
and below is the dock
for the coke.[4]
[4] la pierre du quai dur lui rabote les hanches,
sa poitrine est hérissée d’un poil rude,
et noire de charbons, que délaye la sueur,
la nymphe est devenue un débardeur.
et là-bas est le dock
pour le coke.
next the poet sang of the river flowing through the city:
and the river, from henceforth municipal and historic,
and worthy of archives, of annals and records,
worthy of glory.
deriving something solemn and even stern
from the grey stone walls,
flows under the heavy shadow of the basilica
where linger still the shades of eudes, of adalberts,
in the golden fringes of the past,
68
bishops who bless not the nameless dead,
the nameless dead,
no longer bodies, but leather bottèls,
who will to go hence,
along the isles in the form of boats
with, for masts, but the chimney-tops.
for the drownèd will out beyond.
but pause you on the erudite parapets
where, in boxes, lies many a fable strange,
and the red-edged conjuring book whereon the plane-tree
sheds its leaves,
perchance there you’ll discover potent words:
“for you’re no stranger to the value of runes
nor to the true power of signs traced on the sheets.”[5]
[5] et le fleuve, d’ores en avant municipal et historique,
et dignement d’archives, d’annales, de fastes,
de gloire.
prenant du sérieux et même du morose
de pierre grise,
se tra?ne sous la lourde ombre basilicale
que hantent encore des eudes, des adalberts,
dans les orfrois passés,
évêques qui ne bénissent pas les noyés anonymes,
anonymes,
non plus des corps, mais des outres,
qui vont outre,
le long des ?les en forme de bateaux plats
avec, pour matures, des tuyaux de cheminées.
et les noyés vont outre.
mais arrête-toi aux parapets doctes
où, dans les bo?tes, g?t mainte anecdote,
et le grimoire à tranches rouges sur lequel le platane
fait pleuvoir ses feuilles,
il se peut que, là, tu découvres une bonne écriture:
car tu n’ignores pas la vertu des runes
ni le pouvoir des signes tracés sur les lames.
69
for a long, long while m. roux traced the course of this marvellous river, nor did he finish his recital till they reached the dean’s doorstep.
“that’s very good,” said m. compagnon, for he had no grudge against literature, though for want of practice he could barely distinguish between a line of racine and a line of mallarmé.
but m. bergeret said to himself:
“perhaps, after all, this is a masterpiece?”
and, for fear of wronging beauty in disguise, he silently pressed the poet’s hand.
