The French master knew how to command respect; there was never a sound
during his lessons. He was altogether absorbed in his subject, was
absolutely and wholly a Frenchman; he did not even talk Danish with the
same accentuation as others, and he had the impetuous French
disposition of which the boys had heard. If a boy made a mess of his
pronunciation, he would bawl, from the depths of his full brown beard,
which he was fond of stroking: "You speak French _comme un paysan
d'Amac_." When he swore, he swore like a true Frenchman:
_"Sacrebleu-Mops-Carot-ten-Rapée!"_ [Footnote: Needless to say, this is
impossible French, composed chiefly of distorted Danish words.
(Trans.)] If he got angry, and he very often did, he would
unhesitatingly pick up the full glass of water that always stood in
front of him on the desk, and in Gallic exasperation fling it on the
floor, when the glass would be smashed to atoms and the water run
about, whereupon he would quietly, with his _Grand seigneur_ air, take
his purse out of his pocket and lay the money for the glass on the desk.
For a time I based my ideas of the French mind and manner upon this
master, although my uncle Jacob, who had lived almost all his life in
Paris, was a very different sort of Frenchman. It was only later that I
became acquainted with a word and an idea which it was well I did not
know, as far as the master's capacity for making an impression was
concerned--the word _affected_.
At last, one fine day, a little event occurred which was not without
its effect on the master's prestige, and yet aroused my compassion
almost as much as my surprise. The parents of one of my best friends
were expecting a French business friend for the evening. As they knew
themselves to be very weak in the language, they gave their son a
polite note to the French master, asking him to do them the honour of
spending the next evening at their house, on the occasion of this
visit, which rendered conversational support desirable. The master took
the note, which we two boys had handed to him, grew--superior though he
usually was--rather red and embarrassed, and promised a written reply.
To our astonishment we learnt that this reply was to the effect that he
must unfortunately decline the honour, as he had never been in France,
had never heard anyone speak French, and was not proficient in the
language. Thus this tiger of a savage Frenchman suddenly cast his
tiger's skin and revealed himself in his native wool.
Unfortunately, the instruction of this master left long and deep traces
upon me. When I was fifteen and my French uncle began to carry on his
conversations with me in French, the Parisian was appalled at my
abominable errors of pronunciation. The worst of them were weeded out
in those lessons. But there were enough left to bring a smile many a
time and oft to the lips of the refined young lady whom my friends
procured me as a teacher on my first visit to Paris.