irritate me, nothing, on the contrary, could have been more calculated
to touch me than this restrained emotion. He kept it back as best he
could, but with so great an effort that his lips and hands trembled. He
was unable to continue. He suddenly hid his face in his hands, and the
upper part of his body was shaken with sobs:
“You see,” he stammered, “you see how miserable a child can make us.”
What was the good of pretending? Extremely moved myself, “If Bernard
were to see you,” I cried, “his heart would melt; I can vouch for it.”
At the same time I felt in rather an awkward situation. Bernard had
hardly ever mentioned his father to me. I had morally accepted his
having left his family, ready as I am to consider such desertions
natural, and disposed to see in them nothing but what will be to the
child’s greatest advantage. In Bernard’s case, there was the additional
factor of his bastardy.... But here was his false father discovering
feelings which were all the stronger, no doubt, that they were beyond
control, and all the more sincere that they were in no way obligatory.
In the face of this love, this grief, I was forced to ask myself
whether Bernard had done right to leave. I had no longer the heart to
approve him.
“Make use of me, if you think I can be of any use,” I said, “if you
think that I ought to speak to him. He has a good heart.”
“I know. I know.... Yes, you can do a great deal. I know he was with
you this summer. My police work is well done.... I know too that he is
going up for his _viva voce_ this very day. I chose the moment I
knew he would be at the Sorbonne to come and see you. I was afraid of
meeting him.”
For some minutes, my emotion had been dwindling, for I had just
noticed that the verb “to know” figured in nearly all his sentences. I
immediately became less interested in what he was saying than in this
trick of speech, which was perhaps professional.
He told me also that he “knew” that Bernard had passed his written
examination brilliantly. An obliging examiner, who happened to be a
friend of his, had enabled him to see his son’s French essay, which
it appears was most remarkable. He spoke of Bernard with a kind of
restrained admiration, which made me wonder whether after all he did
not believe he was really his father.
“Heavens!” added he, “whatever you do, don’t tell him what I have just
been saying. He is so proud by nature, so easily offended!... If he
suspected that ever since he left I have never ceased thinking of him,
following him.... But all the same, you can tell him that you have
seen me.” (He breathed painfully after each sentence.) “You can tell
him, what no one else can, that I am not angry with him”; then with
a voice that grew fainter: “that I have never ceased to love him ...
like a son. Yes, I know that you know.... You can tell him too ...” and
without looking at me, with difficulty, in a state of extreme confusion
“that his mother left me ... yes, for good, this summer; and that if he
... would come back, I....”
He was unable to finish.
When a big, strong, matter-of-fact man, who has made his way in life
and is firmly established in his career, suddenly throws aside all
decorum and pours out his heart before a stranger, he affords him (in
this case it was I) a most singular spectacle. I was able once more to
verify, as I have often done before, that I am more easily moved by
the effusions of an outsider than by those of a familiar acquaintance.
(Will examine into the reason of this another time.)
Profitendieu did not conceal that he had at first been prejudiced
against me, not having understood, and still not understanding, why
Bernard had left his home to join me. This was what had prevented him
from coming to see me in the first place. I did not dare tell him the
story of the suit-case, and merely spoke of his son’s friendship for
Olivier, which had quickly led to our becoming intimate in our turn.
“These young men,” went on Profitendieu, “start off in life without
knowing to what they are exposed. No doubt their ignorance of danger
makes their strength. But we who know, we, their fathers, tremble for
them. Our solicitude irritates them, and the best thing is to let
them see it as little as possible. I know that it is sometimes very
troublesome and clumsy. Rather than incessantly repeat to a child that
fire burns, let us consent to his burning his fingers. Experience is a
better instructor than advice. I always allowed Bernard the greatest
possible liberty--so much so, that he fancied, I grieve to say, that I
was indifferent to him. I am afraid that was his mistake and the reason
of his running away. Even then, I thought it was better to let him
be; though I kept a watch on him all the time without his suspecting
it. Thank God, I had the means!” (Evidently the organization of his
police was Profitendieu’s special pride--this was the third time he
had alluded to it.) “I thought I must take care not to belittle the
risks of his initiative in the boy’s eyes. Shall I own to you that his
rebellious conduct, notwithstanding the pain it gave me, has only made
me fonder of him than ever? It seemed to me a proof of courage, of
valour....”
Now that he felt himself on confidential terms, the worthy man would
have gone on for ever. I tried to bring the conversation back to what
interested me more and, cutting him short, asked him if he had ever
seen one of the counterfeit coins of which he had spoken. I was curious
to know whether they were like the little glass piece which Bernard had
shown us. I had no sooner mentioned this, than Profitendieu’s whole
countenance changed; his eyelids half closed and a curious light burned
in his eyes; crow’s feet appeared upon his temples, his lips tightened,
his features were all drawn upwards in his effort at attention. There
was no further question of anything that had passed before. The judge
ousted the father and nothing existed for him but his profession. He
pressed me with questions, took notes and spoke of sending a police
officer to Saas-Fée to take the names of the visitors in the hotel
books.
“Though in all likelihood,” he added, “the coin you saw was given to
the grocer by an adventurer who was merely passing through the place.”
To which I replied that Saas-Fée was at the further end of an
_impasse_ and that it was not easy to go there and back from it
in the same day. He appeared particularly pleased with this piece of
information, and after having thanked me warmly, left me, with an
absorbed, delighted look on his face, and without having once recurred
either to George or to Bernard.
XIV
BERNARD AND THE ANGEL
BERNARD was to experience that morning that for a nature as generous as
his, there is no greater joy than to rejoice another being. This joy
was denied him. He had just heard that he had passed his examination
with honours, but finding no one near to whom he could communicate
it, the news lost all its savour. Bernard knew well enough that the
person who would have been most pleased to hear it, was his father.
He even hesitated a moment whether he would not go there and then
and tell him; but pride held him back. Edouard? Olivier? It was
really giving too much importance to a certificate. He had passed his
_baccalauréat_. Nothing to make a fuss about! It was now that the
difficulties would begin.
In the Sorbonne quadrangle, he saw one of his schoolfellows, who had
also been successful; but he had drawn apart from the others and was
crying. The poor boy was in mourning. Bernard knew that he had just
lost his mother. A great wave of sympathy drove him towards the orphan;
then a feeling of absurd shyness made him pass on. The other boy, who
had seen him come up and then go by, was ashamed of his tears; he
esteemed Bernard and was hurt by what he took for contempt.
Bernard went into the Luxembourg gardens. He sat down on a bench in
the same part of the gardens where he had gone to meet Olivier the
evening he had sought shelter with him. The air was almost warm and the
blue sky laughed down at him through the branches of the great trees,
already stripped of their leaves. One could not believe that winter
was really on the way; the cooing birds themselves were deceived. But
Bernard did not look at the gardens; he saw the ocean of life spread
out before him. People say there are paths on the sea, but they are
not traced and Bernard did not know which one was his.
He had been meditating for some moments, when he saw coming towards
him--gliding on so light a foot that one felt it might have rested on
the waves--an angel. Bernard had never seen any angels, but he had not
a moment’s doubt, and when the angel said: “Come!” he rose obediently
and followed him. He was not more astonished than he would have been
in a dream. He tried to remember afterwards if the angel had taken him
by the hand; but in reality they did not touch each other and even
kept a little apart. They returned together to the quadrangle where
Bernard had left the orphan, firmly resolved to speak to him; but the
quadrangle was empty.
Bernard walked, with the angel by his side, towards the church of
the Sorbonne, into which the angel passed first--into which Bernard
had never been before. Other angels were going to and fro in this
place; but Bernard had not the eyes that were needed to see them. An
unfamiliar peace enfolded him. The angel went up to the high altar,
and Bernard, when he saw him kneel down, knelt down beside him. He did
not believe in any god, so that he could not pray, but his heart was
filled with a lover’s longing for dedication, for sacrifice; he offered
himself. His emotion was so confused that no word could have expressed
it; but suddenly the organ’s song arose.
“You offered yourself in the same way to Laura,” said the angel; and
Bernard felt the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Come, follow me.”
As the angel drew him along, Bernard almost knocked up against one of
his old schoolfellows, who had also just passed his _viva voce_.
Bernard considered him a dunce and was astonished that he had got
through. The dunce did not notice Bernard, who saw him slip some money
for a candle into the beadle’s hand. Bernard shrugged his shoulders and
went out.
When he found himself in the street again, he saw that the angel had
left him. He went into a tobacco shop--the very same in which George,
a week before, had risked his first false coin. He had passed a great
many more since then. Bernard bought a packet of cigarettes and smoked.
Why had the angel gone? Had Bernard and he then nothing to say to each
other?... Noon struck. Bernard was hungry. Should he go back to the
pension? Should he join Olivier and share with him Edouard’s lunch?...
He made sure that he had enough money in his pocket and went into a
restaurant. As he was finishing his lunch, a soft voice murmured in his
ear:
“The time has come to do your accounts.”
Bernard turned his head. The angel was again beside him.
“You will have to make up your mind,” he said. “You have been living at
haphazard. Do you mean to let chance dispose of your life? You want to
be of service--but what do you wish to serve? That is the question.”
“Teach me; guide me,” said Bernard.
The angel led Bernard into a hall full of people. At the bottom of the
hall was a platform and on the platform a table covered with a dark red
cloth. A man, who was still young, was seated behind the table and was
speaking.
“It is a very great folly,” he was saying, “to imagine that there is
anything we can discover. What have we that we have not received? It is
the duty of each one of us to understand while we are still young, that
we derive from the past, that we are bound to this past by every kind
of obligation, and that the whole of our future is marked out by it.”
When he had finished developing this theme, another orator took his
place; he began by approving the former and then raised his voice
against the presumption of the man who thinks he can live without a
doctrine, or guide himself by his own lights.
“A doctrine has been bequeathed us,” he said. “It has already traversed
many centuries. It is assuredly the best--the only one. The duty of
each one of us is to prove this truth. It has been handed down to us by
our masters. It is our country’s and every time she repudiates it, she
has to pay for her error dearly. No one can be a good Frenchman without
holding it, nor succeed in anything good without conforming to it.”
To this second orator succeeded a third, who thanked the other two for
having so ably traced what he called the theory of their programme;
then he set forth that this programme consisted in nothing less than
the regeneration of France, which was to be brought about by the united
efforts of each single member of their party. He himself, he declared,
was a man of action; he affirmed that the end and proof of every theory
is in its practice, and that the duty of every good Frenchman is to be
a combatant.
“But, alas!” he added, “how many isolated efforts are wasted!
Our country would be far greater, our activity would be far more
wide-spread, all that is best in us would be brought forward, if every
effort were co-ordinated, if every act contributed to the glory of law
and order, if everyone were willing to serve in the ranks.”
And while he was speaking, a number of young men went round the
audience, distributing printed forms of membership, which had only to
be signed.
“You wanted to offer yourself,” said the angel then. “What are you
waiting for?”
Bernard took one of the papers which were handed him; it began with
these words: “I solemnly pledge myself to....” He read it, then looked
at the angel and saw that he was smiling; then he looked at the meeting
and recognized among the young men present, the schoolfellow whom he
had seen just before in the church, burning a candle in gratitude
for having passed his examination; and suddenly, further on, he
caught sight of his eldest brother, whom he had not seen since he had
left home. Bernard did not like him and was a little jealous of the
consideration with which their father seemed to treat him. He crumpled
the paper nervously in his hand.
“Do you think I ought to sign?”
“Yes,” said the angel, “certainly--if you have doubts of yourself.”
“I doubt no longer,” said Bernard, flinging the paper from him.
In the mean time the orator was still speaking. When Bernard began to
listen to him again, he was teaching an infallible method for never
making a mistake, which was to give up ever forming a judgment for
oneself and always to defer to the judgments of one’s superiors.
“And who are these superiors?” asked Bernard; and suddenly a great
indignation seized him.
“If you went on to the platform,” he said to the angel, “and grappled
with him, you would be sure to throw him....”
“It is with _you_ I will wrestle. This evening. Do you agree...?”
“Yes,” said Bernard.
They went out. They reached the boulevards. The crowds that were
thronging them seemed entirely composed of rich people; each of them
seemed sure of himself, indifferent to the others, but anxious.
“Is that the image of happiness?” asked Bernard, who felt the tears
rising in his heart.
Then the angel took Bernard into the poor quarters of the town, whose
wretchedness Bernard had never suspected. Evening was falling. They
wandered for a long time among tall, sordid houses, inhabited by
disease, prostitution, shame, crime and hunger. It was only then that
Bernard took the angel’s hand, and the angel turned aside to weep.
Bernard did not dine that evening; and when he went back to the pension
he did not attempt to join Sarah, as he had done the other evenings,
but went straight upstairs to the room he shared with Boris.
Boris was already in bed but not asleep. He was re-reading, by the
light of his candle, the letter he had received that very morning from
Bronja.
“I am afraid,” wrote his friend, “that I shall never see you again. I
caught cold when we got back to Poland. I have a cough; and though the
doctor hides it from me, I feel I cannot live much longer.”
When he heard Bernard coming up, Boris hid the letter under his pillow,
and blew the candle out hurriedly.
Bernard came in in the dark. The angel was with him, but, although the
night was not very dark, Boris saw only Bernard.
“Are you asleep?” asked Bernard in a whisper. And as Boris did not
answer, he concluded he was sleeping.
“Then, now,” said Bernard to the angel, “we’ll have it out.”
And all that night, until the breaking of the day, they wrestled.
Boris dimly perceived that Bernard was struggling. He thought it was
his way of praying and took care not to disturb him. And yet he would
have liked to speak to him, for his unhappiness was very great. He got
up and knelt down at the foot of his bed. He would have liked to pray,
but he could only sob:
“Oh, Bronja! You who can see angels, you who were to have opened my
eyes, you are leaving me! Without you, Bronja, what will become of me?
What will become of me?”
Bernard and the angel were too busy to hear him. They wrestled together
till daybreak. The angel departed without either of them having
vanquished the other.
When, a little later, Bernard himself left the room, he met Rachel in
the passage.
“I want to speak to you,” she said. Her voice was so sad that Bernard
understood at once what it was she had to say to him. He answered
nothing, bowed his head, and in his great pity for Rachel suddenly
began to hate Sarah and to loathe the pleasure he took with her.
XV
BERNARD VISITS EDOUARD
ABOUT ten o’clock, Bernard turned up at Edouard’s with a hand bag which
was sufficient to contain the few clothes and books that he possessed.
He had taken leave of Azaïs and of Madame Vedel, but had not attempted
to see Sarah.
Bernard was grave. His struggle with the angel had matured him. He no
longer resembled the careless youth who had stolen the suit-case and
who thought that all that is needed in this world is to be daring. He
was beginning to understand that boldness is often achieved at the
expense of other people’s happiness.
“I have come to ask for shelter,” said he to Edouard. “Here I am again
without a roof.”
“Why are you leaving the Vedels’?”
“For private reasons ... forgive me for not telling you.”
Edouard had observed Bernard and Sarah on the evening of the dinner
enough to guess at the meaning of this silence.
“All right,” he said smiling. “The couch in my studio is at your
service. But I must first tell you that your father came to see me
yesterday.” And he repeated the part of their conversation which he
thought likely to touch him. “It is not in my house that you ought to
spend the night, but in his. He is expecting you.”
Bernard, however, kept silent.
“I will think about it,” he said at last. “Allow me in the mean time to
leave my things here. May I see Olivier?”
“The weather is so fine, that I advised him to go out. I wanted to go
with him, for he is still very weak, but he wouldn’t let me. But it’s
more than an hour since he left and he will be back soon. You had
better wait for him.... But I’ve just thought.... Your examination?”
“I’ve passed; but it’s of no importance; the important thing is to know
what I’m to do now. Do you know the chief reason that prevents me from
going back to my father’s? It’s because I don’t want to take his money.
You’ll think me absurd to fling away such an opportunity; but I made a
vow that I would make my way without it. I feel I must prove to myself
that I am a man of my word--someone I can count on.”
“It strikes me as pride more than anything else.”
“Call it by any name you please--pride, presumption, conceit ... it’s a
feeling you won’t succeed in cheapening in my eyes. But at the present
moment, what I should like to know is this--is it necessary to fix
one’s eyes on a goal in order to guide oneself in life?”
“Explain.”
“I wrestled over it all last night. What am I to do with the strength
I feel I possess? To what use am I to put it? How am I to get out of
myself the best that’s in me? Is it by aiming at a goal? But how choose
such a goal? How know what it is before reaching it?”
“To live without a goal, is to give oneself up to chance.”
“I am afraid you don’t understand. When Columbus discovered America did
he know towards what he was sailing? His goal was to go ahead, straight
in front of him. Himself was his goal, impelling him to go ahead....”
“I have often thought,” interrupted Edouard, “that in art, and
particularly in literature, the only people who count are those who
launch out on to unknown seas. One doesn’t discover new lands without
consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time. But our
writers are afraid of the open; they are mere coasters.”
“Yesterday, when I came out from my examination,” Bernard said, without
hearing him, “some demon or other urged me into a hall where there was
a public meeting going on. The talk was all about national honour,
devotion to one’s country, and a whole lot of things that made my heart
beat. I came within an ace of signing a paper by which I pledged
myself on my honour to devote my energies to the service of a cause,
which certainly seemed to me a fine and noble one.”
“I am glad you didn’t sign, but what prevented you?”
“No doubt some secret instinct....” Bernard reflected a few moments,
and then added, laughing: “I think it was chiefly the looks of the
audience--starting with my brother, whom I recognized among them.
It seemed to me all the young men I saw there, were animated by the
best of sentiments, and that they were doing quite right to abdicate
their initiative (for it wouldn’t have led them far) and their
judgment (for it was inadequate) and their independence of mind (for
it was still-born). I said to myself too, that it was a good thing
for the country to count among its citizens a large number of these
well-intentioned individuals with subservient wills, but that my will
would never be of that kind. It was then that I began to ask myself how
to establish a rule, since I did not accept life without a rule and yet
would not accept a rule from anyone else.”
“The answer seems to me simple: to find the rule in oneself; to have
for goal the development of oneself.”
“Yes ... that, as a matter of fact, is what I said to myself. But I
wasn’t much further on. If I were certain of preferring what is best
in myself, I might develop that rather than the rest. But I can’t even
find out what _is_ best in myself.... I wrestled over it all
night, I tell you. Towards morning I was so tired that I thought of
enlisting--before I was called up.”
“Running away from the question doesn’t solve it.”
“That’s what I said to myself, and that even if I put the question off
now, it would come up again more seriously than ever after my service.
So I came to ask you your advice.”
“I have none to give you. You can only find counsel in yourself; you
can only learn how you ought to live by living.”
“And if I live badly, whilst I’m waiting to decide how to live?”
“That in itself will teach you. It’s a good thing to follow one’s
inclination, provided it leads up hill.”
“Are you joking?... No; I think I understand you, and I accept your
formula. But while I am developing myself, as you say, I shall have to
earn my living. What do you say to an alluring advertisement in the
papers: “Young man of great promise requires a job. Could be employed
in any capacity?”
Edouard laughed.
“No job is so difficult to find as any job. Better be a little more
explicit.”
“Perhaps one of the innumerable little wheels in the organization
of a big newspaper would do? Oh! I’d accept any post however
subordinate--proof-reader--printer’s devil--anything. I need so little.”
He spoke with hesitation. In reality, it was a secretaryship he
wanted; but he did not dare say so to Edouard, because of their
mutual dissatisfaction with each other on this score. After all, it
wasn’t his, Bernard’s, fault, that this trial of theirs had failed so
lamentably.
“I might perhaps,” said Edouard, “get you into the _Grand
Journal_; I know the editor....”
While Bernard and Edouard were conversing in this manner, Sarah was
having an extremely painful explanation with Rachel. Sarah had suddenly
understood that Rachel’s remonstrances were the cause of Bernard’s
abrupt departure; and she was indignant with her sister, who, she said,
was a kill-joy. She had no right to impose upon others a virtue which
her example was enough to render odious.