Ver.07/27/01*END*
This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]
THE INK STAIN BY RENE BAZIN
(Tache d'Encre)
By RENE BAZIN
Preface by E. LAVISSE
BOOK 1.
RENE BAZIN
RENE-NICHOLAS-MARIE BAZIN was born at Angers, December 26, 1853. He
studied for the bar, became a lawyer and professor of jurisprudence at
the Catholic University in his native city, and early contributed to 'Le
Correspondant, L'Illustration, Journal des Debats, Revue du Deux Mondes,'
etc. Although quietly writing fiction for the last fifteen years or so,
he was not well known until the dawn of the twentieth century, when his
moral studies of provincial life under the form of novels and romances
became appreciated. He is a profound psychologist, a force in
literature, and his style is very pure and attractive. He advocates
resignation and the domestic virtues, yet his books are neither dull, nor
tiresome, nor priggish; and as he has advanced in years and experience M.
Bazin has shown an increasing ambition to deal with larger problems than
are involved for instance, in the innocent love-affairs of 'Ma Tante
Giron' (1886), a book which enraptured Ludovic Halevy. His novel, 'Une
Tache d'Encre' (1888), a romance of scholarly life, was crowned by the
French Academy, to which he was elected in 1903.
It is safe to say that Bazin will never develop into an author dangerous
to morals. His works may be put into the hands of cloistered virgins,
and there are not, to my knowledge, many other contemporary French
imaginative writers who could endure this stringent test. Some critics,
indeed, while praising him, scoff at his chaste and surprising optimism;
but it is refreshing to recommend to English readers, in these days of
Realism and Naturalism, the works of a recent French writer which do not
require maturity of years in the reader. 'Une Tache d'Encre', as I have
said, was crowned by the French Academy; and Bazin received from the same
exalted body the "Prix Vitet" for the ensemble of his writings in 1896,
being finally admitted a member of the Academy in June, 1903. He
occupies the chair of Ernest Legouve.
Bazin's first romance, 'Stephanette', was published under the pseudonym
"Bernard Seigny," in 1884; then followed 'Victor Pavie (1887); Noellet
(1890); A l'Aventure (1891) and Sicile (1892)', two books on Italy, of
which the last mentioned was likewise crowned by the French Academy; 'La
Legende de Sainte-Bega (1892); La Sarcelle Bleue (1892); Madame Corentine
(1893); Les Italiens d'aujousd'hui (1894); Humble Amour (1894); En
Province (1896); De toute son Ame (1897)', a realistic but moderate
romance of a workingman's life; 'Les Contes de Perrette (1898); La Terre
qui Meurt (1899); Le Guide de l'Empereur (1901); Les Oberle (1902), a
tale from Alsace of to-day, sketching the political situation,
approximately correct, and lately adapted for the stage; 'Donatienne'
(1903).
With Bazin literary life does not become a mirage obscuring the vision of
real life. Before being an author Rene Bazin is a man, with a family
attached to the country, rooted in the soil; a guaranty of the dignity of
his work as well as of the writer, and a safeguard against many
extravagances. He has remained faithful to his province. He lives in
the attractive city of Angers. When he leaves it, it is for a little
tour through France, or a rare journey-once to Sicily and once to Spain.
He is seldom to be met on the Parisian boulevards. Not that he has any
prejudice against Paris, or fails to appreciate the tone of its society,
or the quality of its diversions; but he is conscious that he has nothing
to gain from a residence in the capital, but, on the contrary, would run
a risk of losing his intense originality and the freshness of his genius.
E. LAVISSE
de l'Academie Francaise.
THE INK-STAIN
CHAPTER I
THE ACCIDENT
All I have to record of the first twenty-three years of my life is the
enumeration of them. A simple bead-roll is enough; it represents their
family likeness and family monotony.
I lost my parents when I was very young. I can hardly recall their
faces; and I should keep no memories of La Chatre, our home, had I not
been brought up quite close to it. It was sold, however, and lost to me,
like all the rest. Yes, fate is hard, sometimes. I was born at La
Chatre; the college of La Chatre absorbed eighteen years of my life.
Our head master used to remark that college is a second home; whereby I
have always fancied he did some injustice to the first.
My school-days were hardly over when my uncle and guardian, M. Brutus
Mouillard, solicitor, of Bourges, packed me off to Paris to go through
my law course. I took three years over it: At the end of that time,
just eighteen months ago, I became a licentiate, and "in the said
capacity"--as my uncle would say took an oath that transformed me into
a probationary barrister. Every Monday, regularly, I go to sign my name
among many others on an attendance list, and thereby, it appears, I am
establishing a claim upon the confidence of the widow and the orphan.
In the intervals of my legal studies I have succeeded in taking my Arts
Degree. At present I am seeking that of Doctor of Law. My examinations
have been passed meritoriously, but without brilliance; my tastes run too
much after letters. My professor, M. Flamaran, once told me the truth of
the matter: "Law, young man, is a jealous mistress; she allows no divided
affection." Are my affections divided? I think not, and I certainly do
not confess any such thing to M. Mouillard, who has not yet forgotten
what he calls "that freak" of a Degree in Arts. He builds some hopes
upon me, and, in return, it is natural that I should build a few upon
him.
Really, that sums up all my past: two certificates! A third diploma in
prospect and an uncle to leave me his money--that is my future. Can
anything more commonplace be imagined?
I may add that I never felt any temptation at all to put these things on
record until to-day, the tenth of December, 1884. Nothing had ever
happened to me; my history was a blank. I might have died thus. But who
can foresee life's sudden transformations? Who can foretell that the
skein, hitherto so tranquilly unwound, will not suddenly become tangled?
This afternoon a serious adventure befell me. It agitated me at the
time, and it agitates me still more upon reflection. A voice within me
whispers that this cause will have a series of effects, that I am on the
threshold of an epoch, or, as the novelists say, a crisis in my
existence. It has struck me that I owe it to myself to write my Memoirs,
and that is the reason why I have just purchased this brown memorandum-
book in the Odeon Arcade. I intend to make a detailed and particular
entry of the event, and, as time goes on, of its consequences, if any
should happen to flow from it.
"Flow from it" is just the phrase; for it has to do with a blot of ink.
My blot of ink is hardly dry. It is a large one, too; of abnormal shape,
and altogether monstrous, whether one considers it from the physical side
or studies it in its moral bearings. It is very much more than an
accident; it has something of the nature of an outrage. It was at the
National Library that I perpetrated it, and upon-- But I must not
anticipate.
I often work in the National Library; not in the main hall, but in that
reserved for literary men who have a claim, and are provided with a
ticket, to use it. I never enter it without a gentle thrill, in which
respect is mingled with satisfied vanity. For not every one who chooses
may walk in. I must pass before the office of the porter, who retains my
umbrella, before I make my way to the solemn beadle who sits just inside
the doorway--a double precaution, attesting to the majesty of the place.
The beadle knows me. He no longer demands my ticket. To be sure, I am
not yet one of those old acquaintances on whom he smiles; but I am no
longer reckoned among those novices whose passport he exacts. An
inclination of his head makes me free of the temple, and says, as plainly
as words, "You are one of us, albeit a trifle young. Walk in, sir."
And in I walk, and admire on each occasion the vast proportions of the
interior, the severe decoration of the walls, traced with broad foliated
pattern and wainscoted with books of reference as high as hand can reach;
the dread tribunal of librarians and keepers in session down yonder, on a
kind of judgment-seat, at the end of the avenue whose carpet deadens all
footsteps; and behind again, that holy of holies where work the doubly
privileged--the men, I imagine, who are members of two or three
academies. To right and left of this avenue are rows of tables and
armchairs, where scatters, as caprice has chosen and habit consecrated,
the learned population of the library. Men form the large majority.
Viewed from the rear, as they bend over their work, they suggest
reflections on the ravages wrought by study upon hair-clad cuticles.
For every hirsute Southerner whose locks turn gray without dropping off,
heavens, what a regiment of bald heads! Visitors who look in through the
glass doors see only this aspect of devastation. It gives a wrong
impression. Here and there, at haphazard, you may find a few women among
these men. George Sand used to come here. I don't know the names of
these successors of hers, nor their business; I have merely observed that
they dress in sober colors, and that each carries a number of shawls and
a thick veil. You feel that love is far from their thoughts. They have
left it outside, perhaps--with the porter.
Several of these learned folk lift their heads as I pass, and follow me
with the dulled eye of the student, an eye still occupied with the
written thought and inattentive to what it looks on. Then, suddenly,
remorse seizes them for their distraction, they are annoyed with me, a
gloomy impatience kindles in their look, and each plunges anew into his
open volume. But I have had time to guess their secret ejaculations:
"I am studying the Origin of Trade Guilds!" "I, the Reign of Louis the
Twelfth!" "I, the Latin Dialects!" "I, the Civil Status of Women under
Tiberius!" "I am elaborating a new translation of Horace!" "I am
fulminating a seventh article, for the Gazette of Atheism and Anarchy, on
the Russian Serfs!" And each one seems to add, "But what is thy business
here, stripling? What canst thou write at thy age? Why troublest thou
the peace of these hallowed precincts?" My business, sirs? Alas! it is
the thesis for my doctor's degree. My uncle and venerated guardian, M.
Brutus Mouillard, solicitor, of Bourges, is urging me to finish it,
demands my return to the country, grows impatient over the slow toil of
composition. "Have done with theories," he writes, "and get to business!
If you must strive for this degree, well and good; but what possessed you
to choose such a subject?"
I must own that the subject of my thesis in Roman law has been
artistically chosen with a view to prolonging my stay in Paris: "On the
'Latini Juniani.'" Yes, gentle reader, a new subject, almost incapable
of elucidation, having no connection--not the remotest--with the exercise
of any profession whatsoever, entirely devoid of practical utility. The
trouble it gives me is beyond conception.
It is true that I intersperse my researches with some more attractive
studies, and one or two visits to the picture-galleries, and more than an
occasional evening at the theatre. My uncle knows nothing of this. To
keep him soothed I am careful to get my reader's ticket renewed every
month, and every month to send him the ticket just out of date, signed by
M. Leopold Delisle. He has a box full of them; and in the simplicity of
his heart Monsieur Mouillard has a lurking respect for this nephew, this
modern young anchorite, who spends his days at the National Library, his
nights with Gaius, wholly absorbed in the Junian Latins, and indifferent
to whatsoever does not concern the Junian Latins in this Paris which my
uncle still calls the Modern Babylon.
I came down this morning in the most industrious mood, when the
misfortune befell. Close by the sanctum where the librarians sit are two
desks where you write down the list of the books you want. I was doing
so at the right-hand desk, on which abuts the first row of tables. Hence
all the mischief. Had I written at the left-hand desk, nothing would
have happened. But no; I had just set down as legibly as possible the
title, author, and size of a certain work on Roman Antiquities, when, in
replacing the penholder, which is attached there by a small brass chain,
some inattentiveness, some want of care, my ill-luck, in short, led me to
set it down in unstable equilibrium on the edge of the desk. It tumbled-
I heard the little chain rattle-it tumbled farther-then stopped short.
The mischief was done. The sudden jerk, as it pulled up, had detached an
enormous drop of ink from the point of the pen, and that drop--Ah! I can
see him yet, as he rose from the shadow of the desk, that small, white-
haired man, so thin and so very angry!
"Clumsy idiot! To blot an Early Text!"
I leaned over and looked. Upon the page of folio, close to an
illuminated capital, the black drop had flattened itself. Around the
original sphere had been shed splashes of all conceivable shapes-rays,
rockets, dotted lines, arrowheads, all the freakish impromptu of chaos.
Next, the slope lending its aid, the channels had drained into one, and
by this time a black rivulet was crawling downward to the margin. One or
two readers near had risen, and now eyed me like examining magistrates.
I waited for an outbreak, motionless, dazed, muttering words that did not
mend the case at all. "What a pity! Oh, I'm so sorry! If I had only
known--" The student of the Early Text stood motionless as I. Together
we watched the ink trickle. Suddenly, summoning his wits together, he
burrowed with feverish haste in his morocco writing-case, pulled out a
sheet of blotting-paper, and began to soak up the ink with the
carefulness of a Sister of Mercy stanching a wound. I seized the
opportunity to withdraw discreetly to the third row of tables, where the
attendant had just deposited my books. Fear is so unreasoning. Very
likely by saying no more about it, by making off and hiding my head in my
hands, like a man crushed by the weight of his remorse, I might disarm
this wrath. I tried to think so. But I knew well enough that there was
more to come. I had hardly taken my seat when, looking up, I could see
between my fingers the little man standing up and gesticulating beside
one of the keepers. At one moment he rapped the damning page with his
forefinger; the next, he turned sidewise and flung out a hand toward me;
and I divined, without hearing a word, all the bitterness of his
invective. The keeper appeared to take it seriously. I felt myself
blushing. "There must be," thought I, "some law against ink-stains, some
decree, some regulation, something drawn up for the protection of Early
Texts. And the penalty is bound to be terrible, since it has been
enacted by the learned; expulsion, no doubt, besides a fine--an enormous
fine. They are getting ready over there to fleece me. That book of
reference they are consulting is of course the catalogue of the sale
where this treasure was purchased. I shall have to replace the Early
Text! O Uncle Mouillard!"
I sat there, abandoned to my sad reflections, when one of the attendants,
whom I had not seen approaching, touched me on the shoulder.
"The keeper wishes to speak to you."
I rose up and went. The terrible reader had gone back to his seat.
"It was you, sir, I believe, who blotted the folio just now?"
"It was, sir."
"You did not do so on purpose?"
"Most certainly not, sir! I am indeed sorry for he accident."
"You ought to be. The volume is almost unique; and the blot, too, for
that matter. I never saw such a blot! Will you, please, leave me your
Christian name, surname, profession, and address?"
I wrote down, "Fabien Jean Jacques Mouillard, barrister, 91 Rue de
Rennes."
"Is that all?" I asked.
"Yes, sir, that is all for the present. But I warn you that Monsieur
Charnot is exceedingly annoyed. It might be as well to offer him some
apology."
"Monsieur Charnot?"
"Yes. It is Monsieur Charnot, of the Institute, who was reading the
Early Text."
"Merciful Heavens!" I ejaculated, as I went back to my seat; "this must
be the man of whom my tutor spoke, the other day! Monsieur Flamaran
belongs to the Academy of Moral and Political Science, the other to the
Institute of Inscriptions and the Belles-Lettres. Charnot? Yes, I have
those two syllables in my ear. The very last time I saw Monsieur
Flamaran he let fall 'my very good friend Charnot, of the
'Inscriptions.' They are friends. And I am in a pretty situation;
threatened with I don't know what by the Library--for the keeper told me
positively that this was all 'for the present'--but not for the future;
threatened to be disgraced in my tutor's eyes; and all because this
learned man's temper is upset.
"I must apologize. Let me see, what could I say to Monsieur Charnot? As
a matter of fact, it's to the Early Text that I ought to apologize. I
have spilled no ink over Monsieur Charnot. He is spotless, collar and
cuffs; the blot, the splashes, all fell on the Text. I will say to him,
'Sir, I am exceedingly sorry to have interrupted you so unfortunately in
your learned studies.! 'Learned studies' will tickle his vanity, and
should go far to appease him."
I was on the point of rising. M. Charnot anticipated me.
Grief is not always keenest when most recent. As he approached I saw he
was more irritated and upset than at the moment of the accident. Above
his pinched, cleanshaven chin his lips shot out with an angry twitch.
The portfolio shook under his arm. He flung me a look full of tragedy
and went on his way.
Well, well; go your way, M. Charnot! One doesn't offer apologies to a
man in his wrath. You shall have them by-and-bye, when we meet again.