XXVII

I see much of the rest of that particular Paris time in the light of the

Institution Fezandie, and I see the Institution Fezandie, Rue Balzac, in

the light, if not quite of Alphonse Daudet's lean asylum for the _petits

pays chauds_, of which I have felt the previous institutions of New York

sketchily remind me, at least in that of certain other of his studies in

that field of the precarious, the ambiguous Paris over parts of which

the great Arch at the top of the Champs-Elysees flings, at its hours, by

its wide protective plausible shadow, a precious mantle of "tone." They

gather, these chequered parts, into its vast paternal presence and enjoy

at its expense a degree of reflected dignity. It was to the big square

villa of the Rue Balzac that we turned, as pupils not unacquainted with

vicissitudes, from a scene swept bare of M. Lerambert, an establishment

that strikes me, at this distance of time, as of the oddest and most

indescribable--or as describable at best in some of the finer turns and

touches of Daudet's best method. The picture indeed should not be

invidious--it so little needs that, I feel, for its due measure of the

vivid, the queer, the droll, all coming back to me without prejudice to

its air as of an equally futile felicity. I see it as bright and loose

and vague, as confused and embarrassed and helpless; I see it, I fear,

as quite ridiculous, but as wholly harmless to my brothers and me at

least, and as having left us with a fund of human impressions; it played

before us such a variety of figure and character and so relieved us of a

sense of untoward discipline or of the pursuit of abstract knowledge. It

was a recreational, or at least a social, rather than a tuitional house;

which fact had, I really believe, weighed favourably with our parents,

when, bereft of M. Lerambert, they asked themselves, with their

considerable practice, how next to bestow us. Our father, like so many

free spirits of that time in New York and Boston, had been much

interested in the writings of Charles Fourier and in his scheme of the

"phalanstery" as the solution of human troubles, and it comes to me that

he must have met or in other words heard of M. Fezandie as an active and

sympathetic ex-Fourierist (I think there were only ex-Fourierists by

that time,) who was embarking, not far from us, on an experiment if not

absolutely phalansteric at least inspired, or at any rate enriched, by a

bold idealism. I like to think of the Institution as all but

phalansteric--it so corrects any fear that such places might be dreary.

I recall this one as positively gay--bristling and bustling and

resonant, untouched by the strenuous note, for instance, of Hawthorne's

co-operative Blithedale. I like to think that, in its then still almost

suburban, its pleasantly heterogeneous quarter, now oppressively

uniform, it was close to where Balzac had ended his life, though I

question its identity--as for a while I tried not to--with the scene

itself of the great man's catastrophe. Round its high-walled garden at

all events he would have come and gone--a throb of inference that had

for some years indeed to be postponed for me; though an association

displacing to-day, over the whole spot, every other interest. I in any

case can't pretend not to have been most appealed to by that especial

phase of our education from which the pedagogic process as commonly

understood was most fantastically absent. It excelled in this respect,

the Fezandie phase, even others exceptionally appointed, heaven knows,

for the supremacy; and yet its glory is that it was no poor blank, but

that it fairly creaked and groaned, heatedly overflowed, with its

wealth. We were _externes_, the three of us, but we remained in general

to luncheon; coming home then, late in the afternoon, with an almost

sore experience of multiplicity and vivacity of contact. For the beauty

of it all was that the Institution was, speaking technically, not more a

_pensionnat_, with prevailingly English and American pupils, than a

_pension_, with mature beneficiaries of both sexes, and that our two

categories were shaken up together to the liveliest effect. This had

been M. Fezandie's grand conception; a son of the south, bald and

slightly replete, with a delicate beard, a quick but anxious, rather

melancholy eye and a slim, graceful, juvenile wife, who multiplied

herself, though scarce knowing at moments, I think, where or how to

turn; I see him as a Daudet _meridional_, but of the sensitive, not the

sensual, type, as something of a rolling stone, rolling rather down

hill--he had enjoyed some arrested, possibly blighted, connection in

America--and as ready always again for some new application of faith and

funds. If fondly failing in the least to see why the particular

application in the Rue Balzac--the body of pensioners ranging from

infancy to hoary eld--shouldn't have been a bright success could have

made it one, it would have been a most original triumph.

I recover it as for ourselves a beautifully mixed adventure, a brave

little seeing of the world on the happy pretext of "lessons." We _had_

lessons from time to time, but had them in company with ladies and

gentlemen, young men and young women of the Anglo-Saxon family, who sat

at long boards of green cloth with us and with several of our

contemporaries, English and American boys, taking _dictees_ from the

head of the house himself or from the aged and most remarkable M.

Bonnefons, whom we believed to have been a superannuated actor (he above

all such a model for Daudet!) and who interrupted our abashed readings

aloud to him of the French classics older and newer by wondrous

reminiscences and even imitations of Talma. He moved among us in a cloud

of legend, the wigged and wrinkled, the impassioned, though I think alas

underfed, M. Bonnefons: it was our belief that he "went back," beyond

the first Empire, to the scenes of the Revolution--this perhaps partly

by reason, in the first place, of his scorn of our pronunciation, when

we met it, of the sovereign word _liberte_, the poverty of which, our

deplorable "libbete," without r's, he mimicked and derided, sounding the

right, the revolutionary form out splendidly, with thirty r's, the

prolonged beat of a drum. And then we believed him, if artistically

conservative, politically obnoxious to the powers that then were, though

knowing that those so marked had to walk, and even to breathe,

cautiously for fear of the _mouchards_ of the tyrant; we knew all about

mouchards and talked of them as we do to-day of aviators or

suffragettes--to remember which in an age so candidly unconscious of

them is to feel how much history we have seen unrolled. There were times

when he but paced up and down and round the long table--I see him as

never seated, but always on the move, a weary Wandering Jew of the

_classe_; but in particular I hear him recite to us the combat with the

Moors from Le Cid and show us how Talma, describing it, seemed to crouch

down on his haunches in order to spring up again terrifically to the

height of "Nous nous levons alors!" which M. Bonnefons rendered as if on

the carpet there fifty men at least had leaped to their feet. But he

threw off these broken lights with a quick relapse to indifference; he

didn't like the Anglo-Saxon--of the children of Albion at least his view

was low; on his American specimens he had, I observed, more mercy; and

this imperfection of sympathy (the question of Waterloo apart) rested,

it was impossible not to feel, on his so resenting the dishonour

suffered at our hands by his beautiful tongue, to which, as the great

field of elocution, he was patriotically devoted. I think he fairly

loathed our closed English vowels and confused consonants, our

destitution of sounds that he recognised as sounds; though why in this

connection he put up best with our own compatriots, embroiled at that

time often in even stranger vocables than now, is more than I can say. I

think that would be explained perhaps by his feeling in them as an old

equalitarian certain accessibilities _quand meme_. Besides, we of the

younger persuasion at least must have done his ear less violence than

those earnest ladies from beyond the sea and than those young Englishmen

qualifying for examinations and careers who flocked with us both to the

plausibly spread and the severely disgarnished table, and on whose part

I seem to see it again an effort of anguish to "pick up" the happy idiom

that we had unconsciously acquired. French, in the fine old formula of

those days, so much diffused, "was the language of the family"; but I

think it must have appeared to these students in general a family of

which the youngest members were but scantly kept in their place. We

piped with a greater facility and to a richer meed of recognition; which

sounds as if we might have become, in these strange collocations, fairly

offensive little prigs. That was none the less not the case, for there

were, oddly enough, a few French boys as well, to whom on the lingual or

the "family" ground, we felt ourselves feebly relative, and in

comparison with whom, for that matter, or with one of whom, I remember

an occasion of my having to sink to insignificance. There was at the

Institution little of a staff--besides waiters and bonnes; but it

embraced, such as it was, M. Mesnard as well as M. Bonnefons--M. Mesnard

of the new generation, instructor in whatever it might be, among the

arts, that didn't consist of our rolling our r's, and with them, to help

us out, more or less our eyes. It is significant that this elegant

branch is now quite vague to me; and I recall M. Mesnard, in fine, as no

less modern and cheap than M. Bonnefons was rare and unappraiseable. He

had nevertheless given me his attention, one morning, doubtless

patiently enough, in some corner of the villa that we had for the moment

practically to ourselves--I seem to see a small empty room looking on

the garden; when there entered to us, benevolently ushered by Madame

Fezandie, a small boy of very fair and romantic aspect, as it struck me,

a pupil newly arrived. I remember of him mainly that he had a sort of

nimbus of light curls, a face delicate and pale and that deeply hoarse

voice with which French children used to excite our wonder. M. Mesnard

asked of him at once, with interest, his name, and on his pronouncing it

sought to know, with livelier attention, if he were then the son of M.

Arsene Houssaye, lately director of the Theatre Francais. To this

distinction the boy confessed--all to such intensification of our

repetiteur's interest that I knew myself quite dropped, in comparison,

from his scheme of things. Such an origin as our little visitor's

affected him visibly as dazzling, and I felt justified after a while, in

stealing away into the shade. The beautiful little boy was to live to be

the late M. Henry Houssaye, the shining hellenist and historian. I have

never forgotten the ecstasy of hope in M. Mesnard's question--as a

light on the reverence then entertained for the institution M. Houssaye

the elder had administered.