The Martian: A Novel. Du Maurier George

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СКАЧАТЬ means proper singing for a Sunday morning in a boys' school. But boys will be boys, even in France; and the famous "esprit Gaulois" was somewhat precocious in the forties, I suppose. Perhaps it is now, if it still exists (which I doubt – the dirt remains, but all the fun seems to have evaporated).

      Suddenly M. Dumollard bursts into the room in his violent sneaky way, pale with rage, and says:

      "Je vais gifler tous ceux qui ont chanté" (I'll box the ears of every boy who sang).

      So he puts all in a row and begins:

      "Rubinel, sur votre parole d'honneur, avez‐vous chanté?"

      "Non, m'sieur!"

      "Caillard, avez‐vous chanté?"

      "Non, m'sieur!"

      "Lipmann, avez‐vous chanté?"

      "Non, m'sieur!"

      "Maurice, avez‐vous chanté?"

      "Non, m'sieur" (which, for a wonder, was true, for I happened not to know either the words or the tune).

      "Josselin, avez‐vous chanté?"

      "Oui, m'sieur!"

      And down went Barty his full length on the floor, from a tremendous open‐handed box on the ear. Dumollard was a very Herculean person – though by no means gigantic.

      Barty got up and made Dumollard a polite little bow, and walked out of the room.

      "Vous êtes tous consignés!" says M. Dumollard – and the omnibus went away empty, and we spent all that Sunday morning as best we might.

      In the afternoon we went out walking in the Bois. Dumollard had recovered his serenity and came with us; for he was de service that day.

      Says Lipmann to him:

      "Josselin drapes himself in his English dignity – he sulks like Achilles and walks by himself."

      "Josselin is at least a man," says Dumollard. "He tells the truth, and doesn't know fear – and I'm sorry he's English!"

      And later, at the Mare d'Auteuil, he put out his hand to Barty and said:

      "Let's make it up, Josselin – au moins vous avez du cœur, vous. Promettez‐moi que vous ne chanterez plus cette sale histoire de Capucin!"

      Josselin took the usher's hand, and smiled his open, toothy smile, and said:

      "Pas le dimanche matin toujours – quand c'est vous qui serez de service, M. Dumollard!" (Anyhow not Sunday morning when you're on duty, Mr. D.)

      And Mr. D. left off running down the English in public after that – except to say that they couldn't be simple and natural if they tried; and that they affected a ridiculous accent when they spoke French – not Josselin and Maurice, but all the others he had ever met. As if plain French, which had been good enough for William the Conqueror, wasn't good enough for the subjects of her Britannic Majesty to‐day!

      The only event of any importance in Barty's life that year was his first communion, which he took with several others of about his own age. An event that did not seem to make much impression on him – nothing seemed to make much impression on Barty Josselin when he was very young. He was just a lively, irresponsible, irrepressible human animal – always in perfect health and exuberant spirits, with an immense appetite for food and fun and frolic; like a squirrel, a collie pup, or a kitten.

      Père Bonamy, the priest who confirmed him, was fonder of the boy than of any one, boy or girl, that he had ever prepared for communion, and could hardly speak of him with decent gravity, on account of his extraordinary confessions – all of which were concocted in the depths of Barty's imagination for the sole purpose of making the kind old curé laugh; and the kind old curé was just as fond of laughing as was Barty of playing the fool, in and out of season. I wonder if he always thought himself bound to respect the secrets of the confessional in Barty's case!

      And Barty would sing to him – even in the confessional:

      "Stabat mater dolorosa

      Juxta crucem lachrymose

      Dum pendebat fllius" …

      in a voice so sweet and innocent and pathetic that it would almost bring the tears to the good old curé's eyelash.

      "Ah! ma chère Mamzelle Marceline!" he would say – "au moins s'ils étaient tous comme ce petit Josselin! çà irait comme sur des roulettes! Il est innocent comme un jeune veau, ce mioche anglais! Il a le bon Dieu dans le cœur!"

      "Et une boussole dans l'estomac!" said Mlle. Marceline.

      I don't think he was quite so innocent as all that, perhaps – but no young beast of the field was ever more harmless.

      That year the examinations were good all round; even I did not disgrace myself, and Barty was brilliant. But there were no delightful holidays for me to record. Barty went to Yorkshire, and I remained in Paris with my mother.

      There is only one thing more worth mentioning that year.

      My father had inherited from his father a system of shorthand, which he called Blaze– I don't know why! His father had learnt it of a Dutch Jew.

      It is, I think, the best kind of cipher ever invented (I have taken interest in these things and studied them). It is very difficult to learn, but I learnt it as a child – and it was of immense use to me at lectures we used to attend at the Sorbonne and Collège de France.

      Barty was very anxious to know it, and after some trouble I obtained my father's permission to impart this calligraphic crypt to Barty, on condition he should swear on his honor never to reveal it: and this he did.

      With his extraordinary quickness and the perseverance he always had when he wished a thing very much, he made himself a complete master of this occult science before he left school, two or three years later: it took me seven years – beginning when I was four! It does equally well for French or English, and it played an important part in Barty's career. My sister knew it, but imperfectly; my mother not at all – for all she tried so hard and was so persevering; it must be learnt young. As far as I am aware, no one else knows it in England or France – or even the world – although it is such a useful invention; quite a marvel of simple ingenuity when one has mastered the symbols, which certainly take a long time and a deal of hard work.

      Barty and I got to talk it on our fingers as rapidly as ordinary speech and with the slightest possible gestures: this was his improvement.

      Barty came back from his holidays full of Whitby, and its sailors and whalers, and fishermen and cobles and cliffs – all of which had evidently had an immense attraction for him. He was always fond of that class; possibly also some vague atavistic sympathy for the toilers of the sea lay dormant in his blood like an inherited memory.

      And he brought back many tokens of these good people's regard – two formidable clasp‐knives (for each of which he had to pay the giver one farthing in current coin of the realm); spirit‐flasks, leather bottles, jet ornaments; woollen jerseys and comforters knitted for him by their wives and daughters; fossil ammonites and coprolites; a couple of young sea‐gulls to add to his menagerie; and many old English marine ditties, which he had to sing to M. Bonzig with his now cracked voice, and then translate into French. Indeed, СКАЧАТЬ