They’re to begin on Thursday.
I shall put on my blue skirt, with the pleated blouse that shows off my figure, and my apron. Not the big black apron I wear on weekdays with the close-fitting bib (though it’s quite becoming), but the pretty little pale blue embroidered one I wear at home on Sundays.
And that’s all.
I’m not going to take too much trouble for his friendship or my dear, kind little schoolmates will notice.
Aimee, Aimee!
It really is a pity that she’s flown away so soon, that charming little bird who might have consoled me for all those geese!
Now, I feel quite certain that last lesson will serve no purpose at all.
With a small nature like hers, frail and egotistical, a nature that likes its pleasures but knows how to look after its interests, it is useless to struggle against Mademoiselle Sergent.
I only hope that this great disappointment will not sadden me for long.
Today, at recreation, I played madly to shake myself up and to get warm.
Anais and I, grasping Marie Belhomme firmly by her ‘midwife’s hands’, made her run till she was breathless and panting for mercy.
Afterwards, under penalty of being locked up in the lavatories, I forced her to recite Theramene’s speech on the death of Hippolyte in a loud, intelligible voice.
She declaimed Racine’s alexandrines in a martyred voice and then escaped, flinging up her arms.
The sisters Jaubert struck me as impressed.
Good! If they don’t like the classics, they’ll be presented with modern verse on the next occasion.
The next occasion was not long delayed.
Hardly had we got back into the classroom than we were clamped down to exercises in round and cursive handwriting in view of the approaching exams.
For most of us had appalling writing.
‘Claudine, you will dictate the examples while I go and find places for the younger ones’ class.’
She went off to the ‘Second Class’ who, dislodged in their turn, were about to be installed goodness knows where.
This promised as a good half-hour to ourselves.
I began:
‘Children, today I am going to dictate to you something highly entertaining.’
Chorus of
‘Ah!’
‘Yes, some gay songs taken from Wandering Palaces.’
‘That sounds awfully nice, even from the title,’ observed Marie Belhomme with conviction.
‘You’re absolutely right.
Are you ready?
I’ll begin.
‘On the identical slow curve Whose slowness is implacable Ecstatically there vacillates and sinks The complex present of slow curves’
I paused.
The lanky Anais didn’t laugh because she didn’t understand. (Neither did I.) And Marie Belhomme, with her usual good faith, exclaimed:
‘But you know quite well we’ve already done geometry this morning!
And besides all that sounded too difficult. I haven’t written down half what you said.’
The twins rolled four defiant eyes.
I went on, imperturbably: ‘The selfsame autumn sees those curves homologous, Parallel to your grief on the long autumn evenings, Flattening the slow curve of things and your brief birdlike hoppings.”
They followed laboriously, without making any further efforts to understand. I felt a delicious satisfaction at hearing Marie Belhomme complain once more and stop me:
‘Wait a bit, wait a bit … you’re going much too fast … The slow curve of what?’
I repeated:
‘The slow curve of things and your brief birdlike hoppings… Now copy that out for me, first in round script, then in cursive …’
These supplementary writing-lessons, designed to satisfy the examiners at the end of July, were my joy.
I dictated the most extravagant things and I had immense pleasure in hearing these daughters of grocers, cobblers and policemen meekly reciting and writing down parodies of the Romantic School or of Francis Jammes’ murmuring lullabies. I collected al these for the benefit of my dear little companions from the reviews and magazines my father received. And he certainly received plenty!
All the periodicals from the Revue des deux mondes to the Mercure de France accumulated in our house.
Papa confided to me the duty of cutting their pages: I allocated to myself the duty of reading them.
For someone had to read them!
Papa merely gave them a superficial, absent-minded glance, since the Mercure de France deals very seldom indeed with malacology.
As for myself, I found them highly instructive, if not always comprehensible, and I used to warn Papa when the subscriptions were running out,
‘You must renew yours, Papa, or you’ll lose the good opinion of the postman.’
That gawk Anais, who is lacking in knowledge of literature – it’s not her fault – muttered sceptically: