The Aspirations of Jean Servien | Page 4

am going to give you a more profitable
lesson than all the pitiful teaching I have confined myself to up to now.
"It is a lesson of transcendental philosophy. Hearken carefully, child. If
one day you rise above your station and come to know yourself and the
world about you, you will discover this, that men act only out of regard
for the opinion of their fellows--and per Bacco! they are consummate
fools for their pains. They dread other folks' blame and crave their
approval.
"The idiots fail to see that the world does not care a straw for them, and
that their dearest friends will see them glorified or disgraced without
missing one mouthful of their dinner. This is my lesson, caro figliuolo,
that the world's opinion is not worth the sacrifice of a single one of our
desires. If you get this into your pate, you will be a strong man and can
boast you were once the pupil of the Marquis Tudesco, of Venice, the
exile who has translated in a freezing garret, on scraps of refuse paper,
the immortal poem of Torquato Tasso. What a task!"
The child listened to the tipsy philosopher without understanding one
word of his rigmarole; only Monsieur Tudesco struck him as a strange
and alarming personage, and taller by a hundred feet than anybody he
had ever seen before.
The professor warmed to his subject:
"Ah!" he cried, springing from his seat, "and what profit did the
immortal and ill-starred Torquato Tasso win from all his genius? A few

stolen kisses on the steps of a palace. And he died of famine in a
madhouse. I say it: the world's opinion, that empress of humankind, I
will tear from her her crown and sceptre. Opinion tyrannizes over
unhappy Italy, as over all the earth. Italy! what flaming sword will one
day come to break her fetters, as now I break this chair?"
In fact, he had seized his chair by the back and was pounding it fiercely
on the floor.
But suddenly he stopped, gave a knowing smile, and said in a low
voice:
"No, no, Marquis Tudesco, let be, let Venice be a prey to Teuton
savagery. The fetters of the fatherland are daily bread to the exiled
patriot."
His chin buried in his cravat, he stood chuckling to himself, and his red
waistcoat rose and fell in jerks.
Mademoiselle Servien, who sat by at the lesson knitting a stocking and
for some moments had been watching the tutor, her spectacles pushed
half-way up her forehead, with a look of amazement and suspicion,
exclaimed, as if talking to herself:
"If it isn't abominable to come to people's houses in drink!"
Monsieur Tudesco did not seem to hear her. His manner was quiet and
jocular again.
"Child," he ordered, "write down the theme for an essay. Write down:
'The worst thing... yes, the worst thing of all,' write it down... 'is an old
woman with a spiteful temper.'"
And rising with the gracious dignity of a Prince of the Church, he
bowed low to the aunt, gave the nephew's cheek a friendly tap, and
marched out of the room.
However, beginning with the very next lesson, he lavished every mark

of respect on the old lady, and treated her to all his choicest airs and
graces, rounding his elbows, pursing his lips, strutting and swaggering.
She would not relax a muscle, and sat there as silent and sulky as an
owl.
But one day when she was hunting for her spectacles, as she was
always doing, Monsieur Tudesco offered her his and persuaded her to
try them; she found they suited her sight and felt a trifle less unamiable
towards him. The Italian, pursuing his advantage, got into talk with her,
and artfully turned the conversation upon the vices of the rich. The old
lady approved his sentiments, and an exchange of petty confidences
ensued. Tudesco knew a sovereign remedy for catarrh, and this too was
well received. He redoubled his attentions, and the concierge, who saw
him smiling to himself on the doorstep, told Aunt Servien: "The man's
in love with you." Of course she declared: "At my time of life a woman
doesn't want lovers," but her vanity was tickled all the same. Monsieur
Tudesco got what he wanted--to have his glass filled to the brim every
lesson. Out of politeness they would even leave him the pint jug only
half empty, which he was indiscreet enough to drain dry.
One day he asked for a taste of cheese--"just enough to make a mouse's
dinner," was his expression. "Mice are like me, they love the dark and a
quiet life and books; and like me they live on crumbs."
This pose of the wise man fallen on evil days made a