BATHING

The bad lads of the countryside thought it a lark to smoke cigarettes, to put sugar and water on their hair to make it curl, to kiss girls from the Continuation School in the street, and to call out from behind a hedge, ‘Poke-bonnet,’ to rag a passing nun. At twenty, however, bad lads of that kind can very well improve and become often most sensible fellows. The problem is graver when the bad lad’s appearance is wizened and old, when his mind is occupied with low tales of the women roundabout, when he is always making stupid remarks about Gilberte Poquelin for the other boys to laugh. But even so there is still room for hope....

That was the case with Jasmin Delouche. He continued, I do not know why, but certainly from no wish to pass exams, to study with the top form when every one would rather he gave it up. Between whiles, too, he learned the plasterer’s trade with his Uncle Dumas. And soon this Jasmin Delouche and Boujardon and a softish fellow called Denis, son of the deputy mayor, were the only big boys with whom I cared to associate, because they belonged to ‘Meaulnes’ time.’

Besides, Delouche was genuinely keen to be my friend. To tell the truth, though he had been Admiral Meaulnes’ enemy, he wanted to be the Admiral Meaulnes of the school: at any rate, he regretted perhaps not having been his lieutenant. Less thick than Boujardon, he had felt I believe, what an extraordinary event Meaulnes had been in our life. And I often heard him repeat: ‘Ah! that’s what he used to say, Admiral Meaulnes....’ or again, ‘Just as Admiral Meaulnes would’ve said....’

This old-looking fellow, besides being more of a man than we were, got hold of ripping things which gave him a pull over us: a mongrel with long white hair who answered to the irritating name of Bécali and fetched stones thrown ever so far, without being much good for anything else; a second-hand bicycle which Jasmin let us ride sometimes in the evening after school, but on which he preferred to exercise the village girls; last but not least, a white donkey, quite blind, which could be harnessed to any vehicle.

It was Dumas’ donkey, but, in the summer, it was lent to Jasmin whenever we went bathing in the Cher. His mother, at such times, always gave him a bottle of lemonade which we placed under the driver’s seat, amongst the stiff, dry bathing-drawers. And we set out, eight to ten big boys from the top form, going with M. Seurel, some on foot, others hoisted in the donkey cart which we left behind at Deep Waters Farm, where the path along the Cher became like a ravine.

I have good reason to remember in all its minute details one outing of this kind, when Jasmin’s donkey took to the Cher the slips, luggage, lemonade, and M. Seurel, while we followed on foot. It was during the month of August. We had just finished examinations. We were care-free, and the whole summer, all happiness, seemed to belong to us; so, early that fine Thursday afternoon, we marched along the road singing, not knowing what we sang or why we sang it.

On the way, only one shadow fell on this innocent picture. We noticed Gilberte Poquelin ahead of us. She walked alluringly, in a rather short skirt and high-heeled shoes; she had the sweet yet bold air of a girl who was nearly a woman. She left the road for a by-lane, no doubt on her way to fetch milk. Little Coffin at once proposed to Jasmin to follow her.

‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’d kissed her either ...’ said the other. And he began to relate several risky stories concerning her and her girl friends, while, by way of bragging, our little troop took to the lane and left M. Seurel on the road forging ahead in the donkey cart. Once in the lane, however, our band began to scatter. Even Delouche, in our presence, did not appear over-anxious to approach the girl who hurried on, and he did not come nearer than fifty yards. There was a display of cock-crowing and hen-clucking, a few enticing little bursts of whistling; then we walked back the way we had come, feeling uncomfortable and thwarted. Back on the road, we had to run, under the blazing sun, too. We no longer sang.

We undressed and dressed again in the parched willow-ground bordering the Cher. The willows sheltered us from onlookers, but not from the sun. Our feet were on sand and dry mud; our one thought was for the bottle of widow Delouche’s lemonade being kept cool in the pool at Deep Waters, a pool hollowed out in the very bank of the Cher.

There were always pale-greenish weeds to be found at the bottom, and two or three creatures which looked like woodlice; but the water was so clear, so transparent, that fishermen never hesitated to kneel and drink at it, one hand placed on either bank.

Alas! it happened that day as it always did.... Once we were dressed and, squatting on our heels in a circle, were ready to share the cool lemonade out of two tumblers, after inviting M. Seurel to take his share, there came to each of us scarcely more than a little froth which grated on the throat and only aggravated one’s thirst. So finally, as his turn came, each of us went to the pool we had at first despised and slowly lowered his face to the level of the clear water. But we were not all used to these peasant’s ways. Several of us, myself included, never managed to quench our thirst: some because they did not like water; others because their throats contracted at the fear of swallowing a woodlouse; others again, deceived by the transparency of the still water and unable to estimate the exact distance to its surface, pushed half of their faces in with their lips and drew in through the nose stinging water which seemed quite hot; others for all these reasons put together.... What did it matter! It always seemed to us, there on the parched banks of the Cher, that the whole fresh beauty of nature was enclosed in that spot. And even now, whenever I hear the word pool anywhere, it is of that one pool I lovingly think.

We came back at dusk with the same care-free spirit as when we went. The Deep Waters’ track, leading up to the road, was a brook in the winter, but in the summer a ravine unfit for traffic, obstructed by holes and big roots and leading uphill between tall rows of shady trees. Some of the bathers went that way, just for fun. But with M. Seurel, Jasmin, and several other boys, we followed an easy sandy path running parallel to the first and bordering a neighbouring farm. We could hear the others talk and laugh close to us, down below, hidden from sight in the shady path, while Delouche told his mannish tales.... At the top of the tall row of trees, evening insects were droning and could be seen against the clear sky, as they moved around the lacework of the leaves. Sometimes, one suddenly tumbled down, its hum fizzling out all at once.... A beautiful quiet summer evening!... A peaceful home-coming, void of hope, but also of longing, after an ordinary little country outing.... Once again, without realising it, Jasmin came to disturb this peacefulness....

Just as we reached the top of the hill, at the place where two huge ancient stones stand--they are rumoured to be the remains of a fortress--he began to speak of the estates he had visited, above all of one half forsaken in the neighbourhood of Vieux-Nançay: the Sand Pit Manor. With his Allier accent, which shows affectation in rounding off some words and in shortening others, he related having seen, some years previously, in the tumble-down chapel of the old manor, a tombstone on which were carved the words:

Here lies Sir Galois, Knight, faithful to his God, his King and his Love.

‘Well! I never!’ said M. Seurel, slightly shrugging his shoulders, ill at ease at the turn the conversation had taken, yet anxious nevertheless to let us talk like men.

Then Jasmin went on describing the manor house as if he had spent his life there.

On their way home from Vieux-Nançay, he and Dumas had more than once been puzzled by the old grey tower which could be seen above the firs. There, in the middle of the woods, you came to a maze of decrepit buildings which you could visit when the owners were away. One of the keepers of the place, to whom they had given a lift, had once taken them to the mysterious manor. But since then everything had been razed to the ground; there only remained, people said, the farm and a small country-house. The occupiers were still the same: an old naval officer, in reduced circumstances, and his daughter.

He went on talking ... talking.... I listened attentively, feeling, without being aware of it, that all this concerned facts well known to me, when suddenly, in the simple way extraordinary things do happen, Jasmin turned to me and touched me on the arm as if struck by an idea which had never occurred to him.

‘My goodness, now I come to think of it,’ he said, ‘it must have been there Meaulnes--you know, Admiral Meaulnes?--went.’

‘Of course,’ he went on, for I did not answer him, ‘and I remember that the keeper used to speak of the son of the place, a queer fellow who had very weird ideas....’

I no longer listened to him, convinced as I was from the first that he had guessed right and that in front of me, far from Meaulnes, far from all hope, there had just opened out, as clear and easy as a familiar road, a path to the manor without a name.