Bildungsromans; France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Villages -- France -- Fiction
crushed morocco case--to none of which advantages could I, alas, lay
claim. He would also adorn his business conversation with choice
expressions, to which, as a rule, he gave a wrong meaning.
While I heard my grandmother, who shewed no sign of annoyance at his
listening to her with his hat on his head and whistling through his
teeth at her, ask him in an artificial voice, "And what are . . . your
charges? . . . Oh! far too high for my little budget," waiting upon a
bench, I sought refuge in the innermost depths of my own consciousness,
strove to migrate to a plane of eternal thoughts--to leave nothing of
myself, nothing that lived and felt on the surface of my body,
anaesthetised as are those of animals which by inhibition feign death
when they are attacked--so as not to suffer too keenly in this place,
with which my total unfamiliarity was made all the more evident to me
when I saw the familiarity that seemed at the same moment to be enjoyed
by a smartly dressed lady for whom the manager shewed his respect by
taking liberties with the little dog that followed her across the hall,
the young "blood" with a feather in his hat who asked, as he came in,
"Any letters?" all these people to whom it was an act of home-coming to
mount those stairs of imitation marble. And at the same time the triple
frown of Minos, Æacus and Rhadamanthus (beneath which I plunged my
naked soul as into an unknown element where there was nothing now to
protect it) was bent sternly upon me by a group of gentlemen who, though
little versed perhaps in the art of receiving, yet bore the title
"Reception Clerks", while beyond them again, through a closed wall of
glass, were people sitting in a reading-room for the description of
which I should have had to borrow from Dante alternately the colours in
which he paints Paradise and Hell, according as I was thinking of the
happiness of the elect who had the right to sit and read there
undisturbed, or of the terror which my grandmother would have inspired
in me if, in her insensibility to this sort of impression, she had asked
me to go in there and wait for her by myself.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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