VI
From Olivier to Bernard
Il y a de certains défauts qui, bien mis en œuvre brillent plus que la vertu même.
La Rochefoucauld
Dear Old Fellow—
I must first tell you that I have passed my bachot all right. But that’s of no importance. A unique opportunity came in my way of travelling for a bit. I was still hesitating; but after reading your letter, I jumped at it. My mother made some objections at first; but Vincent soon got over them. He has been nicer than I could have hoped. I cannot believe that in the circumstances you allude to, he can have behaved like a cad. At our age, we have an unfortunate tendency to judge people severely and condemn them without appeal. Many actions appear to us reprehensible—odious even—simply because we don’t enter sufficiently into their motives. Vincent didn’t … but this would take too long and I have too many things to say to you.
You must know that the writer of this letter is no less a person than the editor-in-chief of the new review, The Vanguard. After some reflection I agreed to take up this responsible position, as Comte Robert de Passavant considered I should fill it worthily. It is he who is financing the review, though he doesn’t care about its being known just yet, and my name is to figure alone on the cover. We shall come out in October; try to send me something for the first number; I should be heartbroken if your name didn’t adorn the first list of contents alongside of mine. Passavant would like the first number to contain something rather shocking and spicy, for he thinks the most appalling thing that can be said against a new review is that it is mealymouthed. I’m inclined to agree with him. We discuss it a great deal. He has asked me to write the thing in question and has provided me with a rather risky subject for a short story; it worries me a little because of my mother, who may be hurt by it. But it can’t be helped. As Passavant says, the younger one is, the less compromising the scandal.
I am writing this from Vizzavone. Vizzavone is a little place halfway up one of the highest mountains in Corsica, buried in a thick forest. The hotel in which we are staying is some way off the village and is used by tourists as a starting place for their excursions. We have been here only a few days. We began by staying in an inn not far from the beautiful bay of Porto, where we bathed every morning; it is absolutely deserted and one can spend the whole day without a stitch on one. It was marvellous; but the weather turned too hot and we had to go up to the mountains.
Passavant is a delightful companion; he isn’t at all stuck up about his title; he likes me to call him Robert; and the name he has invented for me is Olive—isn’t it charming? He does all he can to make me forget his age and I assure you he does. My mother was rather alarmed at the idea of my going away with him, for she hardly knows him at all. I hesitated at first for fear of distressing her. Before your letter came I had almost given it up. Vincent persuaded her, however, and your letter suddenly gave me courage. We spent the last days before starting in doing a round of shops. Passavant is so generous that he is always wanting to give me things and I had to stop him all the time. But he thought my wretched rags frightful; shirts, ties, socks—nothing I had pleased him; he kept repeating that if we were to spend some time together, it would be too painful to him not to see me properly dressed—that is to say, as he likes. Naturally everything we bought was sent to his house, for fear of making my mother uncomfortable. He himself is exquisitely elegant; but above all his taste is very good, and a great many things which I used to think quite bearable now seem odious to me. You can’t imagine how amusing he was in the shops. He is really very witty. I should like to give you an idea of it. One day, we were at Brentano’s, where he was having a fountain pen mended. There was a huge Englishman just behind him who wanted to be served before his turn, and as Robert pushed him away rather roughly, he began to jabber something or other in his lingo; Robert turned round very calmly and said:
“It’s not a bit of use. I don’t understand English.”
The Englishman was in a rage and answered back in the purest French:
“Then you ought to.”
To which Robert answered with a polite smile:
“I told you it wasn’t a bit of use.”
The Englishman was boiling over, but he hadn’t another word to say. It was killing.
Another day we were at the Olympia. During the entr’acte we were in the promenade with a lot of prostitutes walking round. Two of them—rather decayed
