Claudine at School

by Colette

  ‘What did you put? How did you begin?’

  ‘You bore me stiff … You don’t imagine I learnt all that stuff by heart?’

  ‘But your rough?’

  ‘I didn’t do one – only a few sentences that I licked into shape before I wrote them down.’

  ‘My dear, you’ll get a terrific scolding! I’ve brought my rough out to show to Mademoiselle.’

  Marie Belhomme had also brought her rough out, so had all the others, including all the girls from other schools; it was always done.

  In the playground, still warm from the sun that had now withdrawn from it, Mademoiselle Sergent was sitting on a little low wall, reading a novel: ‘Ah! Here you are at last! Your roughs, quick … let me see that you haven’t made too many howlers.’

  She read them and pronounced on them: Anaïs’s, it seemed, was ‘not devoid of merit’; Luce’s ‘had good ideas’ (mine, to be exact) ‘not sufficiently developed’; Marie’s was ‘full of padding, as usual’; the Jauberts’ essays were ‘very presentable’.

  ‘Your rough, Claudine?’

  ‘I didn’t do one.’

  ‘My dear child, you must be mad! No rough on an examination day! I give up all hope of ever getting any rational behaviour out of you … Well, was your essay bad?’

  ‘Oh no, Mademoiselle, I don’t think it was bad.’

  ‘It’s worth what? Seventeen?’

  ‘Seventeen? Oh, Mademoiselle, modesty forbids me … seventeen, that’s a lot … After all, they ought to give me at least eighteen!’

  My companions stared at me with envious spite. ‘That Claudine, she isn’t half lucky to be able to foretell what marks she’ll get! Let’s hasten to add that it’s no merit to her, she’s naturally good at it and that’s that; she does French essays as easily as anyone else fries eggs’ … and so on and on!

  All about us, candidates were chattering in a shrill key, showing their roughs to their teachers, exclaiming, giving ‘Ahs’ of regret at having missed out an idea … twittering like little birds in an aviary.

  That night, instead of escaping into the town, I lay in bed, side by side with Marie Belhomme, discussing this great day with her.

  ‘The girl on my right,’ Marie told me, ‘comes from a convent school. Just imagine, Claudine, this morning, when they were giving out the papers before Dictation, she brought a rosary out of her pocket and was saying it under the table. Yes, my dear, a rosary with huge round beads, something like a pocket abacus. It was to bring her luck.’

  ‘Pooh! If that doesn’t do any good, it doesn’t do any harm either … What’s that I hear?’

  What I heard, or thought I heard, was a tremendous row in the room opposite ours, the one where Luce and Anaïs slept. The door opened violently and Luce, in a brief chemise, flung herself into the room, distracted:

  ‘Please, please … protect me … Anaïs is being so horrid …’

  ‘What’s she been doing to you?’

  ‘First she poured water in my boots, and then, in bed, she kicked me and she pinched my thighs, and, when I complained she told me I could sleep on the bedside mat if I wasn’t satisfied!’

  ‘Why don’t you call Mademoiselle?’

  ‘All very well, call Mademoiselle! I went to the door of her room, she wasn’t there, and the girl who was going along the passage told me that she’d gone out with the manageress … So now what am I going to do?’ She was crying, poor kid! She was so small in her daytime chemise that showed her slim arms and her pretty legs. Decidedly, she would be much more seductive quite naked and with her face veiled. (Two holes for eyes, perhaps?) But this was not the moment to speculate about such matters; I jumped out of bed and ran across to the room opposite. Anaïs occupied the middle of the bed, with the blanket pulled right up to her chin: she was wearing her wickedest face.

  ‘Look here, what’s come over you? Won’t you let Luce sleep with you?’

  ‘I don’t say that. Only she wants to take up all the room, so I pushed her.’

  ‘Rot! You pinched her – and you poured water in her boots.’

  ‘Sleep with her yourself, if you want to. I’m not keen to.’

  ‘Anyway her skin’s much fresher than yours! True that’s not saying much.’

  ‘Oh go on, go on. Everyone knows you’re as keen on the little sister as you are on the big one!’

  ‘You just wait, my girl. I’m about to change your ideas.’

  Only in my chemise as I was, I hurled myself on the bed, tore off the sheets and grabbed the lanky Anaïs by her two feet. In spite of the nails she silently dug into my shoulders, I dragged her down from the bed on her back, with her feet still in my hands and I called out: ‘Marie, Luce, come and look!’

  A little procession of white chemises ran in on bare feet and everyone was scared. ‘Hi! Separate them! Call Mademoiselle!’ Anaïs did not scream; she waved her legs and threw me devouring glances, desperate to hide what I was revealing as I dragged her along the floor – yellow thighs and a pear-shaped behind. I had such a frantic desire to laugh that I was frightened I would let go of her. I explained the situation:

  ‘The fact is that this great gawk Anaïs I’m holding doesn’t want to let little Luce sleep with her, that she pinches her, that she puts water in her boots and that I want to make her keep quiet.’

  There was silence and a marked chill. The Jauberts were too prudent to lay the blame on either of us two. At last I let go of Anaïs’s ankles and she got up, hastily pulling down her chemise.

  ‘Into bed with you now, and try and leave this kid in peace or you’ll get a thrashing that’ll tan your hide.’

  Still silent and furious, she ran to her bed, and huddled down into it, her face to the wall. She’s an incredible coward and blows are the only thing in the world she fears. While the little white ghosts were scurrying back to their rooms, Luce got timidly into bed beside her persecutor, who was now as motionless as a sack. (My protégée told me next day that Anaïs had not stirred all night, except to fling her pillow on the floor out of rage.)

  No one mentioned the story to Mademoiselle Sergent. We were far too busy thinking about the day that lay before us! Arithmetic and drawing tests and, in the evening, they would put up the lists of the candidates admitted to the oral exam.

  After gulping down some chocolate, we made a hurried departure. It was already warm at seven o’clock. Feeling more used to things, we took our places ourselves and we chattered, with decent moderation, while we waited for their Lordships. Already we felt more at home; we slipped ourselves in without banging ourselves between the bench and the table; we arranged our pencils, pen-holders, india-rubbers and scrapers in front of us with an air of being quite accustomed to doing so; it was remarkably convincing, that air. We very nearly displayed personal fads.

  The masters of our destinies made their entrance. They had already lost some of their prestige; the least shy ones looked at them tranquilly, as if they knew them quite well. Roubaud, who was sporting a pseudo-panama hat in which he obviously fancied himself very smart, became quite fidgety and said impatiently: ‘Come along, young ladies, come along! We’re late this morning, we must make up for lost time.’ I liked that! So, just now, it had been our fault that they hadn’t been able to get up in good time. At top speed, the tables were strewed with sheets of paper; hurriedly we sealed the corners to hide our names; hurriedly the revved-up Roubaud broke the seal of the big yellow envelope bearing the official stamp of the Examining Faculty and drew out of it the redoubtable statement of the problems:

  ‘First Question. – A certain man bought 3½ per cent stock at the rate of 94 francs, 60 centimes, etc.’

  I longed for hail to batter through his pseudo-panama! Operations on the Bourse drive me frantic: there are brokerages of 1/8 per cent that I have all the torment in the world not to forget.

  ‘Second Question. – The Theory of Divisibility by 9. You have one hour.’

  My goodness, that was none too much. Luckily I’d learnt divisibility
by 9 for so long that it had finally stuck in my mind. Once again I’d have to put in order all the necessary and sufficing conditions – what a bore!

  The other candidates were already absorbed and alert; a faint whispering of numbers, of muttered calculations, arose above the bent heads.

  The first problem was finished. After having begun each calculation all over again twice (I so often make mistakes!) I obtained a result of 22,850 francs as the gentleman’s profit: a pretty profit! I had confidence in this round and reassuring number but all the same, I wanted the support of Luce who conjures with figures in a masterly way. Several competitors had finished and I could see none but satisfied faces. In any case most of these little daughters of grasping peasants or shrewd seamstresses are gifted for arithmetic to an extent that has often amazed me. I might have asked my dark-haired next-door neighbour, who had also finished, but I mistrusted her discreet and serious eyes, so I therefore concocted a ball, which flew off and fell under Luce’s nose, bearing the figure 22,850. The child joyfully signalled me a ‘Yes’ with her head. Satisfied, I then asked my neighbour: ‘How much have you got?’ She hesitated and murmured, with reserve: ‘I’ve over 20,000 francs.’

  ‘So’ve I, but how much more?’

  ‘I told you … more than 20,000 francs …’

  ‘All right, I’m not asking you to lend me them! Keep your 22,850 francs, you’re not the only one who’s got the right result. You’re like a black ant – for various reasons!’

  A few girls near us laughed; my interlocutor, not even offended, folded her hands and lowered her eyes.

  ‘Have you finished, young ladies?’ bellowed Roubaud. ‘I restore you your liberty. Be in good time for the drawing test.’

  We returned at five minutes to two to the ex-Rivoire Institute. What disgust, what a desire to run away the sight of that dilapidated prison induced in me!

  In the best-lit part of the classroom, Roubaud had disposed two circles of chairs; in the centre of each, a stand. What were they going to put on it? We were all eyes. The examiner-cum-factotum disappeared and returned bearing two glass jugs with handles. Before he had placed them on the stand, all the girls were whispering: ‘My dear, it’s going to be frightfully difficult, because of being transparent!’

  Roubaud announced:

  ‘Young ladies, for the drawing test, you are at liberty to sit where you choose. Reproduce these two utensils (utensil yourself!) in line, the sketch in charcoal, the finished outline in drawing-pencil. You are strictly forbidden to use a ruler or anything whatever that resembles one. The sheets of cardboard that you should all have brought with you will serve you as drawing-boards.’

  He had not finished speaking before I had already flung myself into the chair I had my eye on, an excellent place from which one saw the jug in profile, with the handle at the side. Several followed my example and I found myself between Luce and Marie Belhomme. ‘Strictly forbidden to use a ruler for the lines of construction?’ Nonsense, everyone knew what that meant! My companions and I had in reserve strips of stiff paper a decimetre long and marked off in centimetres, very easy to conceal.

  We had permission to talk, but we made little use of it; we preferred to make grimaces, arm outstretched and one eye shut, in order to take measurements with the charcoal-holder. With a little dexterity, nothing was simpler than to draw the construction-lines with a ruler (two strokes which divided the sheet cross-wise and a rectangle to enclose the belly of the jug).

  From the other circle of chairs came a sudden small commotion, stifled exclamations and Roubaud’s severe voice: ‘It wouldn’t need more than that, Mademoiselle, to have yourself excluded from the examination!’ It was a wretched girl, a skimpy, puny little thing, who had got caught, ruler in hand, and was now sobbing into her handkerchief. Roubaud became extremely nosy and examined us at close quarters, but the marked strips of paper had disappeared as if by magic. In any case, we didn’t need them any more.

  My jug was coming on beautifully, with a well-curved belly. While I was complacently considering it, our invigilator, distracted by the timid entry of the schoolmistresses who had come to find out ‘if the French composition had been good on the whole’, left us alone, Luce gave me a gentle tug: ‘Do tell me if my drawing’s all right; it looks to me as if something’s wrong with it.’

  After examining it, I explained to her:

  ‘Why, of course – it’s got the handle too low. It makes it look like a whipped dog that’s tucking its tail in.’

  ‘What about mine?’ asked Marie from the other side.

  ‘Yours is hunchbacked on the right side: put an orthopaedic corset on it.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I’m telling you you ought to put some cottonwool on the left, it’s only got “advantages” on one side. Ask Anaïs to lend you one of her false bosoms.’ (For the lanky Anaïs inserts two handkerchiefs in the gussets of her stays and all our gibes haven’t succeeded in making her decide to give up this childish padding.)

  This back-chat threw my neighbours into a state of uncontrolled gaiety. Luce flung herself back in her chair, exposing all the fresh teeth in her little cat-like jaw as she laughed. Marie blew out her cheeks like the bellows of a bagpipe. Then suddenly they both stopped, petrified in the midst of their joy – for the terrible pair of blazing eyes belonging to Mademoiselle Sergent had cast a Medusa look at them from the far end of the room. And the session was concluded in irreproachable silence.

  They put us out, feverish and noisy at the thought that, this very evening, we should read, on a big list nailed to the door, the names of the candidates who had qualified for the Orals next day. Mademoiselle Sergent had difficulty in restraining us: we were making an intolerable noise chattering.

  ‘Are you coming to look at the names, Marie?’

  ‘Gracious, no! If I wasn’t on it, the others would jeer at me.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ said Anaïs. ‘I want to see the faces of those who haven’t qualified.’

  ‘And suppose you were one of them yourself?’

  ‘All right then, I don’t have my name written on my forehead. I’d know how to put on a beaming expression so that the others wouldn’t look pitying.’

  ‘That’s enough! You’re bursting my eardrums,’ said Mademoiselle Sergent sharply. ‘You’ll see what you’ll see – and take care I don’t come alone, this evening, to read the names on the door. To begin with, we’re not going back to the hotel; I’ve no desire to make that trek twice more; we’ll dine at the restaurant.’

  She asked for a private room. In the species of bathroom they allotted to us where the light fell drearily from above, our effervescence petered out. We ate like so many little wolves, without saying a word. Our hunger appeased, we took it in turn to ask, every ten minutes, what time it was. Mademoiselle tried vainly to calm our jangled nerves by assuring us there were too many entrants for their Lordships to have been able to read all the essays before nine o’clock; we went on seething all the same.

  We did not know what to do with ourselves in this cellar! Mademoiselle Sergent would not take us out of doors; I knew why: the garrison was off duty at that hour and the red-trousered soldiers, out to cut a dash, did not stand on ceremony. Already on the way to dinner, our little band had run the gauntlet of smiles, tongue-clickings, and the sound of blown kisses; these manifestations had exasperated the Headmistress who had machine-gunned these audacious infantrymen with her scowls, but it would have needed more than that to reduce them to order!

  The declining day, and our impatience, made us peevish and ill-natured; Anaïs and Marie had already exchanged spiteful remarks, their feathers ruffled like two fighting hens; the two Jauberts appeared to be meditating on the ruins of Carthage and I had thrust little Luce away with a sharp elbow when she wanted to be cuddled. Luckily, Mademoiselle, whose nerves were almost as much on edge as ours, rang, and asked for some light and two packs of cards. Good idea!

  The brightness of the two gas-jets restored our morale a litt
le and the packs of cards made us smile.

  ‘I say, let’s play trente-et-un!”

  ‘Come on, then!’

  The two Jauberts did not know how to play! All right, they could go on reflecting the frailty of human destiny; we others were going to play cards while Mademoiselle read the papers.

  We had quite fun. We played badly and Anaïs cheated. And, every now and then, we stopped in the middle of a game, our elbows on the table and our faces strained, to ask: ‘Whatever time is it?’

  Marie gave vent to the opinion that, as it was dark, we shouldn’t be able to read the names; we should have to take matches with us.

  ‘Silly, there’ll be street-lamps.’

  ‘So there will! … But suppose that, just in that very place, there wasn’t one?’

  ‘All right,’ I said very low, ‘I’ll steal a candle from the candlesticks on the mantelpiece and you bring the matches … Let’s go on playing … Knave of Clubs and two aces!’

  Mademoiselle Sergent drew out her watch; we did not take our eyes off her. She stood up; we followed her example so abruptly that chairs fell over. All our excitement surged up again, we danced over to get our hats, and, while I was looking in the glass to put mine on, I pinched a candle.

  Mademoiselle Sergent put herself to unheard-of trouble to prevent us from running; passers-by laughed at this swarm of girls which was forcing itself not to gallop and we laughed back at the passers-by. At last, the door glittered before our eyes. When I say glittered, I am using the word in a literary way … for, after all, there actually wasn’t a lamp-post! In front of that closed door, a crowd of agitated shadows was screaming, jumping for joy or lamenting; they were our competitors from the other schools. Sudden, brief match-flares, soon extinguished, and flickering candle-flames lit up a great white sheet pinned to the door.