“But the farm family understood the situation, and they were brave. They raised the infant girl as if she were their own. They named her Estelle. In the play, the scene where Estelle’s mother pleads with the farm family to take her daughter is the climax—a really powerful moment for the choice she makes and all the risks involved. The mother and her husband go down a path that leads to their death, while their daughter is raised, in safety, by people who have no blood relation to her.
“On the night the play was staged, Estelle, the actual daughter who was now middle-aged, was invited to see the performance from the front row of the outdoor theatre. She knew her history: her adoptive parents had told her. She knew the risks her birth mother took in saving her, and the courage of her adoptive parents in raising her. Despite all this, it was an inescapable fact that she did not know what her birth mother looked like or sounded like. That night in the theatre, it was as if Estelle was meeting her mother for the first time. At curtain call, the director invited Estelle up to the stage, announcing that the play had been written and performed for her. Estelle came to the stage, but sort of collapsed. She couldn’t stand up, she could barely speak. For Estelle, the actress playing her mother was her real mother. The baby who had been born in the year of the Normandy landings and who was now in middle age broke down in tears in the director’s arms.”
Yann had only been at the play by chance, because his friend was involved with the production, and had been at a loss for words as he clicked his shutter.
Yann considered his family’s history and its unsuccessful transmission from generation to generation as something quite “ordinary”, and neither disregarded it nor ignored it. This was probably because he had lived his life in a place where the pain of such tragedies continued to affect the people around him. For me, though, it wasn’t “ordinary”, and I didn’t want to own a photograph like that, its focus revealing the fact that the photographer had been deeply moved. Yann’s story was enough for me. And anyway, what I wanted right then was a quieter image, one enveloped in a softer glow. Sure, Yann had chosen the first photo for me, but the fact that I’d followed up a photo that reminded him of a concentration camp with a photo that had to do with the Gestapo just didn’t seem like it could have been a coincidence. I wanted a different darkness as well as a different light, something to clear away that heavy stone weight.
I picked up the bunch of photographs again, and eventually pulled out a snapshot-like photo of an adorable baby, about a year old. He was sleeping peacefully, his large eyes closed, lying on a sofa with a soft woollen cover that looked hand-knitted. Even though it’s such a cliché that I’d hesitate to say it in my native tongue, the baby really did look angelic. And he seemed happy. I thought—oddly, to be sure—of the glossy cheeks of a baby born by Caesarean section; one who had not passed through the birth canal, who was unblemished by natural birth. The baby’s skin seemed so soft as to be not of this world, and though I knew nothing of how lighting is technically achieved, its body also seemed to be illuminated by a warmth that made me feel at ease. The baby had an expression which did not yet know the complexities of destiny—enemies, allies and life.
“I like his face,” I said. “His forehead is incredible. Especially in that filtered light you’ve got on the sofa.”
“Yeah, I know. He can’t appreciate any of that, though.”
“What?”
“He can’t see anything, he’s blind. He’s Catherine’s son, you know.”
“This is Catherine’s son?”
“Yes. His name’s David. Actually, when I say he’s blind, it’s not just that he can’t see. He doesn’t have any eyeballs. It’s a hereditary condition. So he’d be totally oblivious to that light you were just praising.”
I looked again at the photograph. David was leaning against a large stuffed teddy bear. I stared at his thick eyelashes. His eye sockets did not look especially hollow, and I wouldn’t have guessed that he was blind if Yann hadn’t told me.
“Can he hear?”
“His ears are perfect, no problems at all. This photo was taken over a year ago, he’s grown a fair bit since then. Catherine teaches everything to him with words. ‘This is water, these are clothes, this is your teddy bear.’ Maybe she uses words to describe the light too.”
David was Catherine’s first child, born ten years after she and her husband were married. Yann had initially met the husband through work, and this was how he’d come to rent the house. In the beginning Catherine was quite reserved around Yann, maybe because of the marital problems she was having, and so they’d had a strictly tenant–landlord relationship. Things had gradually started to change after David was born and Catherine and her husband decided to split up, but it was only quite recently that she and Yann had become close. The teddy bear David was leaning on had been made by Catherine herself. She’d started creating it as soon as she found out she was pregnant, even though she hadn’t done anything like that before, and indeed it was obvious from the photograph that the bear was not store-bought. Still, there was no question of anyone failing to recognize it as a bear, and it had a simple functionality about it. In the months before the photo had been taken, it seemed the bear had become rather like a pet, an animal that had grown fond of David and allowed its similarly-sized master to rest his head on its shoulder.
The more I looked at the photo, which had such a tranquillity to it, something didn’t feel right, and a weight, a tiny discordance, lodged itself in my chest.
“I hate to tell you this, since it seems you’re really into it, but don’t get attached to that photo,” Yann said, interrupting my momentary reverie. “I don’t have a negative for it, and I’m not giving it to you.” That was when I realized the thing bothering me, and an involuntary “uh” escaped from my mouth: the bear’s eyes had been stitched over in the shape of an x. It had a nose and a mouth, but its eyes had been sewn shut. Those sewnshut eyes meant that the bear was looking after David at the same time as the bear was being looked after by David—which made their relationship considerably more complex. In fact, as I kept looking at it, I found it impossible to say whether the bear was laughing or crying or anything.
“So the teddy bear’s got—”
“No eyes,” Yann finished the sentence for me. “It did when Catherine first made it. Big black buttons, borrowed from an old coat. Catherine finished the bear before David was born. Then she learned that he was blind and she got rid of the buttons and stitched the eyes shut.”
“To make it more like her son?”
“We’ve never talked about it, but that would seem to be the reason. A blind bear sleeping with a blind boy. That’s what this photo’s about.”
YANN AND I SPOKE UNTIL ALMOST DAWN. He offered me his bed upstairs, but I said I’d be fine in the living room on the sofa bed even though it was broken. When I woke up after my nightmare, Yann had already gone. He’d left a note with Catherine’s telephone number, his address in Dublin and a short message: “No need to lock the door. I’ll call tonight.” I showered, made coffee, ate some pain de campagne, then headed out for a walk, strolling along the same shady lanes we’d taken the day before, carrying a bag to collect blackcurrants. The undergrowth was heavy with dew, and touching it reminded me of the backs of the bears in my dream. I wondered suddenly if there had been any relationship between those bears and David’s bear? I’d never thought about the meaning of dreams before, so this was a new thing for me. Maybe this alone would make my trip to the countryside worthwhile.
Back in the house, I called my hotel in Paris, telling them that I wouldn’t be returning that night either. Then I cleared the table, took out my notebook and continued to read my biography of Littré. For both lunch and dinner, I ate a simple meal of pasta seasoned with butter, salt and pepper, along with bread, cheese and tomatoes. I’d occasionally throw a handful of blackcurrants into my mouth as well, but apart from that I did nothing but sit in the silent room, reading. Until Yann called at eight-thirty to tell me
he was at his friend’s place in Dublin, I’d been so curiously calm I’d totally forgotten that I was in someone else’s house.
Émile Littré’s father, Michel-François Littré, left his hometown of Avranches to join the navy. At the time of the French Revolution he was a non-commissioned officer stationed in Mauritius, which was known at the time as the Isle de France. He had a deep interest in literature and history, voraciously reading works by Voltaire, Rousseau and the Encyclopédistes, and enthusiastically advocated for the Jacobin movement. However, when Robespierre was executed following the Thermidorian Reaction and anti-Jacobin sentiment started to spread even on the remote island of Mauritius, Michel-François returned to Paris. He resigned from the navy, became a tax collector and married Sophie Johannot, who was an even more ardent believer in the Revolution. The Littré family had been staunch atheists since the thirteenth century, with no belief in either God or the devil, their Catholicism strictly for show, and Michel-François had been raised according to this tradition. His wife, on the other hand, was a Protestant and believed in God, despite her willingness to sacrifice herself for the Revolution. They therefore had to deal with the question of whether or not to baptize their children. Michel-François won out, and their first child Émile, who was born in Paris in 1801, was not baptized. He would go on to defend his father’s position until the day he died. In the end, it seemed that Émile Littré’s parents were both agreed that the education of their child was more important than religion.
Michel-François was transferred to Angoulême, and took his young family with him. He and his wife had two more children, a girl and a boy, but when Émile was ten years old, the girl died of an illness, which devastated Émile. The family returned to Paris and settled in what is now known as the Rue Champollion. Michel-François, who had been a passionate scholar with a strong interest in languages, even going so far as learning Sanskrit, would hold Thursday study sessions for his son and his friends, and it soon became apparent that Émile had an aptitude for linguistics. Émile entered the Lycée Louis-le-Grand, where he was in the same year as Louis Hachette, who would go on to establish one of France’s largest publishing houses and who would be instrumental in the publication of Littré’s famous dictionary.
After graduating from the Lycée at the age of eighteen, Émile felt that his scientific knowledge was lacking, and with the goal of gaining admission to a highly regarded school of science and technology, he embarked on studies in mathematics. No amount of effort was enough, however, and so he started searching for a means to support himself. He worked as a private secretary for the statesman Pierre Daru, but this did not last long. In fact, it was Daru himself who told Littré that he might do better taking another path. Despite his fascination with science, Littré was resistant to the treatment of human problems as abstractions. And with the limits to his mathematical ability, Littré now felt that the only path open to him was medicine.
With his father’s blessing, he matriculated at the medical school of the University of Paris, where he diligently applied himself to his studies for seven years, under the tutelage of Pierre François Olive Rayer—a pioneer in the field of nephrology. When Littré was twenty-seven, his father, on whom he had been financially dependent, died suddenly. His medical intern’s salary was insufficient to support his mother and brother, so in order to earn additional money, he started submitting articles to a recently launched medical magazine. This led to his being offered a job as an editor, and eventually he was assigned the task of translating the complete works of Hippocrates. He quit his job as an intern, abandoning his medical career when all he needed for his degree was to submit a final thesis. Littré declared that he was quitting for financial reasons, but he rejected all his friends’ offers of help. Instead he took a post at the Le National newspaper, which was edited by Armand Carrel, a shrewd operator and an avowed opponent of King Louis-Philippe. Littré spent several years translating articles from English and German for the newspaper until one day Carrel, during a spell in prison, happened to read an article Littré had written. Carrel was very impressed, and as soon as he was released, gave Littré an official position as a columnist. Despite his new job, Littré maintained a friendship with his old mentor Rayer and an interest in the medical field, and in 1832 he published a paper on cholera. Two years later, in the pages of Le National, he published a detailed analysis on the transmission of the disease. It was well received and was later considered to be a pioneering piece of what would go on to be called sociology—the discipline developed by Auguste Comte, whom Littré greatly admired. In 1836, Littré’s great champion Carrel died at the age of thirty-six, shot in a duel with Émile de Girardin, the self-styled newspaper king and founder of La Presse, which carried serialized novels and featured groundbreaking page layouts.
Littré continued to work and in 1839 published the first volume of his translation of the complete works of Hippocrates. The tenth and final volume was completed in 1861. While devoting time to this translation and its annotation, Littré developed a deep interest in the origin of French words, and in 1841 he revealed his idea for the “Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue française” to his close friend Louis Hachette. Hachette’s reaction was favourable, and he even paid Littré an advance so that he could start working on it immediately. But Littré’s attentions were divided: his beloved mother died around then, and he needed to complete his translation of Hippocrates. Five years passed, and he had barely made a start on the dictionary. Hachette became exasperated, and tore up their old contract. He then encouraged his friend to create a type of dictionary that had never been seen before—one that not only contained the etymologies and definitions, but also provided examples of contemporary usage. Littré hesitated. His main interest was in investigating and describing the etymology of words. That alone was an enormous task, and now Hachette was pushing him to compile a dictionary that included examples of modern usage as well. In the end, he accepted the challenge. The Dictionnaire de l’Académie française, which he used for reference, did not contain technological or scientific terms, and had no quotations featuring words as they were used. Littré therefore set about compiling a list of new words in fields that were suitable for the nineteenth century. He looked through texts dating from the distant past to the present day and, with the help of his assistants, read and reread extracts from pre-eminent writers, writing sample sentences on cards. Littré devoted himself to the work despite numerous new interruptions: the sudden death, in July 1864, of Louis Hachette, who had been waiting patiently for Littré to finish his dictionary; a year spent writing a biography of August Comte, after Comte’s widow’s begged him to; the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War; the chaos of the Paris Commune. Eventually, his dictionary was published in four volumes; the first one in 1863, and the fourth and final in 1873. It had taken over thirty years for it to reach fruition. The dictionary exceeded everyone’s wildest expectations, and was reprinted many times. After it was published, Littré, who by now had served as a member of Parliament, was elected to be a member of the Académie française. In 1875 he became a senator, his reputation as a literary figure well and truly established. He continued to work on his dictionary, making revisions and additions for future printings, until his death in June 1881. All this meant that Émile Littré, a man who had achieved much in his life and made significant contributions to his country, would a century later become a figure of caricature—his countenance, with those big bullfrog lips, rejected by high school students for its ugliness.
I CLOSED MY BOOK.
Littré had lived in Le Mesnil-le-Roi in the Seine-et-Oise department. His house was old and small, though it did have a sizeable garden. He would arise at eight each morning and, while his wife was tidying his bedroom-cum-study, would go downstairs and work on such simple tasks as writing a preface. Then, at nine o’clock, he’d go back upstairs and pick up the proofs of his dictionary. After he’d finished lunch, at one o’clock, he’d return to his desk and work on articles
for the Journal des savants until three. Between three and six, he’d immerse himself in his dictionary once again. He’d also work on the dictionary, after dinner, between seven and midnight. His wife and daughter would then go to bed, while Littré would continue working until three in the morning. Though there may have been minor distractions, Littré faithfully repeated this schedule every day for over a decade. It must have required an astounding level of physical, let alone mental, tenacity and spiritual strength. Here I was in Normandy, reading about Littré’s life in a house much like his, and I was exhausted after just one day. I had no means of diversion or entertainment, so I just lay on the sofa, smoking and staring at the photo Yann had given me.
The photo I’d eventually decided on was of the granite factory, a shot that Yann himself acknowledged had come out well. There was the factory building, which had a corrugated iron roof, and on the ground in front of it was a pile of cubic stones, just tossed there, as if discarded. Overhead, the sky was filled with an ominous cloud, which made rain seem imminent. The stones of the wall of the factory were all different sizes and shapes, a little bit higgledy-piggledy. In stark contrast, the exposed ends of the stones in the pile seemed all cleanly cut. In fact, it was this contrast between the two that made it an interesting composition.
As I gazed at that mound of stones, mindlessly piled together, one random thought led to another, and I had the sudden urge to see how Littré had defined a paving stone. Yann had said he had some volumes of Littré’s dictionary. There was no bookshelf in the downstairs living room, though, so I supposed they had to be upstairs. I hadn’t thought of going up there since that was Yann’s private space, but I decided to make an exception for Littré. I climbed the ancient stairs, each one creaking as I made my way up.
The Bear and the Paving Stone Page 5
