– to end the war and to have themselves a good time to make up for what they had lost.’
He fell silent, picturing Bernard’s hardened face as he said over and over again:
‘They don’t give a damn about anything, nothing at all. Having a good time. That’s all they care about. He told me that because I was talking to him about his studies and he absolutely refuses to continue with them.’
‘But why, why? I don’t understand.’
‘Because he’s become lazy, I dare say! He told me that we were all just dupes, that very soon all you would need is a bit of luck and some influence in order to earn millions, and that a life like ours already disgusted him. It’s the mentality of war transposed into peacetime. It’s terrifying. I told him: “My boy, audacity,System D and thinking on your feet, being hard-hearted, all that is fine in wartime because patriotism makes it acceptable, but in peacetime, it will create a generation of crooks.” “No! A generation of shrewd people,” he replied. I do believe, Mama, that he’s just showing off, exaggerating, but, in spite of everything, something is going on inside him that terrifies me. And it’s got to the point where … if I talked to him about certain things, like honour, integrity, the inviolable duty to work hard, I think he’d laugh in my face. Our son has been corrupted.’
‘But who has done this to him? Perhaps he has friends who are a bad influence?’ asked Madame Jacquelain who still thought that a soldier’s life, in 1918, was simply the continuation of a student’s life.
‘Perhaps …’
‘But Papa, be fair, he has extraordinary patriotism and decent feelings. Think about what Raymond Détang offered him: to get away from the war, out of harm’s way, to escape from the stress of war to go on a wonderful trip to the United States, and he refused. It broke my heart to see him refuse such an unheard of thing, but at the same time, I was proud of him. No! He’s a good boy, a good Frenchman!’
‘The war still has a hold on them,’ murmured the elderly Monsieur Jacquelain. He fell silent, confusedly picturing in his mind the war as an enormous steel frame that cut straight through and supported these weary men, forcing them into a proud, rigid stance. But when the war was over, they would collapse.
‘No, they’ll forget,’ said Madame Jacquelain. Being a woman, she assumed that the two sexes had the same short memory.
‘War is never forgotten,’ said Monsieur Jacquelain. ‘I’ve never been to war, but still I will never forget it.’
They sat in silence, trying to unravel the enigma of their son together, thinking about it, looking at it from every angle, understanding nothing. A form of revolt? No. Revolt is tinged byfanaticism, and there wasn’t a hint of fanaticism in Bernard, just a kind of bitter, soul-destroying cynicism.
‘But how does he expect to earn his living if he doesn’t go back to his studies? You can’t have a career without qualifications … Have you asked him about that, Papa?’
‘Yes. He sniggered. “Do you really not see what’s going on around you?” he asked me.’
Madame Jacquelain began to cry:
‘And here I thought I would make him so happy by taking him to the circus … So, you mean, he’s no longer my child, no longer my little boy?’
‘Well, that’s another matter. You’re being silly …’
‘No, no, it is the same thing,’ his stubborn mother said again. ‘It’s all the same thing. My child, my good little boy, so generous, so open, so affectionate, he’s gone. That’s all there is to it, he’s gone.’
They finally stopped talking and soon Monsieur Jacquelain’s snoring could be heard, mingling with the purring of the old cat in her basket. But Madame Jacquelain could not manage to fall asleep. She finally got out of bed; wearing her grey flannel bathrobe, with her thinning locks of hair falling down over her sunken cheeks, she silently crossed her bedroom and
He fell silent, picturing Bernard’s hardened face as he said over and over again:
‘They don’t give a damn about anything, nothing at all. Having a good time. That’s all they care about. He told me that because I was talking to him about his studies and he absolutely refuses to continue with them.’
‘But why, why? I don’t understand.’
‘Because he’s become lazy, I dare say! He told me that we were all just dupes, that very soon all you would need is a bit of luck and some influence in order to earn millions, and that a life like ours already disgusted him. It’s the mentality of war transposed into peacetime. It’s terrifying. I told him: “My boy, audacity,System D and thinking on your feet, being hard-hearted, all that is fine in wartime because patriotism makes it acceptable, but in peacetime, it will create a generation of crooks.” “No! A generation of shrewd people,” he replied. I do believe, Mama, that he’s just showing off, exaggerating, but, in spite of everything, something is going on inside him that terrifies me. And it’s got to the point where … if I talked to him about certain things, like honour, integrity, the inviolable duty to work hard, I think he’d laugh in my face. Our son has been corrupted.’
‘But who has done this to him? Perhaps he has friends who are a bad influence?’ asked Madame Jacquelain who still thought that a soldier’s life, in 1918, was simply the continuation of a student’s life.
‘Perhaps …’
‘But Papa, be fair, he has extraordinary patriotism and decent feelings. Think about what Raymond Détang offered him: to get away from the war, out of harm’s way, to escape from the stress of war to go on a wonderful trip to the United States, and he refused. It broke my heart to see him refuse such an unheard of thing, but at the same time, I was proud of him. No! He’s a good boy, a good Frenchman!’
‘The war still has a hold on them,’ murmured the elderly Monsieur Jacquelain. He fell silent, confusedly picturing in his mind the war as an enormous steel frame that cut straight through and supported these weary men, forcing them into a proud, rigid stance. But when the war was over, they would collapse.
‘No, they’ll forget,’ said Madame Jacquelain. Being a woman, she assumed that the two sexes had the same short memory.
‘War is never forgotten,’ said Monsieur Jacquelain. ‘I’ve never been to war, but still I will never forget it.’
They sat in silence, trying to unravel the enigma of their son together, thinking about it, looking at it from every angle, understanding nothing. A form of revolt? No. Revolt is tinged byfanaticism, and there wasn’t a hint of fanaticism in Bernard, just a kind of bitter, soul-destroying cynicism.
‘But how does he expect to earn his living if he doesn’t go back to his studies? You can’t have a career without qualifications … Have you asked him about that, Papa?’
‘Yes. He sniggered. “Do you really not see what’s going on around you?” he asked me.’
Madame Jacquelain began to cry:
‘And here I thought I would make him so happy by taking him to the circus … So, you mean, he’s no longer my child, no longer my little boy?’
‘Well, that’s another matter. You’re being silly …’
‘No, no, it is the same thing,’ his stubborn mother said again. ‘It’s all the same thing. My child, my good little boy, so generous, so open, so affectionate, he’s gone. That’s all there is to it, he’s gone.’
They finally stopped talking and soon Monsieur Jacquelain’s snoring could be heard, mingling with the purring of the old cat in her basket. But Madame Jacquelain could not manage to fall asleep. She finally got out of bed; wearing her grey flannel bathrobe, with her thinning locks of hair falling down over her sunken cheeks, she silently crossed her bedroom and
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