The Complete Works. Фрэнсис Скотт ФицджеральдЧитать онлайн книгу.
Monsieur.
Chandelle: (looking about him curiously) Are you perhaps Monsieur Pitou?
Pitou: Yes, Monsieur.
Chandelle: Ah! I was told that one would always find you in at this hour. (He takes off his overcoat and lays it carefully on a chair) I was told also that you could help me.
Pitou: (puzzled) I could help you?
Chandelle: (Sitting down wearily on a wooden chair near the table) Yes, I’m a—a stranger in the city—now. I’m trying to trace someone—someone who has been dead many years. I’ve been informed that you’re the oldest inhabitant (he smiles faintly)
Pitou: (rather pleased) Perhaps—and yet there are older than I, ah yes, older than I. (He sits down across the table from Chandelle.)
Chandelle: And so I came for you. (He bends earnestly over the table toward Pitou.) Monsieur Pitou, I am trying to trace my father.
Pitou: Yes.
Chandelle: He died in this district about twenty years ago.
Pitou: Monsieur’s father was murdered?
Chandelle: Good God, no! What makes you think that?
Pitou: I thought perhaps in this district twenty years ago, an aristocrat—
Chandelle: My father was no aristocrat. As I remember, his last position was that of waiter in some forgotten cafe. (Pitou glances at Chandelle’s clothes and looks mystified. ) Here I’ll explain. I left France twenty-eight years ago to go to the states with my uncle. We went over in an immigrant ship, if you know what that is.
Pitou: Yes: I know.
Chandelle: My parents remained in France. The last I remember of my father was that he was a little man with a black beard, terribly lazy—the only good I ever remember his doing was to teach me to read and write. Where he picked up that accomplishment I don’t know. Five years after we reached America we ran across some newly landed French from this part of the city, who said that both my parents were dead. Soon after that my uncle died and I was far too busy to worry over parents whom I had half forgotten anyway. (He pauses.) Well to cut it short I prospered and—
Pitou: (deferentially) Monsieur is rich—‘tis strange—‘tis very strange.
Chandelle: Pitou, it probably appears strange to you that I should burst in on you now at this time of life, looking for traces of a father who went completely out of my life over twenty years ago.
Pitou: Oh—I understood you to say he was dead.
Chandelle: Yes he’s dead, but (hesitates) Pitou, I wonder if you can understand if I tell you why I am here.
Pitou: Yes, perhaps.
Chandelle: (very earnestly) Monsieur Pitou, in America the men I see now, the women I know all had fathers, fathers to be ashamed of, fathers to be proud of, fathers in gilt frames, and fathers in the family closet, Civil War fathers, and Ellis Island fathers. Some even had grandfathers.
Pitou: I had a grandfather. I remember.
Chandelle: (interrupting) I want to see people who knew him, who had talked with him. I want to find out his intelligence, his life, his record. (Impetuously) I want to sense him—I want to know him—
Pitou: (interrupting) What was his name?
Chandelle: Chandelle, Jean Chandelle.
Pitou: (quietly) I knew him.
Chandelle: You knew him?
Pitou: He came here often to drink—that was long ago when this place was the rendezvous of half the district.
Chandelle: (excitedly) Here? He used to come here? To this room? Good Lord, the very house he lived in was torn down ten years ago. In two days’ search you are the first soul I’ve found who knew him. Tell me of him—everything—be frank.
Pitou: Many come and go in forty years (shakes his head. ) There are many names and many faces—Jean Chandelle—ah, of course, Jean Chandelle. Yes, yes; the chief fact I can remember about your father was that he was a—a—
Chandelle: Yes.
Pitou: A terrible drunkard.
Chandelle: A drunkard—I expected as much. (He looks a trifle downcast, but makes a half-hearted attempt not to show it.)
Pitou: (Rambling on through a sea of reminiscence) I remember one Sunday night in July—hot night—baking—your father-let’s see—your father tried to knife Pierre Courru for drinking his mug of sherry.
Chandelle: Ah!
Pitou: And then—ah, yes, (excitedly standing up) I see it again. Your father is playing vingt-et-un and they say he is cheating so he breaks Clavine’s shin with a chair and throws a bottle at someone and Lafouquet sticks a knife into his lung. He never got over that. That was—was two years before he died.
Chandelle: So he cheated and was murdered. My God, I’ve crossed the ocean to discover that.
Pitou: No—no—I never believed he cheated. They were laying for him—
Chandelle: (burying his face in his hands) Is that all (he shrugs his shoulders; his voice is a trifle broken) I scarcely expected a—saint but—well: so he was a rotler.
Pitou: (Laying his hand on Chandelle’s shoulder) There Monsieur, I have talked too much. Those were rough days. Knives were drawn at anything. Your father—but hold—do you want to meet three friends of his, his best friends. They can tell you much more than I.
Chandelle: (gloomily) His friends?
Pitou: (reminiscent again) There were four of them. Three come here yet—will be here this afternoon—your father was the fourth and they would sit at this table and talk and drink. They talked nonsense—everyone said; the wine room poked fun at them—called them les “Academicians Ridicules.” Night after night would they sit there. They would slouch in at eight and stagger out at twelve—
(The door swings open and three men enter. The first, Lamarque, is a tall man, lean and with a thin straggly beard. The second, Destage, is short and fat, white bearded and bald. The third, Francois Meridien is slender, with black hair streaked with grey and a small moustache. His face is pitifully weak, his eyes small, his chin sloping. He is very nervous. They all glance with dumb curiosity at Chandelle. )
Pitou: (including all three with a sweep of his arm) Here they are, Monsieur, they can tell you more than I. (Turning to the others) Messieurs, this gentleman desires to know about—
Chandelle: (rising hastily and interrupting Pitou) About a friend of my father’s. Pitou tells me you knew him. I believe his name was—Chandelle.
(The three men start and Francois begins to laugh nervously.)
Lamarque: (after a pause) Chandelle?
Francois: Jean Chandelle? So he had another friend besides us?
Destage: You will pardon me, Monsieur: that name—no one but us had mentioned it for twenty-two years.
Lamarque: (trying to be dignified, but looking a trifle ridiculous) And with us it is mentioned with reverence and awe.
Destage: Lamarque exaggerates a little perhaps. (Very seriously) He was very dear to us. (Again Francois laughs nervously.)
Lamarque: