Disclaimer: Gaston belongs to Disney. (Which is really a shame, since it's not like they're ever going to DO anything with him. They should just hand him over to me!)
Author's note: I was wondering what kind of childhood would produce someone like Gaston, and found myself writing this to come up with an answer. It was originally meant to be just a tiny one-shot like my Chip story, but it's taken on a life of its own. It's a bit of an experiment, so you'll have to tell me if it works or not. I'm always open to constructive criticism.
(Oh, and a personal disclaimer here: FYI, I myself am opposed to hunting. The idea of getting pleasure from killing an animal gives me the creeps. But I'm not Gaston. And if I write about him, it has to be from his perspective, not mine. I just wanted to mention that, 'cause I'd really hate for anyone to think I'm promoting hunting.).
Okay, enough babbling from me! On with the story.
In a clearing in the woods, a large deer grazed, unaware that it was being watched.
Slowly the hunter raised his gun to his shoulder. It was a long shot – the deer was too far away – but with luck, maybe there was a chance he could bring it down.
But his concentration was interrupted by a whisper from the boy beside him. "Pop, wait. Let me get him."
Auguste smiled indulgently at his son's eagerness. "You're only 11, Gaston. I know you're the best shot of any boy in the village, but that deer is too far away even for me. Don't worry, you've done well this trip," he added, nodding at the bulging bag of rabbits and raccoons. "No other boy your age could have done half as well. I didn't get my first deer till I was 16. You'll get plenty of them when you're older, I'm sure."
Gaston shook his head and said with certainty, "I can do it now, Pop. I know I can."
Auguste looked at the boy, a smaller version of himself with the same jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, chiseled features and cleft chin. He was pleased. In addition to his features, his son had inherited his overwhelming self-confidence. "All right," he said, handing over the rifle. It would be good practice for the boy, if nothing else.
Gaston took the gun, which was nearly as big as he was, and raised it to his shoulder. He peered keenly along the sights, lining up the shot, and pulled the trigger. The blast echoed loudly in the silent forest. The deer dropped to the ground.
Auguste's mouth dropped open. He whooped and hollered and clapped Gaston on the back. "By golly, you did it! Only 11, and already the best darn hunter I've ever seen! Wait till the men hear about it! They'll be green with jealousy. None of their sons could have done that, not by a long shot. You're something special, boy, no two ways about it!"
Gaston grinned, basking in the praise. He idolized his father and wanted to be exactly like him when he grew up.
Auguste quickly and efficiently tied a rope around the deer's antlers, then looped it around its body in a way that would allow him to drag it to the edge of the woods, where he had a cart waiting.
As they headed back through the woods, he cleared his throat. Gaston knew that meant he had something important to say. "You know, Gaston, when I married your mother, I was expecting to have a large family. Every man wants a brace of strapping sons to carry on his name. But it didn't work out that way. Your mother's a fine woman, but for some reason, she wasn't able to give me more than one child." He put his hand on Gaston's shoulder. "But WHAT a child!" He shook his head in admiration. "I tell you, Gaston, you make me prouder than 20 sons ever could."
"Thanks, Pop," said Gaston, swelling with pride. Hearing those words was a better trophy to him than the deer itself. It meant the world to him to know his father was proud of him.
As they approached the house, three hound dogs came rushing out to greet them, baying loudly. Gaston petted them as they swarmed around him. Auguste usually brought the hounds hunting with him – there were no finer dogs for treeing a coon, chasing down a rabbit, or retrieving a fallen duck. But deer hunting was different: it required patience to sit still and silent for long periods of time. One excited yip from a hound would spook the deer and lose the trophy. So he had left them home this time.
Hearing the dogs' outcry, Gaston's mother, Mireille, came out on the porch. At age 29, she was still the most beautiful woman in town, a stunning brunette with luxuriant, shining tresses and mysterious almond eyes. Even in a crowd of young single girls, Mireille was the one who drew men's admiring glances. She smiled warmly at her husband and son. "Welcome home! How did my two big strong men do today?"
"I shot a deer all by himself!" Gaston told her proudly.
Mireille gasped. "Really? Oh, that's wonderful!" She hugged her son. "The mighty hunter!"
"He's a chip off the old block," Auguste said. "Got my hunting skills, that's for sure."
"And your looks, too," Mireille added fondly, brushing Gaston's hair out of his eyes. "So handsome! Just like a little prince. You watch, in another year or two, all the girls will be after him. He's going to break a lot of hearts, this one."
"Aww, cut it out, Mama," Gaston said, reddening. But inwardly, he loved the way his mother doted on him. She thought the sun rose and set on her son.
Mireille laughed. "All right. I'd better get started cooking that venison you brought home. Oh, and I made your favorite, apple pie." She patted his head. "Only the best for my boy."
As they ate, Auguste recounted the story of Gaston's success, while his mother exclaimed in admiration. Gaston smiled, basking in the attention.
After dinner, Auguste rose. "Well, I'm off." He was the owner of the village tavern, and as he often told Gaston, it was the best job in the world. As tavern owner, he was at the center of the village's social life, heard all the town gossip, and was easily the most popular man in town. And of course, he got all his drinks for free. He paid his bartender, Julien, extra to handle most of the humdrum tasks – dealing with brewers, keeping the kegs full, doing the bookkeeping, and mopping up at the end of the night. That left Auguste's days free for hunting. In the evening, all he had to do was show up and be the "figurehead" of the tavern, and occasionally break up a fight or toss out a too-rowdy patron who'd had one too many.
He looked over at Gaston. "Want to come with me?"
"Really?" Gaston was thrilled at the idea. He had occasionally been in the tavern during the day – his father sometimes let him earn pocket money by sweeping up or stocking bottles on shelves. But he had never been inside at night, when the place was actually open. To him it was a mysterious, forbidden place where only grown men gathered.
"Why not?" said Auguste, grinning. "The way I see it, any boy who can bring down a 200-pound deer singlehandedly has earned the right to be treated as a man."
Mireille looked up sharply, dismayed. "But Auguste, he's just a child!" she protested. "I don't want him in the tavern with all those drunken, violent ruffians!" She gathered Gaston to her protectively.
Auguste's jovial mood vanished in an instant. He glared at her, his blue eyes steely. "Don't defy me, Mireille," he warned dangerously, his voice icy. Gaston shivered. His father almost never spoke that way to him – after all, Gaston was the golden boy who could do no wrong – but on the very rare occasions that he had, Gaston had quickly learned not to cross him. That tone of voice meant an immediate trip to the woodshed.
Mireille knew that tone too. She faltered. "I-I'm sorry," she said hesitantly. "It's just…he's so young—"
Auguste shook his head in disgust. "You coddle the boy too much, Mireille." He gestured at Gaston. "Come on, son."
Gaston looked up at his mother. "I'll be fine, Mama," he assured her.
She smiled at him, but her eyes were anxious. She gave him a quick hug. "Just be careful."
Outside, Auguste shook his head. "A fine woman, your mother, but she forgets her place sometimes."
"I think she was upset," Gaston said worriedly. He didn't like to see his mother unhappy.
Auguste shrugged. "A woman's no different from a dog or a horse, Gaston," he said dismissively. "You can sweet-talk them, give them treats, but if they get out of line, you have to show them who's master right away. Remember that."
"Oh," said Gaston slowly, turning that over in his mind. It was hard for him to think of his loving mother in the same category as a dog or a horse, but if his father said it, it must be true. His father knew everything, after all.
They walked through the village in the twilight. "I remember the first time I ever saw your mother," Auguste said reminiscently. "She had just moved to town. Her first day here, she walked into the marketplace, and she was the most gorgeous thing I'd ever seen. I knew instantly that I had to make her mine. And I did. Every man in town was after her, but I knew I'd be the one to win her." He smiled. "A beauty and a wonderful cook – what more could a man ask for in a wife?" He looked at Gaston thoughtfully. "She was right, you know: when it's time for you to get married, you're going to have your pick of girls."
Gaston suspected he might be right. At age 11, he was only just starting to become aware of the possibility that girls might be good for something other than teasing them, putting a frog in their desk or dipping their pigtails in an inkwell. And the girls were becoming aware too. Recently, they had started surreptitiously following him around, finding excuses to talk to him, or giggling and whispering to each other when he passed. He still wasn't at the age of actively socializing with them yet, but he definitely enjoyed the newfound female attention and admiration.
The idea of marriage, however, seemed a million years away. But his father was clearly in the mood to give advice, so Gaston asked, "When I get married, which one should I pick?"
"Well, the prettiest one, of course," said Auguste immediately, as though it were obvious. "You don't want to spend your whole life looking at some ugly wench!" He shuddered. "And besides, a beautiful wife is good for a man's reputation. Just like a big house, or an impressive hunting trophy. If you marry a beautiful woman, it shows people you're successful and important, a man to be respected and envied. Of course, it's nice if she's also a good cook. You want a wife who's going to feed you properly! But that can be learned. I'm sure as soon as you pick a bride, your mother's going to take it upon herself to teach her how to cook all your favorite dishes. She won't let her boy go hungry." He chuckled. "But looks – now, that's a different story. A girl's either born with beauty, or she isn't. And if she isn't, there's not a damn thing you can do about it. So when the time comes, son, just pick the best-looking girl you can find. You can't go wrong that way."
Gaston nodded. It made sense, just like everything his father said.
As they continued walking, everyone they passed waved or greeted Auguste with a smile. Except one man. The village schoolmaster, Monsieur Mauviette, saw the two across the square, and his eyes narrowed in distaste. Adjusting his spectacles, he headed in their direction.
Gaston saw him approaching, and tried to hurry his father along faster, hoping to avoid a confrontation. But Mssr. Mauviette quickened his pace and marched right over to them, looking determined. Gaston swallowed nervously. This could mean trouble. His father might not be so pleased with him once he heard about yesterday's incident.
"I need to have a word with you about your boy," Mssr. Mauviette said without preamble.
Auguste raised his eyebrows in surprise. "About what? Gaston isn't even in your school anymore." The village school only went up to grade 5, the prevailing attitude of the era being that that was more than enough schooling for peasants and farmers.
"A fact for which I am profoundly grateful," Mssr. Mauviette replied frankly. "But I'll have you know that yesterday, that young ruffian of yours punched my son Benoit in the nose. I demand he apologize to my son at once!"
Auguste coughed and covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. He couldn't believe this scrawny little bookworm was actually bothering him with such trivial nonsense. All puffed up as he was with self-righteous indignation, the schoolmaster reminded Auguste of a strutting rooster. "Well, you know how it is, monsieur," Auguste said mildly. "Boys will be boys, eh?"
The schoolmaster looked annoyed. "No, I don't know how it is," he said testily. "What I do know is that your boy is an uncivilized hooligan, and you'd better put a stop to it at once!"
Auguste glared at him, starting to lose his temper. "Gaston is the finest boy in the village, and don't you forget it!" he snapped. "He's worth a hundred of that pale scrawny whelp you call a son. Maybe if you spent more time teaching your boy how to defend himself, he wouldn't need his old man to come around whining every time he gets into a scuffle."
The schoolmaster drew himself up to his full height, affronted. "I am teaching my son to be a scholar and philosopher, and to settle disputes with reason and words, not fists."
"Really? I pity the lad, then," said Auguste sarcastically . "I expect he'll have more than a few bloody noses to look forward to in his future." He put his arm around Gaston's shoulder. "Come on, son." They headed on their way toward the tavern.
Mssr. Mauviette shook his head in disgust. This was the final straw. He had accepted the post as schoolmaster in the tiny village four years ago, to the astonishment of his friends at university, who had all sought plum assignments as tutors to the sons of rich nobles. An idealistic man, Mssr. Mauviette had believed that this would be a fine and worthy pursuit, bringing the glories of education and literature and the power of reason to the deprived masses. But to his chagrin, his efforts were unappreciated. The villagers saw little value in education, and were even suspicious of it. They wanted their children to be able to read a prayer book on Sunday or a signpost when travelling, and to know enough math to correctly count their change when they made a purchase. Anything more than that was unnecessary in their eyes.
Well, he'd had enough. Tomorrow he would give notice, pack his things, and take himself and his son back to Paris, where he could find a post that was worthy of his talents and schoolmates worthy of his boy's companionship. Let these ungrateful savages wallow in their own ignorance. Muttering to himself, he headed for home.
Meanwhile, Auguste looked down at Gaston with amusement. "So tell me, what exactly happened yesterday?"
Emboldened by his father's obvious lack of anger, Gaston told him the story.
The boys had been shooting off their mouths as they often did, bragging about their abilities and trying to one-up each other, talking about who was the strongest, the fastest, the best at fighting or shooting or horseback riding. Of course, the undisputed answer to all those questions was Gaston – no one denied that – but that didn't stop the boys from eagerly vying for second place, jockeying for status within the group.
Benoit had stood sullenly, slightly apart from the other boys. Bookish and studious like his father, he had a brilliant mind, yet no one in the village admired him for it. Instead, they treated him as odd and eccentric. It infuriated him. What was so wonderful about being strong? As his father often reminded him, a gorilla was strong, but you wouldn't want to be one. What set man above the beasts was his reason and his intellect – those were the traits most worthy of admiration.
But to the village boys, all that mattered was how strong or fast or athletic you were. Skinny, frail and nearsighted, Benoit couldn't compete. He was by far the smartest boy for miles around, yet they looked down on him as a pathetic misfit. Meanwhile, they all idolized Gaston, a thickheaded, musclebound oaf who could barely write his own name. It wasn't fair, Benoit thought angrily.
"Of course, Gaston is the best, but aside from him, no one can beat me at archery," Claude was boasting.
All the sentences seemed to start with that qualifier, Benoit thought – "Gaston is the best, but…" Suddenly, he couldn't stand it anymore.
"Gaston's not the best at everything," he said loudly.
All the boys immediately fell silent, turning to stare at him. "What do you mean? Of course he is," said LeFou.
Gaston sauntered over to Benoit confidently. "Name one thing I'm not the best at," he challenged, smug in his superiority.
Benoit's eyes gleamed. "You're not the best at reading," he declared triumphantly.
Gaston faltered at that, his smile fading. Uncertainty showed in his eyes. He glanced around quickly at the other boys, who were watching with interest to see what he would do. It was true, of course – he wasn't a good reader. Aside from Benoit, none of the other boys could read well either. But the other boys weren't Gaston, with a reputation to uphold as being the best at everything.
Wanting to save face, he laughed derisively. "Reading is stupid," he said dismissively. He spread his hands in mock defeat. "You're right, Benoit: when it comes to sitting around all day with your nose stuck in a book, you are definitely the best." The other boys snickered.
It might have ended there, with Gaston conceding, however disdainfully, that Benoit held the undesirable title of champion reader. But Benoit wasn't going to let Gaston's mocking tone rob him of the first taste of triumph he'd had since coming to the town four years ago. Everyone always thought Gaston was so great, he thought resentfully. This was his chance to finally knock him down a peg.
"Books aren't stupid," he said firmly. "You only say that because you're too stupid to be able to read them!"
The boys gasped in shock. No one ever dared talk to Gaston like that. Gaston stepped forward angrily, his fists clenched. "Take it back."
Benoit smiled. All eyes were on him, and some even held a trace of admiration at his courage, foolhardy though it might be. After years of being ignored, it was a heady feeling. "I won't," he said boldly. "Because it's true." He thrust his book at Gaston. "Go ahead," he taunted. "Let's hear you read a page aloud. I bet you can't do it."
Gaston glared at him. There was no way he would allow himself to be made a fool of by reading out loud. Angrily, he struck the book to the ground. "I'm not going to waste my time reading some dumb book," he snarled.
"Right," said Benoit. "Because you're too stupid, like I said."
That did it. Enraged, Gaston hauled off and punched Benoit in the nose. Blood spurted out. Benoit gasped, his hands flying to his nose. "I'm telling my father on you!" he threatened, his voice tearful.
"Go ahead," scoffed Gaston. Benoit ran off, crying.
The other boys circled around Gaston. "You sure showed him, Gaston!" said LeFou.
Gaston shrugged, but inwardly he was worried. He had let his temper get the better of him, without thinking of the consequences. He wondered uneasily how his father would react to the news that he had beaten up on a weak, puny boy half his size, and bloodied his nose to boot. Surely he would be punished for being a bully.
But now, when he told the story, Auguste just laughed heartily and clapped him on the back. "Got a bit of a temper on you, haven't you?" he chuckled. "You get that from me, I expect. Good for you. Nothing wrong with having a temper; it shows people they can't push you around. I'm glad I have a son who stands up for himself. That little twerp will think twice before insulting you again, I'll wager!"
Gaston grinned, relieved to discover that he had done the right thing after all. "He sure will, Pop!" he agreed. Why had he been worried? His father was right – the little pipsqueak had been asking for it. He was lucky that all he'd only gotten was a pop in the nose. Gaston had let him off easy.
Auguste was still chuckling. "And to insult you by saying you can't read! As though that's a bad thing! Well, to a puny little milquetoast like that, I suppose it is!"
Gaston stopped smiling. "Pop?" he asked hesitantly. His father cocked his head, waiting for the question. "Pop…well…he's right. I can't read," he admitted. "Well, I mean, I can, but just a little. A few words. Not a whole book or anything like that." He looked up at his father, worry in his blue eyes. He knew his father expected him to be the best at everything, and Gaston didn't want to let him down.
Auguste laughed again. "Good. I'm glad to hear it. You think I want some pasty-faced bookworm for a son?" He shuddered at the thought. "Nothing good ever came from reading, Gaston," he said firmly. "You read too much, your head gets filled up with all these complicated ideas, all of 'em telling you something different. Soon you're in such a muddle you don't know what to do or which way is up. Then you're good for nothing but reading, like that pathetic little wimp, the schoolmaster's son. You think he's ever going to be able to bring down a deer like you did today? I bet he'll never bag so much as a squirrel."
Gaston grinned. "No, he won't."
"Darn right, he won't," Auguste said decisively. "Even if he lives to be a hundred, he'll never be able to do any of the things you can do right now, at only 11. All he's good for is sitting around with his nose in a book. But you and me, Gaston – we're men of action. We don't waste time sitting around with books – we're out in the world doing things, accomplishing great feats."
"Men of action," Gaston repeated. He liked the sound of that.
"And speaking of men…" Auguste pushed open the door of the tavern and held it open. "You ready to enter a man's world?" he asked, grinning.
Gaston's eyes glowed with anticipation. "You bet, Pop." Together, they entered the tavern.