Author's Note: I really have no excuses so you will have to simply forgive me the absence and hopefully read on :). Hopefully, the length of this chapter compensates somewhat and we learn a bit about Jehan.
30th December
Lyrical contemplations – 1 (noteworthy)
Distressed poets – 1
Distressing letters – 1
Distressing discoveries made about said poets prompted by the reading of said letters – at least 2
Revolutions to be planned – 1 but might be planning it almost on my own
I don't know what made me go out of my way to pass by Jehan's lodgings. There was nothing to suggest he would be back. Yet, when I reached his street and looked up to his mansard, the window was not only lit but open, in spite of the cold, and there was a faint sound of a piano playing. I strained to listen. I didn't know Jehan had a piano as I had never actually come up to his room. I only knew the address and the particular window because I had walked him home a couple of times after our visits to Feuilly.
The piano player seemed to be trying to remember a particular tune. The melody would start confidently but then go out of rhythm, pick up again, the wrong key would be hit, there would be a pause and then everything repeated.
No one stopped me when I entered the building and climbed all the way to the top of the stairs. The musician seemed to have remembered the rest of the tune now because my ascent was accompanied by a complete version of it and just as I reached the final step, Jehan's voice joined in harmony with the piano. Not wanting to interrupt, I merely stepped closer to the door to be able to hear. He sang with his usual exuberance and clarity but with a voice much softer and tenderer than what I was used to hearing when he recited revolutionary poetry. It almost bordered on being slightly feminine in its gentleness.
Naturally, I didn't memorize the whole song but a few verses stuck in my mind. It began so:
"Long ago, long ago
the summer never ended
but no one ever listened
to the birds when they would sing
and angels tried to teach us love
but we could never understand it.
And that's why God created winter
So we would learn to love the spring."
Then there was something about the 'seed of love' and 'a flower cracking a boulder' and then the last verse ended like this:
"…And it's a blessing in disguise
To come to know that feeling
That comes from hope that's been reborn
Or from an wound that's healing."
I'd never heard the song before. I wondered if he had learned it somewhere or if it was one of his poems. But I hadn't heard of him ever composing and I couldn't think why he would not mention it if he did. It did sound a little like his style but… not completely. Maybe something that had inspired him? It certainly had enough symbolism in it. I'm not normally moved by poetry about flowers and trees but there were themes here that I found somewhat stirring.
If we took winter to be a metaphor for the current state of our country… No, that would not do. The song suggested that winter was necessary and with the necessity of this kind of winter I could never agree.
Then if we take it instead to be a metaphor for the recent cooling of my friends' enthusiasm – which has turned to frost in Combeferre's case, at least compared to his usual state of mind – then we might be able to conclude that the 'sleeping seed of love' (love for their country, of course) is merely lying dormant and is maybe going to awaken with the spring and give rise to the flower that will crack the boulder of the tyrannical government…
I do realize it's somewhat unlikely the author meant exactly that but one can hope. And, in any case, I am constantly told art is open to interpretation. As for the blessing of a healing wound, I am willing to agree, except for the fact that – if we once again take it metaphorically – the wound in our organization doesn't seem to be healing but is rather getting worse. We lost Combeferre. Combeferre! Will any of the others be willing to stay, with him gone?
…am I?
What nonsense! Of course I am! This was never about Combeferre. Still…
I waited for the last note to fade and knocked. There was a startled scraping sound, caused, I imagined, by the small chair in front of the piano when its occupant turned sharply at the unexpected rapping. Then a pause, footsteps, and finally Jehan opened the door. He was dressed in something that I could not even find a term for. It had most probably come from the East, was decorated in cherry blossoms and I was sure even he would not wear it in public. Under all the bright colours he looked a little pale and I could not figure out if it was the kind of paleness poets merely found fashionable these days or something I should be worried about. His smile, however, was undoubtedly genuine when he saw me and I felt a little touched by how big it was.
"Enjolras! How did you know to come by? No one knows I'm back yet. Do come in. I'm sorry, I haven't tidied up…"
I entered the apartment and immediately thought that I could not possibly have been able to make the difference between it being tidy or not. There were so many… things. Paintings in different styles. Books. Articles of clothing. In addition to that, the whole place seemed caught somewhere on a crossroad between 18th century France and a fairytale. Everything save for some of the books was terribly outdated. The space wasn't actually small but it was so cluttered that it could never pass for large by looking at it. The air smelled strange – not bad, just unusual. Perhaps it was some foreign herb.
Among other things, an old-looking foil was stuck in the wall. It had a few colourful strange-looking necklaces and a rosary hanging on it.
Heavens. A foil. For fencing. Used as a hanger. This was our dear Jehan – more extravagant than extravagance itself. But then again, Jehan didn't fence – he had told me so himself – so what else would he use a foil for if he already happened to have one? I'm sure it made sense to him.
It struck me that with the kind of money he was entitled to, he could definitely afford something less humble than this little mansard. But he apparently found it more poetic here. Not that I would encourage indulgence to start with, so his choice was fine by me.
Jehan dug out a chair from under some books and offered it to me along with a glass of wine. I was almost surprised by the wine – I had nearly expected to be presented with some unknown exotic drink.
I sipped it nonetheless as I answered his initial greetings and I assured him that my coming was a pure coincidence, which he seemed to find delightful. I then congratulated him on his little concert.
"Oh..." He blushed. "You heard that? Oh, dear, I must have kept you at the door. I'm afraid I didn't hear you knocking until I was done."
"I didn't knock until you were done. I didn't want to interrupt and I cannot complain of the entertainment. If you would be so kind as to inform me, what was it that I heard?"
"Just a song…"
"Not yours, is it?"
"No… My mother's."
That was something of a surprise.
"I didn't know your mother wrote music and lyrics."
"You wouldn't. Not many people have heard them. And she rarely does it anymore. She wrote that for me one day in winter about eight years ago. It was snowing very heavily and we were watching through the window. She said the snowflakes were waltzing and I said they should have a song to waltz to. And she asked what would the song be about and I said they would be singing about why there is winter. Then she sat at the piano and wrote this. She taught me to play it a little later and my father and she even danced to it once… It was long ago," he finished, unintentionally echoing the words of the song.
He was teary-eyed again and again I didn't know if something was wrong or if it was just his emotionality.
"Did you have a good Christmas?" I asked, deciding not to prod.
"Yes… Yes." There was a small pause; then he continued fervently. "Thank you so much for the presents! You and Courfeyrac and Feuilly! You have no idea… It's really good to see you again. Tell me how you and the others celebrated."
I smiled.
"Thank you for your presents as well, on account of everyone, although I'm sure they'll thank you themselves when they see you. We were truly wonderfully happy with them. But there is really not much to tell about our Christmas. It was rather pleasant but we mostly talked and nothing of consequence really happened."
"Oh, please!" he implored, his pale blue eyes fixing on me.
I blinked, caught a little off-guard by his insistence.
"Very well then… The children Feuilly teaches came for a few minutes and, let me think, recited the alphabet, I believe. And sang something and got candy for their efforts. And Courfeyrac insisted on dancing with the girls, at which they were delighted as girls usually are when they dance with Courfeyrac. Then they went home and we sat down to dinner. The looks and character of one of Feuilly's female co-workers was discussed at one point, you will forgive me if I don't remember too much about that. Then the conversation went back to the children and how each of them was spending Christmas. That topic threatened to become gloomy but ended on an optimistic note because apparently someone's parents had enough heart to take someone else in – an orphan – for the holidays and even spared enough for a present which, we all agreed, was testament that there was still some good in the human race and, indeed, in France. I forget the names of the people involved in that story so if you want more details, you will have to ask Feuilly. After that we conversed on some more social topics at which point Courfeyrac complained we were trying to turn the evening into a meeting and made us play some sort of word game. That turned out rather amusing to the point where the two of them could not stop laughing enough to even attempt to explain the word. That continued for a while and what was said during and after it I really don't remember. There. Was this account satisfactory?"
"Sounds like you had a wonderful time…"
"Yes, I believe we rather…"
I stopped in the middle of the sentence because I noticed he wasn't looking at me and he was secretly wiping his eyes. I hesitated.
"Prouv-" No, that didn't seem right at present. "Jehan, what is the matter?" I asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Every time I see you lately you seem upset, I can hardly attribute it all to simply being sensitive."
He cleared his throat and attempted a laugh.
"Oh, it's nothing, pay no attention to me! It's a silly, silly thing that I should be able to cope with."
"I have no doubt in your coping abilities; I am merely concerned as a friend. Oh, and I have something that belongs to you!"
Thinking of the last time I had seen him upset had made me remember the letter. It was still in my pocket, untouched since the day I had put it there. I took it out now and handed it to him. For a moment, something like terror crossed Jehan's features but then it was gone.
"Did you read it?" he asked quite calmly.
"I would never read your private correspondence!"
I must have sounded more offended than I felt because he immediately flushed and shook his head quickly.
"No, no, no, I didn't mean… Enjolras, forgive me, it was silly of me to suppose such a thing. I didn't think you would open it out of curiosity, I just thought maybe you and Fabrice might have been more concerned than necessary after that scene I made last time. I am honestly sorry for that, I hope it didn't spoil your evening. But in any case the letter holds no secrets. You can read it."
"I admit I was very concerned. But I won't read it unless you wish me to."
"Read it. I am suitably ashamed of my own actions which have been the reason for its writing but I should not be ashamed of anything else you may learn from it. It's a terrible thing to be ashamed of such things."
I could not imagine what he meant but, with that encouragement, I took the letter from him and unfolded it.
Son,
I am appalled at you recent behavior! To not visit your own family over Christmas is an offence in itself but to commit such an offence when your mother is ill is simply unforgivable. You know very well such behavior may cause her condition to worsen. If she does not directly ask for your attention, that does not mean you are excused from paying it to her or allowed to disrespect me by neglecting to be here. Perhaps you think a sick mother can be disregarded in favor of your – I am sure very vivid and quite degrading – social life in your circle of self-proclaimed artists. I shudder to think that if I should die before my wife, you will have her thrown in an institution for your own convenience. While I am still alive, however, I will not tolerate such behavior. I expect you here tonight. Should you fail to comply, upon my word, there will be consequences. I will not condone ungratefulness in my own family!
J. C. Prouvaire
By the time I had finished the letter I felt the need to throw it in the fire. I shoved it in my pocket, quite determined to prevent Jehan from rereading it.
Such words! Such words against one of my dearest friends and the most tender-hearted soul I have ever known! No wonder he was upset! This explained why the letter looked like it had been crumpled. Jehan himself must have been angry upon reading it. And rightfully so, I would add, for I cannot imagine he would treat anyone ill, especially his own mother. The loving manner in which he had spoken of her just minutes ago was proof enough of that.
"Upon my word, Prouvaire, what utter nonsense is this?" I asked, aware that I sounded quite angry.
"It's all true."
"It is not! I don't know what your mother's condition is but a missed Christmas dinner hardly merits such a vicious reprimand!"
"If you knew all the facts… I should have gone to them earlier but… God, how I wanted to stay here with you!"
He covered his face with his hands and remained in that position. I was suddenly gripped by the worrying realization that I was witnessing a friend going through an emotional crisis and I was ill-qualified to help.
My first thought was of fetching Justinien. The second was that he had stepped away from us and I could not count on him like I used to. The third was that the second was ridiculous – he had expressed doubt about our convictions, not renounced our friendship. And the fourth was that I was a grown man and should be able to deal with this.
"Unless you will find it too unpleasant to do so," I began carefully, "I think it would be best to say what needs saying now. I may not be the best person to listen but I am nonetheless your friend and it pains me to see you like this, especially when I don't fully comprehend the reason."
This had no effect for a few moments but then he took a deep breath and wiped his face, seemingly composing himself. His eyes remained fixed somewhere in the direction of the piano. When he started talking his voice was quiet but controlled.
"My mother is of fragile mental health. She was better when I was younger but she has been getting worse with each year. She is now constantly depressed, doesn't leave her room and hardly speaks to anyone. It is my obligation as a son to go and see her regardless of this. However, I find it very difficult to spend time in that house. It pains me to see my mother and my father is… He doesn't…" He made a small pause, apparently looking for a suitable way to put it. "He is not very approving of me and our conversation is rather strained at the best of times."
"Does he know you associate with us and disprove of that?"
"He doesn't know. I have followed your advice to let as few people know as possible, unless they are prospective recruits. But I suspect if he did know, that would be the only thing about me he would not disapprove of. On one hand, Enjolras, I believe that he may be a republican at heart."
I was startled by such a statement but made no comment. I knew, of course, that having republican views did not immediately make someone a good person but how could anyone believe in freedom while at the same time ordering his own son around and threatening with consequences if his orders were not obeyed? No, I was disinclined to believe this but I refrained from saying so as it was irrelevant at present.
"At the same time," Jehan continued, "anything that involves me holding a gun and not a pen is likely to make him happy. He did teach me to shoot. That was however one of the few things we have ever managed to successfully do together. Pleasant meals are not among them. As my mother would not come down for dinner, my Christmas was spent sitting across the table from him and attempting not to anger him. Unsuccessfully, I'm afraid, as everything about me seems to anger him. Your presents were the only good thing I could look forward to, that's why I insisted on saving them for later. I would have given anything to be with you instead of there...
And that is all. Truly, a grown man should not be so upset at such things, or at least should not show it. But I try so hard not to show it in front of mother and father that the rest of the time it just… You are under no oath to keep any of this a secret, Enjolras, you may tell whomever you deem necessary if you wanted to explain, if not excuse, my inadequate behavior."
"Your behavior was perfectly adequate!" I assured him, quite heartbroken over his tale and wondering if that showed on my own face which was, quite contrary to Jehan's, normally free of any excess emotion. "In fact, you make me feel ashamed for putting so much thought into my own petty disagreements with my father for they are truly insignificant. Believe me when I tell you that I have become upset over much less and expressed it in a much less agreeable manner. It involved a lot of angry words and one accidental breaking of my mother's china. Indeed, you have handled it much more like a man."
He finally looked at me and smiled.
"When are we having a meeting, Enjolras? I should really like to see the others."
It was now time for me to look away.
"I am not sure. I was planning on having it this week but there have been some… developments." I took a small breath filled with the unusual spicy smell and exhaled. "Combeferre is out."
Jehan stared at me in perfect astonishment. There was a long moment before he spoke.
"Combeferre? I would have found it hard to believe of anyone but Combeferre? Are you sure you are not mistaken."
"There can be no mistake. He spoke to me about it personally. He is now of the opinion that too many lives would be lost during a revolution and he seems more willing to wait for intellectual progress do the work."
To my shame, I was finding it hard to keep the bitterness and skepticism from entering my voice.
"I promote freedom of choice," I added in an attempt to make my previous words sound less like an accusation. "And he has made his. There is nothing to it. I fear, however, that the others may follow his lead. You remember how uncertain they seemed last time."
Jehan shook his head.
"No. No, they can't all leave, I won't accept it. Something has to be done. They have to be reminded…"
"I tried to remind them, Prouvaire. I will try again but I have to be prepared for the possibility that it might have no effect."
"It has to!" said Jehan and looked directly at me. "It has to. They are my family."
They are mine, too, I thought. If only I knew what to say to them…
End Note: And thank you again for reading and I will be very happy to hear your thoughts. For those of you curious enough, here is the whole song.
Long ago, long ago
the summer never ended
but no one ever listened
to the birds when they would sing
and angels tried to teach us love
but we could never understand it.
And that's why God created winter
So we would learn to love the spring.
Sometimes I look at us and think
Our hearts are getting colder
But that's the time to look inside
And find that sleeping seed of love
And you'll see how with tiny roots
A flower cracks a boulder
And in the eyes of the beholder
How close become the stars above.
Long ago, long ago
There weren't any seasons
And in the sunlight people
never learned to glow
When angels brought the dark and cold
I know they must have had their reasons
And maybe God created winter
So we would learn to dream and grow.
Do you remember, long ago
We wanted to be older
We wished upon the falling snow
For things that we were dreaming of
And just like then I want to feel
Your hand upon my shoulder
You make me braver, make me bolder
My heart is warmer in your glove.
And if you never learn to cry
Then what's the point of laughter
And winter's not a time to die
When spring will follow after
And it's a blessing in disguise
To come to know that feeling
That comes from hope that's been reborn
Or from an wound that's healing.