La vengeance du Cavalier

     A few days ago I was sitting in a local café sipping espresso and thinking furiously when a man and a woman sat down next to me and started talking. I found that I could not help but overhear their conversation, which immediately disrupted my thinking. I had thus resigned myself to leave, taking my last mouthful of espresso, when I heard one of them mention as an aside Royan’s being home to a library dating back to the early 16th century. This news thoroughly took me off guard, causing me to spew espresso from my mouth and let out a shocked “QUOI?”
     Kindly ignoring my unseemly outburst and the espresso on their shoes they obligingly explained that the library had been all but forgotten over the course of many years. Most people now did not know of its existence because it was not lavishly decorated on the outside, stood in an otherwise dilapidated section of the city, and who went to libraries these days anyway? When they made known their intention to visit the library later that afternoon I hastened to invite myself along.
     Upon our arrival I noticed that the exterior indeed appeared somewhat modest, but once inside! inside I found that its beauty rivaled even Coimbra’s Biblioteca Joanina. I wandered around admiring the intricate baroque architecture and marveling at the ancient and varied tomes, which adorned the walls from floor to ceiling. My friends stayed and toured with me for quite some time before eventually returning to their hotel. I bade them farewell, having decided to stay a bit longer to peruse a collection of short stories written in the 19th century that I had picked out during my wanderings. I did not recognize the author (a certain Thibault Duconte), and the book looked as though it had not been disturbed for many years. But being curious and having nothing but time, I opened and began to read.
     Three hours later I had finished. My overwhelming impression was that the stories were pleasant and diverting save for one which markedly stood out from the rest. It possessed a deeper and somewhat darker impetus than the others. Moreover in a postscript the author claimed to have exceptionally chosen to base this story on an event that actually took place in Paris in the late 17th century. I found it compelling enough to return to the library the next day in order to translate it into English. This I have done so that I might share it with you.

La vengeance du Cavalier
Thibault Duconte

     Footsteps echoed stridently in the Manoir de la Bastion as a cavalier rushed down a long hall toward a small, ornamented door at the far end. His hair had come partly undone and flew about his face in rythm with his steps. A look of rage and contempt pervaded his features. His right hand firmly grasped the hilt of his rapier.
     Suddenly his path was obstructed by a man dressed in livery come into the hall from a side passage, sword drawn and at the ready. The cavalier shrieked in fury, and drew his sword in a flash. After a short skirmish the man fell, mortally wounded in the chest. The cavalier quickly pulled his sword from his enemy and continued on his way in the same frenzied pace.
     Halfway down the hall he was set upon by two more retainers who had heard the commotion and come to aid their comrade. He parried what would have been a fatal blow from the one, but just failed to get clear of the other’s sword, the base of whose blade violently struck him in the face and split open his cheek. However the guard’s ambitious attack had left him vunerable and the cavalier took full advantage, quickly stabbing him in the abdomen, then turning in time to defend against the remaining guard’s continued attack. They fenced for some time until the cavalier finally wounded the other in the hand and was able to finish him soon thereafter.
     As the cavalier continued down the hall he felt blood flowing abundantly from the gaping wound in his face. Tears from the pain streamed down and mixed with the blood, but his mind was set and a fierce determination pushed him onward. His pace did now slow. Reaching down he unsheathed a dagger with his left hand. Nothing stood in his path now but two guards stationed on either side of the door armed with pistols. The pistols had been trained on him ever since he had come into view at the other end of the hall. They waited for him to approach. He moved steadily forward. When he was within firing range of the pistols the guards set them off. One of the balls he heard whistle by his head; the other struck him in the shoulder. He grunted in pain and stumbled, but staid his course, his momentum carrying him ever forward. The two guards drew their swords and prepared to meet him.
     Summoning what was left of his quickly failing strength the cavalier charged into them. With a feint followed by a decisive attack he impaled the one to the left of the door. Then, already inside the other’s guard, he dispatched the man with his dagger before he could react. Leaving them both moribund on the floor he gritted his teeth, took a step back and kicked in the small ornamented door.
     Inside the room, behind a marble table sat a small man dressed completely in white from head to toe. He was still as a statue, his face a sickly waxen color. He gazed with horror at the door through which the cavalier had entered but uttered not a word.
     The cavalier marched up to the table and pronounced the following sentence:
     “For the dishonnor and rape of my sister, Manon de la Fayette, I condemn you to death.”
     He then reached into his vest, drew out a pistol, held it to the man’s forehead and fired.

Life in Royan

I’ve been in Royan for about two weeks now, long enough to settle in and get a feel for life here. Currently I am in a provisional living situation. I’m staying in the Résidence Erasmus, which is the housing for language students who come to study at the CAREL. It’s a fairly nice little apartment all things considered. I have a view of my workplace out my second-story window, and it’s pretty spacious compared to other student housing.

I have however noticed something very peculiar about my apartment. A few days after moving in I realized that there is a gnome living under my bed. He stands no taller than eight inches from the ground, wears something that resembles a medieval tunic, and has a long beard that has been braided into two strands with great care, which I’ve since learned is pretty standard for gnomes.

At first I had little to complain about as his habits were more or less innocuous. Late at night when I was on my computer he would creep out from under the bed and watch me intently as I worked. Now and then he would grunt or guffaw in apparent criticism, but he restrained himself for the most part. Lately he has become more intrusive, and I have come to realize, as it is now painfully obvious, that he has tasked himself with assuring the quality of my work here as a teacher. This wouldn’t be so bad if his method for doing so consisted of something other than negative reinforcement.

This negative reinforcement has evolved over time. As I mentioned before, he used to limit himself to disapproving grunts. Now, whenever he isn’t satisfied with my efforts he retrieves a miniature cat-o-nine tails from under the bed and flogs me vigorously on the part of my head where he assumes my conscience to reside. (As a result I have a sore and slightly lacerated left temple.) Even worse, while I’m trying to sleep he paces to and fro at the foot of my bed demanding definitions for things like bounded morphemes and periphrasis. When, in bewilderment, I ask him why I would require any of these things to effectively teach English as a foreign language, he shrieks horribly and goes into a rage, tearing at his hair and stomping his feet.

At this point I’m not really sure how to get rid of him. I might try asking about anti-gnome spray at the grocery store.

I remembered that I have a blog.

     I have been back in Portland for a few weeks now, so I thought it would be appropriate to bring you all up to speed. As many of you know, I have been hired to teach at a language school in Royan, France. I have a twelve-month contract which starts on September 1st. Before coming back to Portland, I went down to Royan to meet the staff and tour the facility, and am very much looking forward to working there. Royan is located in the southwest of France right on the mouth of the Gironde Estuary. If you want to read more about the city you might go to the wikipedia page by following this convenient link: Brian will be here.

     Meanwhile, you will be happy to learn that while back in the United States I have not been wasting my time. In fact I have taken the initiative to conceive of and carry out a certain experiment with the goal of pushing the putative bounds of literature. How did I attempt this? by recruiting a crack team of apes and turning them loose on a room full of typewriters.

     I find it difficult to fully express the pride I felt observing them hard at work, hearing the click-clack of inspiration, smelling the full pungent odor of abstract thought and creation. And I! I stood in front and encouraged.

     “Ho there Max! how gifted you are with metaphor! Bravo Linus! Such an aptly turned phrase!”

     I stood at their head, a conductor at the head of his orchestra. I drew forth and tempered their creation.

     And finally, after days of relentless labor and at the limits of exhaustion, our task came to an end. Holding the finished work in my hand, holding the pages of the fruits of our labor, I began to read. What wonder! What riches! What literature! It engulfed me, wrapped me up in its beauty; I laughed and cried, rejoiced and mourned in obedience to the prose. And when I had finished, with glistening eyes I slowly looked up at my companions.

     “My friends, our great enterprise has come to its term, but it is happily crowned with success. Gentlemen, my felicitations.”

     At this the apes, deeply moved by my words, began to crowd around me, laying their hands upon me and some even trying to embrace me. This was something I had not expected. I bore it well for a short moment, but then I started to feel a profound revulsion deep within. The hair! the hair! I happened to catch the eyes of several of them as we were so close, and I saw there naught but savagery and void. At a certain moment I could no longer contain the horror. All of a sudden I flung myself backward in the throng, fell forward onto my knees, threw my head back and shrieked.

     “Get your stinking paws off me you damn dirty apes!”

An Italian Sonnet by Craig Mather

For those who have not read the comment attached to my last article, I here would like to dedicate a post entirely to its display. The following is an italian sonnet by my brother, Craig:

See how he stands by thought of death unswerved
upon the fine and verdant square Cambronne
its namesake rising from the earth in stone
by sacred kiss of history preserved
Hear as he cries out "vive Napoleon!"
"A challenge to you men of noble birth:
dare fight this blood you think of little worth?"
the highborn turn and answer: "nous osons!"
Now one steps out to wage for all the rest
draws sword and argues with its fatal prose
but falls to death as our man thrusts his own
up to the hilt inside that noble breast
and from the wound the filth of Eglon flows
a blood-price for the honor of Cambronne


(Note: The french in the eighth line translates: "we dare")

A quarrel with an aristocrat

France, in many ways, is very different from The U.S. For example, to establish myself and gain respect in French society I have to vehemently defend my honor. This means, of course, engaging myself in duels whenever I have been offended in order to acquire satisfaction. Here in Nantes especially, things are settled at the point of a sword, so I must needs brush up on my fencing. I am joking of course; I would never need to brush up on my fencing. But that does remind me of an incident that took place not too long after my arrival.

Two weeks ago, while sitting in a café, I was approached by several agreeable Frenchman who were looking for nothing more than hearty conversation. This I welcomed eagerly as a means to gain some information about the city. We talked on all manner of subjects until, while expounding on notable sites to visit in Nantes, one of them made a comment about Le Cours Cambronne (The Square Cambronne). He spoke of it with utter contempt, which piqued my curiosity. When I asked why he held this square in such low esteem, he replied that it was an extremely high end square and, consequently, also one of the most stubbornly aristocratic. It was not advisable, he said, to enter into that square if I did not come from a firmly established and respected family. This news did nothing more than stir up the rebellion in me and I gave a hearty "pffffff" in response. Having thusly fired off a definitive riposte, I turned and headed in the direction of the square Cambronne, leaving the Frenchmen calling after me and shaking their heads.

When I arrived at the gate I paused for a moment to gather myself, then strolled in, head held high, upper lip curled in disdain. As I made my way to the center of the square and the statue of the general Cambronne, I yelled out in a strong voice: "vive Napolean!" This had the desired effect, even a bit more so than I had hoped. In a few seconds I found myself surrounded by a group of angry French aristocrats (French aristocrats are all pretty angry these days seeing that the Restoration didn't pan out). I knew I had to tread carefully, choose my moment, then act swiftly. I became flush with anticipation, my hand at the ready on my saber. I looked around me trying to pick out their leader. Ah! the dandy looking fellow with the uneven peruke! That was he. I pointed at him, singling him out from the rest, and drew my sword in one fluid motion. Bound by centuries of honor, he was constrained to accept my challenge. He advanced and made ready.

With the rest of them watching we fell into furious combat. He was strong and skilled, but could not match my endurance. Eventually he began to tire, and I seized a moment when his guard was open, piercing him through the breast. He cried out once, eyes wide with surprise, then fell to his knees. The others moved in immediately to see to him. For my part, I calmly cleaned and sheathed my blade, then walked back the way I had come. I knew I would have no further problems in the square Cambronne.

Some of you out there might be wondering how a square in Nantes dedicated to a hero of the Empire would end up a haven for what's left of the French aristocracy. This is a good question. I can only surmise that their taking possession of the square was a passive aggressive attempt to denigrate Napolean and his legacy. Notwithstanding, the statue has suffered no ill treatment and the square is always pristine with never any sign of vandalism. Rather, from what I have observed, aristocrats show their disdain in seemly fashion by showering the general Cambronne with subtlety ironic praise to any tourists who will listen.

Le Cours Cambronne

Hello everybody! Here I am again in France, so I figure it is time for another blog entry.
I found an apartment not far from my school, which is really nice. But, what has impressed me the most about the location is its proximity to a beautiful square called Le Cours Cambronne. It's only about a minute's walk from my place. Here is a picture I took from one of the entrances.



It's name after the general Pierre Cambronne, a well known French general who commanded part of the Old Guard at Waterloo. When the British commander Coleville demanded that he surrender, he was reported to have famously declared, "la garde meurt et ne se rend pas" (The guard dies and does not surrender). This is written on the base of the statue of Cambronne in the center of the square.


And here's the statue itself.



Here's a closer look at the statue. Take a look at those sideburns! Wow, those are hefty.


You know, the term 'sideburns' actually has a long and rich history dating back to the mid 19th century. A certain General Ambrose Burnside, who wore them in the civil war, is almost wholly credited with their coming into fashion in the Americas, first catching on among his men, and later in society at large. Wanting to pay hommage to their innovator, Burnside's men decided to name them after him. But, knowing Burnside to be a modest man, it seems his men clumsily tried to disguise the term's namesake by merely inverting 'burn' and 'side'. Thus we have the word: sideburn. (It so happened that the diguised word did not for an instant fool Burnside, who blushed furiously upon first hearing it pronounced and, in order to cover his embarrassment, immediately led a foolhardy charge into enemy lines during which a full third of his men were killed or wounded.)[1]

Interestingly, sideburns might have also had a practical use in battle. In a frontal charge, the volume of hair on either side of the head greatly increased its area as percieved by the enemy. Reasearchers theorize that this caused the defending line to be somewhat lax when aiming for the head, thereby saving the charging sideburn wearer from excessive head wounds.[2]

Sideburns are not to be confused with friendly mutton chops: mutton chops amicably connected with a mustache. Toward the end of the civil war, there was a captain who started wearing friendly mutton chops in an attempt to upstage General Burnside, but he was almost uniformly looked down upon and his friendly mutton chops widely considered to be gaudy and ostentatious. [3]

[1] Original research by Dr. G. Aric, professor of causistry and hindsight ethics at Lambert University.
[2] Head Wounds: How Many Is Too Many? Dr. Angus Moosington M.D.
[3] From Sideburns to Friendly Mutton Chops: An Illustrated Guide to Identification. Bruno van Cattus.

Elegy for a Beard

As I'm sure most of you now know, Craig's beard is no longer with us. Despite my vehement apologia, it fell under the razor several months ago. I have only just recovered enough from my sorrow to post a tribute. And post it I must...lest we forget.

Elegy for a Beard

The pride of man in nature's state allowed
To coronate his chin in kingly wear
As Sampson's strength, so terrible and proud,
Was cut from him and lost as locks of hair.

I looked upon him when, being at their height,
lush curls extolled his wild and noble state.
They seemed to me a crown, divine and right,
foretelling all the glory of his fate.

But let us not bemoan with maudlin cries
the outward sign of what resides in him.
Do not believe Delilah and her lies.
One tames a lion only at its whim.