Parsifal
Written for Danica.
I am Parsifal.
My dearest friend is named Paul. Paul Combeferre. He is not dead.
Perhaps you think it odd that I should mention this. Perhaps it is odd. However, it is true. He is not dead, though I've been told he is. Certain men never die, because they are too good or too wise or simply immortal. Paul is all such things.
I shall tell about him. He is not tall, but not short; he simply is the usual height for a man. He has grey eyes, which match the pearly grey suits he always wears that I like so much. In the sunlight, his eyes shine and the red parts of his hair show more strongly than in the dark, where it all looks dirty golden. He has long, clever hands with which he draws, paints, moulds, plays the piano, and breaks apart stones to study them. He is forever chipping bits off the wall of the college to look at them.
I have known him for ten years. I met him when I was very small, only eight, and he hit me in the face for crushing a spider under my shoe. I hate spiders. But it made him cry; not only that the spider was dead, but that he'd hit me. He didn't think, or he wouldn't have. So I gave him the fruit tart I had in my pocket, saved from lunch, and he stopped crying. That is how we became friends.
We continued to be friends for long while. I went with him when he hunted moths in the twilight. I carried the lantern and he the glass jars. He didn't like to kill them. That was all right. He showed me how one mustn't kill them, because once one's drawn them down, they can be set free and one already has the picture. Besides, pictures don't fray, not like old wings. I know that because I still have all of his.
I also remember a time when we were hunting for mosses. Paul had an idea that he would not let go of, an idea that somewhere in the middle of the forests of our fathers' land, there would be an area surrounded by trees that were hung with mosses, and in that area, we would find a paradise. He told me of it for many days beforehand. 'Parsifal,' he said, 'it will be tall and lovely and full of flowers. There'll be willow trees and a deep pond covered with greenish scum and cattails. We shall see birds.' We looked for it, for weeks and weeks, but we did not find Paul's paradise.
Once, when he was sick, I went looking for his paradise. I believed I should find a cure for him in it, for I thought he was truly very ill. I didn't understand, then, about his never dying. I found a circle of trees covered in moss, but inside them there was a little wood hut that belonged to a madman. He was wild and bearded and he screamed at me; rose up and made to strike me; and I gave him a couple of truffles I had in my pocket, saved from tea, and he smiled at me. He told me that there was no such thing as a paradise with flowers and willows in it, but there was one with a pond and birds. He took me to a marsh, and we saw all the waterbirds nesting. They were very nice; but I cannot describe or draw things the way Paul can, so I have all but forgotten them, having nothing to remember them by. That is often how it is, I think.
One January, it snowed thickly, and Paul and I built a citadel. It was very large and spread out over an entire field, and took us a week to make, but when it was done, we believed there had never been anything as magnificent. Children often believe such things, don't they?
When I was fourteen and he fifteen, we rescued a puppy together. Of course, we did not really rescue it; but we bought it from someone who grinned at us and showed her teeth, and told us fresh young dog made a delicious meal. It was golden, and it grew quickly. I had never seen a golden dog before--but it was long, and sleek, and beautifully shaped. It always went into a frenzy when it saw someone it did not know.
That was how we met Jean. Jean was sitting in our apple tree, asleep, with his head back on a limb and his long coat falling over the sides and his hands folded on his stomach, when Safie--that was what we named our dog, Safie--began barking at him wildly, jumping up and down until I am surprised he still slept. Paul and I came out to see what the matter was, and Paul called up to him. 'Hallo,' he said.
Jean stirred, and Paul called out again. 'Pardon--' he called up.
'Yes? What? Oh, dear,' said Jean, looking down at us. 'Oh, I'm awfully sorry'--of course this is not really what he said; I can't remember; but Jean talked like that, at least, so I know I must be close.
'It's all right,' said Paul. 'Will you come down? You've upset Safie, I'm afraid.'
'Yes, yes, certainly. Oh, I'm so sorry!' And he climbed down, landing on his knees in the dirt before us, with his coat turned brown from the dust. He looked up at Paul and me, looked a little surprised and a little longing, and said, 'My name's Jean.'
'I'm Paul,' he said. 'This is Parsifal.'
'Hello! I didn't mean to fall asleep in your tree.' He didn't make an excuse. He just said he was sorry. I liked that.
'It's quite all right, I tell you. Here, let me help you,' and Paul put out his hand the way he always does, politely and gentlemanly. Jean got up. He had pretty eyes, blue eyes--they're still pretty. His hair is a funny darkish colour, and curly. I like curls.
'Thank you.' Suddenly he smiled. 'The apples were lovely, but I quite apologise. Would you like some of our pears? I shall be glad to give you some. Oh, come with me!'
So we did.
That was how we became friends with Jean. We are still friends with Jean. When Paul and I went to college, we found that Jean was to go to the same place, and we three rented out an apartment together to save money. This was clever of us, really, though of course it was Paul's idea. He is always clever.
Actually, I am in our apartment now. I am sitting on Paul's bed because it smells of him, and I am a little lonely and would like to remember. He has such a nice smell. It is funny, though; but I think that Jean's smell is here, also. Jean always smells of vanilla. I told him so once, and that it was a pleasant smell, and he smiled at me very, very oddly and nodded. 'It is,' he said. 'Yes.' I liked it very much, I told him. My grandmother used to smell of it, too. He began laughing, in a strange, shy way, as though he thought he ought not. Jean, I believe, always thinks he ought not do whatever he is doing. But I still do not know why he laughed.
Jean and Paul spend much more time together than they do with me. Of course, this is all right, I don't mind; there are a thousand things which I always know I ought to be doing, so it is good to have time; but sometimes it is a little odd to be alone in the place that belongs to all three of us. I am lying down in Paul's bed, now, because it is warm and I am not. Oh! and I am tired!
In a bit, Nicolette will come by to see me. Nicolette is Jean's mistress, and she says that she must speak to me about Jean and Paul. I hope she has not come by the way Marie did, or I shall have to ask her to leave. I had to ask Marie to leave. I believe she might have been drunk, for she was screaming and crying and telling me that Jean and Paul were dead--and now you know why I mentioned it before. Of course, Paul is not dead. He never will die.
Now I am going through Paul's papers somewhat, though I know this is a very wrong thing to do. It's simply that they're lying out, and I am idle, and I like his handwriting. It is a letter to Marie, and of course I should put it down right this moment--
My dear Marie,
I apologise most sincerely that I didn't come to take you to dinner on Tuesday, as I promised, but a terrible thing came up. Yes, I know that it's no excuse at all, but I was very shocked and I forgot everything else. I promise that very soon I will apologise to you in person, and take you to the most expensive restaurant in Paris. Now you are shaking your head and laughing; I am sure you are. You think me extravagant. Extravagant? It is never extravagant with you, cherie. I could never be too extravagant at all, for I'll never really repay you for all your help and kindness. Please forgive me for Tuesday.
I remain your loving brother,
Paul Combeferre.
I did not know Marie was Paul's sister! I suppose I thought her his mistress, because he went with her, and Jean and Nicolette, to dinner sometimes. I did not know. I am rather surprised he did not tell me, for I am his closest friend. He ought to have told me. But there, he does odd things sometimes. Of course, one does. One always does. I remember the wild man in the moss circle who took my truffles. Was he not doing an odd thing? Was not I, when I gave him the sweets? So that is all right. But his sister!
Here is another letter.
Marie,
Good Lord, Marie--Jean and I fought to-day. Does Nicolette ever fight with him? Do you fight with Robert? We've never so much as had an argument before, and I'm still shaking. He was rather drunk, and we shouted at one another. Heavenly Father, Marie, I never expected to shout at him. I never expected to fight with him.
Parsifal does not know. He is too dear to me, Marie, and I would not let him know. His parents were afraid to let him come to the college until I promised many, many times that I would take the greatest care of him, and what kind of care would it be to tell him? He still thinks both Jean and I are angels, God-given creatures who care for him when no one else will. I say that is what he thinks; because in truth, we are no angels, and other people would love him if he didn't stay with us all the time. As long as he believes he needs no other friends, he will have no other friends, and I've never been able to convince him otherwise--
This is silly of Paul! I need no other friends! No one has ever been as good to me or as close to me as Paul and Jean are!
--but at any rate, I would spare him from this. Is it right of me? I am perhaps pretending to be benevolent and saying that I shield him from a horrible truth about his 'friends', when in actuality I'm concealing something he needs to know if he is ever to understand why Jean and I are never together and around him at the same time. No; that doesn't sound like a good argument, does it? You are smiling a little, Marie, because you know it isn't. I never was much hand at that. The right thing is not to let him know.
However, I am also hiding the truth from Michel (Enjolras, Marie) because I am afraid of what he would think. Parsifal, at least, would not mind it; he worships us too much. Michel would disapprove, might hate us, and I would that never happens. Jean would be broken-hearted. He has set himself to the revolution as his real cause in life, because he believes that helping others is the noblest thing that can be done. I know this to be true, but one cannot help others if one cannot help oneself.
No, I am not saying anything. I meant this letter to be clear, and instead I've gone all over the place without saying much of anything. Here are things are they stand: Jean will not speak to me. I cannot confide in Parsifal, who would tell me there is nothing wrong with and that I still have friends despite everything. I cannot let my companions know. I have only you, Marie, and I wish to Heaven you would write me back and assure me I am not going mad.
Your brother,
Paul
I am not sure what this means. Paul fought with Jean, but there is nothing wrong with that. I mean, except that it is terrible to fight with a friend. Yes, it must be, though I've never done it. I think I know who Enjolras is--he goes to the college with us and Paul and Jean often go to his talks after school. I do not know what they talk about. I like to go out in the gardens and sit by the fountain while they are out, because I do not like being alone. The fountain is not alone.
But I wish deeply to be with Paul. Of course I would tell him there is nothing wrong with him! There never has been! He is my closest friend Paul, as he has always been. I do not understand why he doubts himself.
Here is another letter, but this one is from Nicolette. The ones that are Paul's he must have forgot to send.
Paul,
You are being entirely too silly about this. Marie told me you think you are going mad. Nonsense! Jehan makes every man think he is going mad! He is a beautiful little creature, yes, but a poet, and you should know that they are always inconstant and dreamy. Why, when he was still my boy--before I lost him to you, you dreadful man--he made me absolutely furious every day. I always had to hold my temper so I wouldn't scream at him at throw him out. He left paper all over my apartment and spilled ink on my best dresses, and if he had drunk anything at all, he lay on my bed and talked nonsense to the ceiling until I kissed him. He is a lovely, foolish poet, Paul, and I should not think more of it. Be happy! Marie and I shall have you both for supper on Wednesday.
Bisous,
Nicolette
That is why I am not so fond of Nicolette. She laughs too much and signs her letters 'bisous'. I like plants and moths on paper; she likes pretty clothes and kisses. We do not get on. But I don't mind that, for she doesn't come around often. I rather wish she wouldn't to-day. I like reading letters, and I shall have to hurry to put them all away the minute I hear her knock.
Marie,
I love Jean too much. We went out to Les Jardins to-day, and identified flowers by their leaves, since nothing has blossomed yet. We spent several hours strolling leisurely (as Courfeyrac would say) and laughing together. I had thought a few days ago that there was nothing left but the love, almost like an empty shell, but to-day I remembered what it is built on. It makes me happy. We are lovers because of things like this: because of walking in Les Jardins or sketching faces together or trying to remember the Latin names of my moth collection.
I shall be very happy to see you on Wednesday, and I hope you and Robert are very well. Parsifal sends regards.
Your loving brother,
Paul
I am not sure of what I know, now. It's so odd, but--Jean and Paul are lovers? I am not sure what I think. Perhaps the next letter--
Marie,
Jean is no longer in love with me, again. He wept to-night when he told me so, but his clothes smelled of absinthe, and I am sorry. This is one of those pains which fades to a dull ache quickly, if only because it is a recurring one. I never meant to burden you with this, and I cannot beg your forgiveness enough for my writing these letters.
It is like the fable of the nightingale and the labourer, is it not? 'Sorrow not for what is gone for-ever'? I just rather wish it might be gone forever or stay. The back and forth is what pains me most.
I will stop now, Marie, and perhaps I won't mail the letter. It would be practical to burn it, too, but it is hot here and Parsifal would be most discomfited if I lit a fire.
Yours,
Paul
Carus Paul,
Miser sum. Miser sum, miser sum, millies miser sum. Mori velleo. Numquam vellebam nocere te, et efficebam, efficebam, saepius efficebam. Amo te. Nequeo rogare te ignosce me, sed rogao: oblivisci me. Amabo te, oblivisci me. Cum primum convenibamus meminisseo et in malus tuus eram. Oculi plurimi belli habebat. Amo te. O, vale!
Misere,
Jehan
I cannot understand Latin. I do not know what this is. I am not sure how I did not know about Jean and Paul, and I still do not know what I think. I know that it is wrong for a man and man to be lovers, but I also know that they are more wonderful than angels, my closest friends. I am not sure.
And there is knocking on the door. Nicolette is here.
'Parsifal!' she is calling. 'Oh, Parsifal, do come and open your door!'
So I do, because that is the proper thing to do, even if I do not like her. That is what I ought to do. Also, I shall smile when I do, because that is nice. She smiles back a little, but mostly she looks as though she has been crying, and will cry more.
'Parsifal, they've died. Jehan and Paul. Both of them. Parsifal, what are we going to do?' She throws her arms around me and begins crying, as I thought. 'What will I do without my Jehan? My sweet boy? Oh, he didn't want me any longer, but he was still mine and he still wrote about me but now he can't any longer and I've not got anything and he was my sweet boy! And Paul, Paul is dead, and how will we ever live? There was no one in the world like Paul! What will we do? Marie has Robert--what will we do, Parsifal?'
I shake my head, because I do not know. I do not know why she is crying. Paul is not dead.
'Oh, Parsifal, you don't understand. Do you? No, you don't. Poor Parsifal.' She is stroking my hair now, and I don't know why, but it feels very nice. 'They are gone. They will not come back. Jehan was shot by a firing squad, and they found Paul with bayonet wounds in his body, bled to death, and oh, God, Parsifal, I want my Jehan!'
I shake my head again. She is wrong. Paul told me himself, before he left, that he was going for a week to visit Enjolras, and he would come back when he was done. He and Jean would both come back. When Paul says a thing, that is how it is. That is how it always is.
'Now, listen to me, Parsifal. I know you don't understand. I don't think you'll want to understand. It's just that Jehan and Paul are not coming back, and we must put their papers in order to give to their parents. And then we must find somewhere cheap to live, you and I, because they were rich and we can't afford this apartment any longer. Then, we must tell their friends about it, and we must write letters, and we are going to be by ourselves. Marie will marry Robert. There will be no one but us two, Parsifal, and we must learn not to hate each other. I shan't say anything about your bugs. I promise.'
She is still talking nonsense. I don't understand. Nothing makes any sense. Paul and Jean are coming back, and I am quite all right, and my moths which Paul sketched for me are not just bugs. She will know so. Nicolette does not believe I can take care of myself, but I always have. I have taken care of myself.
I draw back, and bring her the letters, and she sits down to read them. Every now and then, she begins to cry again, or she laughs, strangely, as though she may scream. I do not want her to scream. It's too loud. I am quiet, and she is quiet now, and I have begun to fall asleep in Paul's bed when she shakes me.
'You read these, didn't you, Parsifal? Do you know what they mean? They mean that Jehan and Paul were like Jehan and I were, once. Do you understand that?'
I wish she would go away. Of course I understand. It is how I feel about it that I don't understand just yet. But I will. I always do. I want to go find Paul's paradise with the mosses and show it to him when he comes back. He is coming back. He said he would. When he comes back, he will bring Jean with him, and I will watch them live together, and then I will see how I feel about it.
~~~
I am living with Nicolette. It is annoying, but that is all right, because I am waiting for Paul and Jean. They are coming back. They are late, but that, too, is all right. Sometimes people are late. I have been late lots of times. So I am waiting, and they will come back soon, and I shall live with them again. Then I will see how I feel about them being lovers.
So you see, I am all right. Everything is all right. I am just waiting.
He is not dead. He is, you see, my closest friend, is Paul Combeferre.
And I am Parsifal.
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