Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

“A pity more Germans are not of your opinion. And that fewer French generals are. But I can’t blame you. You are right, after all. Go home then. At least no one will bother you—assuming you get there.”

Bernard turned and took Julien’s hand. “Go to the Ministry of the Interior this afternoon; I’ll talk to contacts and make sure there is some suitable piece of paper to get you onto the convoy. But after that you’ll be on your own.”

Julien nodded, and stood watching as his friend strode off down the corridor to the newsroom, suddenly purposeful where he felt no purpose whatsoever except for the need to get home. There was something in his friend’s step, a bounce almost, that hinted that Bernard was actually enjoying all of this, that he sensed an opportunity. More than anything else that day, that made Julien uneasy.

THE OUTCOME of the chance meeting was laid out in miniature thirty years previously, during the summer of 1911, when a group of children were playing in the square of Vaison. High up, in the medieval hill town to which the townspeople had retreated long before Olivier’s day, and where they stayed until half a century before Julien’s birth, when they began to move back down to the plain that once had held the bustling city of antiquity.

Bernard, the youngest by a few months, is the most exuberant, jumping off walls recklessly, laughing loudly. Every now and then, a head appears in the window of one of the houses, and a voice—old or young, male or female, angry or amused—tells them to keep the noise down. They try, for a few minutes, until Bernard finds something else to laugh about.

Marcel, the eldest by a year, uncertain whether he is too old to be with such young children, stands aside, then is drawn into the play. They throw stones at the splashing water fountain, just below the window of the church. Their faces reflect their characters. Bernard tosses the pebbles with abandon, joyfully seeing if he can lob his missile into the water trough, but not caring whether he succeeds or not. His pleasure is in the movement of his arm, and in seeing the stone curl through the air. He tries different ways of throwing—fast, parallel to the ground. Slowly and elegantly, curving upward in a great parabola. Standing with his back to the target and closing his eyes before throwing it over his shoulder, whooping with as much pleasure when he misses as when he doesn’t. He lands his pebble in the water fairly often; he is a natural sportsman.

Julien has no such frivolity, and much less ability. He concentrates hard, trying to overcome nature. He misses, time and again, but keeps on going, methodically working the stone nearer and nearer to the target, until at last he drops one into the trough.

He laughs with pleasure, and Bernard cheers him, dancing around him and clapping.

Marcel is displeased at the attention. He throws his pebble hard, and incautiously. It smashes through a window of the church, scattering slivers of glass and noise across the little square. He runs, leaving Bernard and Julien standing alone. When the priest comes out of his house, Bernard claims ownership of the deed, knowing that if Marcel’s father—a brutal man—hears of the event, he will be savagely beaten.

Marcel never thanks him, although he is not ungrateful.

THIS WAS THE event Bernard had referred to, one of those moments of childhood from which the whole of adult life can be projected. Julien, nervous, innocent, but standing fast. The insouciant Bernard, making the grand gesture in the name both of friendship and of self-aggrandizement, his actions extravagant but generous. And Marcel, a little cowardly and frightened, afraid of authority, not wishing to take on the ownership of his deeds, content for others to be punished instead of him. The resister, the collaborator, and the vacillating intellectual. A vignette of later events, whole histories condensed into a small square of a provincial town.

Except that Julien remembered it like that only because Bernard retold the story many years later and brought it back to his mind. Imposed his narrative on what had become the faintest of recollections; created memories by his skill as raconteur. Julien did not query the account and even came to remember the look of panic on Marcel’s face, the quirky little smile of bravado as Bernard stepped forward.

But, on a few occasions, he was almost certain he remembered that it was Bernard who had thrown the stone and run away, and Marcel who had been beaten.

DESPITE THE MANY little tasks that Olivier had to perform to guard his place in Cardinal Ceccani’s household, and the position within the papal administration that guaranteed him his stipend, he still found a considerable amount of time to indulge in his passion of searching out old knowledge. The understanding with his master on this point was clear. Whenever something of particular importance turned up, Olivier was to obtain it for the cardinal’s collection if possible; if this could not be done, then he was to make a copy to be lodged in his library. Over the years, Olivier obtained some forty original manuscripts; most he purchased, either with coin or with the promise of favors or intercession. Four he stole, because they were uncared for, in danger, and because he took a dislike to their supposed guardians. As far as he could tell, he could have absconded with many more; certainly no one ever noticed the thefts.

The Dream of Scipio, Manlius’s philosophic testament, was one that he copied himself with diligence, declining to slip the original into his bag simply because the old monk who let him see it was so kind and, in a strange way, so respectful of those manuscripts he had never troubled to read for himself. A short little fellow—old, but with a wiry resilience—he had, it seemed, been put in charge of the library because he was held in some contempt by the others in the monastery. Olivier did not understand why; he was, certainly, a little vague, a bit of a dreamer, absent-minded, occasionally gruff and ill-humored, but easily placated and responsive to any show of interest. Initially, when Olivier showed up—brought by the abbot who had read Ceccani’s letter of introduction—he had been indifferent, even hostile, putting innumerable obstacles in the way. The second day, after Olivier had invested many moments in conversation, he brought manuscripts himself for Olivier to see. The third day he gave him a large key and told him to help himself to whatever took his fancy.

And, although many, perhaps most, of the old documents had never been read, he yet had some pride in his domain; all the shelves were clean and dusted, the manuscripts neat and well ordered. There was no way of telling what was there—the only works identified were the ones that were used. Olivier offered to make a list as he went through, so that all would know in future what was where, but the suggestion was turned down. Cardinal Ceccani’s servant was welcome to inspect and read whatever he wished; the monk did not anticipate anyone else being so foolish, and for his part he had no desire at all to know what he guarded and tended so diligently. He had his task and that was enough; its purpose did not concern him in the slightest.

Initially Olivier thought the manuscript was another copy of Cicero’s essay that bears the same name. As it was one of the best-known classical works in existence, finding another version was of little excitement. Perhaps it might enable him to correct a mistake or two—for Olivier hazily saw that the constant comparison of differing sources could lead to the purification of errors that had crept in in transmission, although he never proceeded very far along this route—but it would be a labor of duty, not of love, to copy it down. It was only when he read the first few pages that he realized that this was something else altogether.