From the doors of the refectory the general playground sloped gently down northwards to the Rond‐point, where it was bounded by double gates of wood and iron that were always shut; and on each hither side of these rose an oblong dwelling of red brick, two stories high, and capable of accommodating thirty boys, sleeping or waking, at work or rest or play; for in bad weather we played indoors, or tried to, chess, draughts, backgammon, and the like – even blind‐man's‐buff (Colin Maillard) – even puss in the corner (aux quatre coins!).
All the class‐rooms and school‐rooms were on the ground‐floor; above, the dormitories and masters' rooms.
These two buildings were symmetrical; one held the boys over fourteen, from the third class up to the first; the other (into the "salle d'études" of which the reader has already been admitted), the boys from the fourth down to the eighth, or lowest, form of all – just the reverse of an English school.
On either side of the play‐ground were narrow strips of garden cultivated by boys whose tastes lay that way, and small arbors overgrown with convolvulus and other creepers – snug little verdant retreats, where one fed the mind on literature not sanctioned by the authorities, and smoked cigarettes of caporal, and even colored pipes, and was sick without fear of detection (piquait son renard sans crainte d'être collé).
Finally, behind Père Brossard's Ciceronian Villa, on the south, was a handsome garden (we called it Tusculum); a green flowery pleasaunce reserved for the head master's married daughter (Madame Germain) and her family – good people with whom we had nothing to do.
Would I could subjoin a ground‐plan of the Institution F. Brossard, where Barty Josselin spent four such happy years, and was so universally and singularly popular!
Why should I take such pains about all this, and dwell so laboriously on all these minute details?
Firstly, because it all concerns Josselin and the story of his life – and I am so proud and happy to be the biographer of such a man, at his own often expressed desire, that I hardly know where to leave off and what to leave out. Also, this is quite a new trade for me, who have only dealt hitherto in foreign wines, and British party politics, and bimetallism – and can only write in telegraphese!
Secondly, because I find it such a keen personal joy to evoke and follow out, and realize to myself by means of pen and pencil, all these personal reminiscences; and with such a capital excuse for prolixity!
At the top of every page I have to pull myself together to remind myself that it is not of the Right Honorable Sir Robert Maurice, Bart., M.P., that I am telling the tale – any one can do that – but of a certain Englishman who wrote Sardonyx, to the everlasting joy and pride of the land of his fathers– and of a certain Frenchman who wrote Berthe aux grands pieds, and moved his mother‐country to such delight of tears and tender laughter as it had never known before.
Dear me! the boys who lived and learnt at Brossard's school fifty years ago, and the masters who taught there (peace to their ashes!), are far more to my taste than the actual human beings among whom my dull existence of business and politics and society is mostly spent in these days. The school must have broken up somewhere about the early fifties. The stuccoed Doric dwelling was long since replaced by an important stone mansion, in a very different style of architecture – the abode of a wealthy banker – and this again, later, by a palace many stories high. The two school‐houses in red brick are no more; the play‐ground grew into a luxuriant garden, where a dozen very tall trees overtopped the rest; from their evident age and their position in regard to each other they must have been old friends of mine grown out of all knowledge.
I saw them only twenty years ago, from the top of a Passy omnibus, and recognized every one of them. I went from the Arc de Triomphe to Passy and back quite a dozen times, on purpose – once for each tree! It touched me to think how often the author of Sardonyx has stood leaning his back against one of those giants —au piquet!
They are now no more; and Passy omnibuses no longer ply up and down the Allée du Bois de Boulogne, which is now an avenue of palaces.
An umbrageous lane that led from the Rond‐point to Chaillot (that very forgettable, and by me quite forgotten, quarter) separated the Institution F. Brossard from the Pensionnat Mélanie Jalabert – a beautiful pseudo‐Gothic castle which was tenanted for a while by Prince de Carabas‐Chenonceaux after Mlle. Jalabert had broken up her ladies' school in 1849.
My mother boarded and lodged there, with my little sister, in the summer of 1847. There were one or two other English lady boarders, half‐pupils – much younger than my mother – indeed, they may be alive now. If they are, and this should happen to meet their eye, may I ask them to remember kindly the Irish wife of the Scotch merchant of French wines who supplied them with the innocent vintage of Mâcon (ah! who knows that innocence better than I?), and his pretty little daughter who played the piano so nicely; may I beg them also not to think it necessary to communicate with me on the subject, or, if they do, not to expect an answer?
One night Mlle. Jalabert gave a small dance, and Mérovée Brossard was invited, and also half a dozen of his favorite pupils, and a fair‐haired English boy of thirteen danced with the beautiful Miss – .
They came to grief and fell together in a heap on the slippery floor; but no bones were broken, and there was much good‐natured laughter at their expense. If Miss – (that was) is still among the quick, and remembers, it may interest her to know that that fair‐haired English boy's name was no less than Bartholomew Josselin; and that another English boy, somewhat thick‐set and stumpy, and not much to look at, held her in deep love, admiration, and awe – and has not forgotten!
If I happen to mention this, it is not with a view of tempting her into any correspondence about this little episode of bygone years, should this ever meet her eye.
The Sunday morning that followed Barty's début at Brossard's the boys went to church in the Rue de l'Église, Passy – and he with them, for he had been brought up a Roman Catholic. And I went round to Mlle. Jalabert's to see my mother and sister.
I told them all about the new boy, and they were much interested. Suddenly my mother exclaimed:
"Bartholomew Josselin? why, dear me! that must be Lord Runswick's son – Lord Runswick, who was the eldest son of the present Marquis of Whitby. He was in the 17th lancers with your uncle Charles, who was very fond of him. He left the army twenty years ago, and married Lady Selina Jobhouse – and his wife went mad. Then he fell in love with the famous Antoinette Josselin at the 'Bouffes,' and wanted so much to marry her that he tried to get a divorce; it was tried in the House of Lords, I believe; but he didn't succeed – so they – a – well – they contracted a – a morganatic marriage, you know; and your friend was born. And poor Lord Runswick was killed in a duel about a dog, when his son was two years old; and his mother left the stage, and – "
Just here the beautiful Miss – came in with her sister, and there was no more of Josselin's family history; and I forgot all about it for the day. For I passionately loved the beautiful Miss – ; I was just thirteen!
But next morning I said to him at breakfast, in English,
"Wasn't your father killed in a duel?"
"Yes," said Barty, looking grave.
"Wasn't he called Lord Runswick?"
"Yes," said Barty, looking graver still.
"Then why are you called Josselin?"
"Ask no questions and you'll get no lies," said Barty, looking very grave indeed – and I dropped the subject.
And here I may as well rapidly go through the well‐known story of his birth and early childhood.
His father, Lord Runswick, fell desperately in love with the beautiful Antoinette Josselin after his own wife had gone hopelessly mad. He failed to obtain a divorce, naturally; Antoinette was as much in love with him, and they lived together as man and wife, and Barty was born. They were said to be the handsomest couple in Paris, and immensely popular among all who knew them, though of course society did not open its doors to la belle Madame de Ronsvic, as she was called.
She was the daughter of poor fisher‐folk in Le Pollet, Dieppe. I, with Barty for a guide, have seen the lowly dwelling where her infancy and childhood were spent, and which Barty remembered well, and also such of her kin as was still alive in 1870, and felt it was good to come of such a race, humble as they were. They were physically splendid people, almost as splendid as Barty himself; and, as I was told by many who knew them well, as good to know and live with as they were good to look at – all that was easy to see – and their manners were delightful.
When Antoinette was twelve, she went to stay in Paris with her uncle and aunt, who were concierges to Prince Scorchakoff in the Rue du Faubourg St.‐Honoré; next door, or next door but one, to the Élysée Bourbon, as it was called then. And there the Princess took a fancy to her, and had her carefully educated, especially in music; for the child had a charming voice and a great musical talent, besides being beautiful to the eye – gifts which her son inherited.
Then she became for three or four years a pupil at the Conservatoire, and finally went on the stage, and was soon one of the most brilliant stars of the Parisian theatre at its most brilliant period.
Then she met the handsome English lord, who was forty, and they fell in love with each other, and all happened as I have told.
In the spring of 1837 Lord Runswick was killed in a duel by Lieutenant Rondelis, of the deuxième Spahis. Antoinette's dog had jumped up to play with the lieutenant, who struck it with his cane (for he was "en pékin," it appears – in mufti); and Lord Runswick laid his own cane across the Frenchman's back; and next morning they fought with swords, by the Mare aux Biches, in the Bois de Boulogne – a little secluded, sedgy pool, hardly more than six inches deep and six yards across. Barty and I have often skated there as boys.
The Englishman was run through at the first lunge, and fell dead on the spot.
A few years ago Barty met the son of the man who killed Lord Runswick – it was at the French Embassy in Albert Gate. They were introduced to each other, and M. Rondelis told Barty how his own father's life had been poisoned by sorrow and remorse at having had "la main si malheureuse" on that fatal morning by the Mare aux Biches.
Poor Antoinette, mad with grief, left the stage, and went with her little boy to live in the Pollet, near her parents. Three years later she died there, of typhus, and Barty was left an orphan and penniless; for Lord Runswick had been poor, and lived beyond his means, and died in debt.
Lord Archibald Rohan, a favorite younger brother of Runswick's (not the heir), came to Dieppe from Dover (where he was quartered with his regiment, the 7th Royal Fusileers) to see the boy, and took a fancy to him, and brought him back to Dover to show his wife, who was also French – a daughter of the old Gascon family of Lonlay‐Savignac, who had gone into trade (chocolate) and become immensely rich. They (the Rohans) had been married eight years, and had as yet no children of their own. Lady Archibald was delighted with the child, who was quite beautiful. She fell in love with the little creature at the first sight of him – and fed him, on the evening of his arrival, with crumpets and buttered toast. And in return he danced "La Dieppoise" for her, and sang her a little ungrammatical ditty in praise of wine and women. It began:
"Beuvons, beuvons, beuvons donc
De ce vin le meilleur du monde …
Beuvons, beuvons, beuvons donc
De ce vin, car il est très‐bon!
Si je n'en beuvions pas,
J'aurions la pépi‐e!
Ce qui me…"
I have forgotten the rest – indeed, I am not quite sure that it is fit for the drawing‐room!
"Ah, mon Dieu! quel amour d'enfant! Oh! gardons‐le!" cried my lady, and they kept him.
I can imagine the scene. Indeed, Lady Archibald has described it to me, and Barty remembered it well. It was his earliest English recollection, and he has loved buttered toast and crumpets ever since – as well as women and wine. And thus he was adopted by the Archibald Rohans. They got him an English governess and a pony; and in two years he went to a day school in Dover, kept by a Miss Stone, who is actually alive at present and remembers him well; and so he became quite a little English boy, but kept up his French through Lady Archibald, who was passionately devoted to him, although by this time she had a little daughter of her own, whom Barty always looked upon as his sister, and who is now dead. (She became Lord Frognal's wife – he died in 1870 – and she afterwards married Mr. Justice Robertson.)
Barty's French grandfather and grandmother came over from Dieppe once a year to see him, and were well pleased with the happy condition, of his new life; and the more Lord and Lady Archibald saw of these grandparents of his, the more pleased they were that he had become the child of their adoption. For they were first‐rate people to descend from, these simple toilers of the sea; better, perhaps, cæteris paribus, than even the Rohans themselves.
All this early phase of little Josselin's life seems to have been singularly happy. Every year at Christmas he went with the Rohans to Castle Rohan in Yorkshire, where his English grandfather lived, the Marquis of Whitby – and where he was petted and made much of by all the members, young and old (especially female), of that very ancient family, which had originally come from Brittany in France, as the name shows; but were not millionaires, and never had been.
Often, too, they went to Paris – and in 1847 Colonel Lord Archibald sold out, and they elected to go and live there, in the Rue du Bac; and Barty was sent to the Institution F. Brossard, where he was soon destined to become the most popular boy, with boys and masters alike, that had ever been in the school (in any school, I should think), in spite of conduct that was too often the reverse of exemplary.
Indeed, even from his early boyhood he was the most extraordinarily gifted creature I have ever known, or even heard of; a kind of spontaneous humorous Crichton, to whom all things came easily – and life itself as an uncommonly good joke. During that summer term of 1847 I did not see very much of him. He was in the class below mine, and took up with Laferté and little Bussy‐Rabutin, who were first‐rate boys, and laughed at everything he said, and worshipped him. So did everybody else, sooner or later; indeed, it soon became evident that he was a most exceptional little person.
In the first place, his beauty was absolutely angelic, as will be readily believed by all who have known him since. The mere sight of him as a boy made people pity his father and mother for being dead!
Then he had a charming gift of singing little French and English ditties, comic or touching, with his delightful fresh young pipe, and accompanying himself quite nicely on either piano or guitar without really knowing a note of music. Then he could draw caricatures that we boys thought inimitable, much funnier than Cham's or Bertall's or Gavarni's, and collected and treasured up. I have dozens of them now – they make me laugh still, and bring back memories of which the charm is indescribable; and their pathos, to me!
And then how funny he was himself, without effort, and with a fun that never failed! He was a born buffoon of the graceful kind – more whelp or kitten than monkey – ever playing the fool, in and out of season, but somehow always à propos; and French boys love a boy for that more than anything else; or did, in those days.
Such very simple buffooneries as they were, too – that gave him (and us) such stupendous delight!
For instance – he is sitting at evening study between Bussy‐Rabutin and Laferté; M. Bonzig is usher for the evening.
At 8.30 Bussy‐Rabutin gives way; in a whisper he informs Barty that he means to take a nap ("piquer un chien"), with his Gradus opened before him, and his hand supporting his weary brow as though in deep study. "But," says he —
"If Bonzig finds me out (si Bonzig me colle), give me a gentle nudge!"
"All right!" says Barty – and off goes Bussy‐Rabutin into his snooze.
8.45. – Poor fat little Laferté falls into a snooze too, after giving Barty just the same commission – to nudge him directly he's found out from the chaire.
8.55. – Intense silence; everybody hard at work. Even Bonzig is satisfied with the deep stillness and studious recueillement that brood over the scene – steady pens going – quick turning over of leaves of the Gradus ad Parnassum. Suddenly Barty sticks out his elbows and nudges both his neighbors at once, and both jump up, exclaiming, in a loud voice:
"Non, m'sieur, je n'dors pas. J'travaille."
Sensation. Even Bonzig laughs – and Barty is happy for a week.
Or else, again – a new usher, Monsieur Goupillon (from Gascony) is on duty in the school‐room during afternoon school. He has a peculiar way of saying "oê, vô!" instead of "oui, vous!" to any boy who says "moi, m'sieur?" on being found fault with; and perceiving this, Barty manages to be found fault with every five minutes, and always says "moi, m'sieur?" so as to elicit the "oê, vô!" that gives him such delight.
At length M. Goupillon says,
"Josselin, if you force me to say 'oê, vô!' to you once more, you shall be à la retenue for a week!"
"Moi, m'sieur?" says Josselin, quite innocently.
"Oê, vô!" shouts M. Goupillon, glaring with all his might, but quite unconscious that Barty has earned the threatened punishment! And again Barty is happy for a week. And so are we.
Such was Barty's humor, as a boy – mere drivel – but of such a kind that even his butts were fond of him. He would make M. Bonzig laugh in the middle of his severest penal sentences, and thus demoralize the whole school‐room and set a shocking example, and be ordered à la porte of the salle d'études – an exile which was quite to his taste; for he would go straight off to the lingerie and entertain Mlle. Marceline and Constance and Félicité (who all three adored him) with comic songs and break‐downs of his own invention, and imitations of everybody in the school. He was a born histrion – a kind of French Arthur Roberts – but very beautiful to the female eye, and also always dear to the female heart – a most delightful gift of God!
Then he was constantly being sent for when boys' friends and parents came to see them, that he might sing and play the fool and show off his tricks, and so forth. It was one of M. Mérovée's greatest delights to put him through his paces. The message "on demande Monsieur Josselin au parloir" would be brought down once or twice a week, sometimes even in class or school room, and became quite a by‐word in the school; and many of the masters thought it a mistake and a pity. But Barty by no means disliked being made much of and showing off in this genial manner.
He could turn le père Brossard round his little finger, and Mérovée too. Whenever an extra holiday was to be begged for, or a favor obtained for any one, or the severity of a pensum mitigated, Barty was the messenger, and seldom failed.
His constitution, inherited from a long line of frugal seafaring Norman ancestors (not to mention another long line of well‐fed, well‐bred Yorkshire Squires), was magnificent. His spirits never failed. He could see the satellites of Jupiter with the naked eye; this was often tested by M. Dumollard, maître de mathématiques (et de cosmographie), who had a telescope, which, with a little good‐will on the gazer's part, made Jupiter look as big as the moon, and its moons like stars of the first magnitude.
His sense of hearing was also exceptionally keen. He could hear a watch tick in the next room, and perceive very high sounds to which ordinary human ears are deaf (this was found out later); and when we played blind‐man's‐buff on a rainy day, he could, blindfolded, tell every boy he caught hold of – not by feeling him all over like the rest of us, but by the mere smell of his hair, or his hands, or his blouse! No wonder he was so much more alive than the rest of us! According to the amiable, modest, polite, delicately humorous, and even tolerant and considerate Professor Max Nordau, this perfection of the olfactory sense proclaims poor Barty a degenerate! I only wish there were a few more like him, and that I were a little more like him myself!
By‐the‐way, how proud young Germany must feel of its enlightened Max, and how fond of him, to be sure! Mes compliments!
But the most astounding thing of all (it seems incredible, but all the world knows it by this time, and it will be accounted for later on) is that at certain times and seasons Barty knew by an infallible instinct where the north was, to a point. Most of my readers will remember his extraordinary evidence as a witness in the "Rangoon" trial, and how this power was tested in open court, and how important were the issues involved, and how he refused to give any explanation of a gift so extraordinary.
It was often tried at school by blindfolding him, and turning him round and round till he was giddy, and asking him to point out where the north pole was, or the north star, and seven or eight times out of ten the answer was unerringly right. When he failed, he knew beforehand that for the time being he had lost the power, but could never say why. Little Doctor Larcher could never get over his surprise at this strange phenomenon, nor explain it, and often brought some scientific friend from Paris to test it, who was equally nonplussed.
When cross‐examined, Barty would merely say: "Quelquefois je sais – quelquefois je ne sais pas – mais quand je sais, je sais, et il n'y a pas à s'y tromper!"
Indeed, on one occasion that I remember well, a very strange thing happened; he not only pointed out the north with absolute accuracy, as he stood carefully blindfolded in the gymnastic ground, after having been turned and twisted again and again – but, still blindfolded, he vaulted the wire fence and ran round to the refectory door which served as the home at rounders, all of us following; and there he danced a surprising dance of his own invention, that he called "La Paladine," the most humorously graceful and grotesque exhibition I ever saw; and then, taking a ball out of his pocket, he shouted: "À l'amandier!" and threw the ball. Straight and swift it flew, and hit the almond‐tree, which was quite twenty yards off; and after this he ran round the yard from base to base, as at "la balle au camp," till he reached the camp again.
"If ever he goes blind," said the wondering M. Mérovée, "he'll never need a dog to lead him about."
"He must have some special friend above!" said Madame Germain (Méroveé's sister, who was looking on).
Prophetic words! I have never forgotten them, nor the tear that glistened in each of her kind eyes as she spoke. She was a deeply religious and very emotional person, and loved Barty almost as if he were a child of her own.
Such women have strange intuitions.
Barty was often asked to repeat this astonishing performance before sceptical people – parents of boys, visitors, etc. – who had been told of it, and who believed he could not have been properly blindfolded; but he could never be induced to do so.
There was no mistake about the blindfolding – I helped in it myself; and he afterwards told me the whole thing was "aussi simple que bonjour" if once he felt the north – for then, with his back to the refectory door, he knew exactly the position and distance of every tree from where he was.
"It's all nonsense about my going blind and being able to do without a dog" – he added; "I should be just as helpless as any other blind man, unless I was in a place I knew as well as my own pocket – like this play‐ground! Besides, I sha'n't go blind; nothing will ever happen to my eyes – they're the strongest and best in the whole school!"
He said this exultingly, dilating his nostrils and chest; and looked proudly up and around, like Ajax defying the lightning.
"But what do you feel when you feel the north, Barty – a kind of tingling?" I asked.
"Oh – I feel where it is – as if I'd got a mariner's compass trembling inside my stomach – and as if I wasn't afraid of anybody or anything in the world – as if I could go and have my head chopped off and not care a fig."
"Ah, well – I can't make it out – I give it up," I exclaimed.
"So do I," exclaims Barty.
"But tell me, Barty," I whispered, "have you – have you really got a – a —special friend above?"
"Ask no questions and you'll get no lies," said Barty, and winked at me one eye after the other – and went about his business. And I about mine.
Thus it is hardly to be wondered at that the spirit of this extraordinary boy seemed to pervade the Pension F. Brossard, almost from the day he came to the day he left it – a slender stripling over six feet high, beautiful as Apollo but, alas! without his degree, and not an incipient hair on his lip or chin!
Of course the boy had his faults. He had a tremendous appetite, and was rather greedy – so was I, for that matter – and we were good customers to la mère Jaurion; especially he, for he always had lots of pocket‐money, and was fond of standing treat all round. Yet, strange to say, he had such a loathing of meat that soon by special favoritism a separate dish of eggs and milk and succulent vegetables was cooked expressly for him – a savory mess that made all our mouths water merely to see and smell it, and filled us with envy, it was so good. Aglaé the cook took care of that!
"C'était pour Monsieur Josselin!"
And of this he would eat as much as three ordinary boys could eat of anything in the world.
Then he was quick‐tempered and impulsive, and in frequent fights – in which he generally came off second best; for he was fond of fighting with bigger boys than himself. Victor or vanquished, he never bore malice – nor woke it in others, which is worse. But he would slap a face almost as soon as look at it, on rather slight provocation, I'm afraid – especially if it were an inch or two higher up than his own. And he was fond of showing off, and always wanted to throw farther and jump higher and run faster than any one else. Not, indeed, that he ever wished to mentally excel, or particularly admired those who did!
Also, he was apt to judge folk too much by their mere outward appearance and manner, and not very fond of dull, ugly, commonplace people – the very people, unfortunately, who were fondest of him; he really detested them, almost as much as they detest each other, in spite of many sterling qualities of the heart and head they sometimes possess. And yet he was their victim through life – for he was very soft, and never had the heart to snub the deadliest bores he ever writhed under, even undeserving ones! Like – , or – , or the Bishop of – , or Lord Justice – , or General – , or Admiral – , or the Duke of – , etc., etc.
And he very unjustly disliked people of the bourgeois type – the respectable middle class, quorum pars magna fui! Especially if we were very well off and successful, and thought ourselves of some consequence (as we now very often are, I beg to say), and showed it (as, I'm afraid, we sometimes do). He preferred the commonest artisan to M. Jourdain, the bourgeois gentilhomme, who was a very decent fellow, after all, and at least clean in his habits, and didn't use bad language or beat his wife!
Poor dear Barty! what would have become of all those priceless copyrights and royalties and what not if his old school‐fellow hadn't been a man of business? And where would Barty himself have been without his wife, who came from that very class?
And his admiration for an extremely good‐looking person, even of his own sex, even a scavenger or a dustman, was almost snobbish. It was like a well‐bred, well‐educated Englishman's frank fondness for a noble lord.
And next to physical beauty he admired great physical strength; and I sometimes think that it is to my possession of this single gift I owe some of the warm friendship I feel sure he always bore me; for though he was a strong man, and topped me by an inch or two, I was stronger still – as a cart‐horse is stronger than a racer.
For his own personal appearance, of which he always took the greatest care, he had a naîve admiration that he did not disguise. His candor in this respect was comical; yet, strange to say, he was really without vanity.
When he was in the Guards he would tell you quite frankly he was "the handsomest chap in all the Household Brigade, bar three" – just as he would tell you he was twenty last birthday. And the fun of it was that the three exceptions he was good enough to make, splendid fellows as they were, seemed as satyrs to Hyperion when compared with Barty Josselin. One (F. Pepys) was three or four inches taller, it is true, being six foot seven or eight – a giant. The two others had immense whiskers, which Barty openly envied, but could not emulate – and the mustache with which he would have been quite decently endowed in time was not permitted in an infantry regiment.
To return to the Pension Brossard, and Barty the school‐boy:
He adored Monsieur Mérovée because he was big and strong and handsome – not because he was one of the best fellows that ever lived. He disliked Monsieur Durosier, whom we were all so fond of, because he had a slight squint and a receding chin.
As for the Anglophobe, Monsieur Dumollard, who made no secret of his hatred and contempt for perfidious Albion…
"Dis donc, Josselin!" says Maurice, in English or French, as the case might be, "why don't you like Monsieur Dumollard? Eh? He always favors you more than any other chap in the school. I suppose you dislike him because he hates the English so, and always runs them down before you and me – and says they're all traitors and sneaks and hypocrites and bullies and cowards and liars and snobs; and we can't answer him, because he's the mathematical master!"