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I was late boarding the train at Union Station, having just caught it as the final call was made. I couldn’t help but feel lucky that I had managed to catch the last train of the day out to Atlanta. It was the last one that I would be able to take that would get me to my destination on time. The problem I was currently facing, however, was that I was still in pursuit of a compartment to sit in.
Normally, I would’ve loved the luxury of one to myself. I preferred to sit alone with either the daily paper, a book in which I was interested, or even a stack of paperwork that I needed to go through. I was a history teacher in a secondary education school for most of the year, so I usually had something that needed my careful attention in grading.
But, after searching the train twice, I learned that my efforts were in vain. Instead, I dodged past people who had either settled in and were wandering about or I was carefully maneuvering past the people who were doing the same as I, looking for space of their own. After making it to the back to the front of the train, I realized that I couldn’t find a single solitary compartment.
I mourned the loss of my privacy as I finally happened upon a small area inhabited only by a young man that appeared in his mid-twenties. This meant that he was probably at least ten years younger than I. Maybe more. I was thirty-six, but I suppose our age difference didn’t really matter.
He hardly noticed my entrance; his nose was pushed against the glass, his right hand pressed to the window next to his face as he looked at the people who were still waiting for their train. It almost seemed as if he were studying the scenery of the train station and all the people that happened to be there today.
I took a seat opposite of the man, sitting close to the door. I took a moment to take in my surroundings. I was going to be here for the next several hours, so the sooner I was acquainted with the interior, the better.
It was better kept than some of the passenger trains that I had been inside. A lush, red, velvet curtain hung over the window that my nameless companion stared out. The seats, although not cushioned, weren’t entirely uncomfortable. The walls, or rather the seat opposite of me, were a dark wood. I wasn’t sure the exact kind, but the wood was well-sanded and coated with a fine varnish.
I reached up and pulled down the shade on our compartment door before I pulled out my entertainment for the moment: a book that I was currently rereading. The book was about the life of Napoleon Bonaparte, a man I found more than interesting. In fact, he was part of the reason why I was currently on the trip. I was on my way to a history conference for scholars in European history. The author of the book I had in my hand was to be the guest lecturer, a Mr. Eugéne Babineaux.
It was to be a big deal, or so I figured when I received a hand-written invitation. I wasn’t sure why a meager preparatory school history teacher was being invited; I simply chalked it up to the work that I was continuously doing for the local university’s history department and the research I did for historic journals in my spare time.
“It’s always so exciting to see the train pull away from the station, non?” a heavily-accented voice spoke. I tried to place where the accent came from. It wasn’t any kind of American speech that I normally heard. His words had been peppered with the spices of his homeland. I guessed that he was French, but something more stood out from his words, something that wasn’t discernibly easy to place.
I had hardly read a page when I glanced from the words to the man who still stared out the window. I didn’t want to be rude and not answer the question that the man had placed before me.
“I suppose it is. Do you have someone seeing you off?” I asked, realizing that I wouldn’t be able to read again until the other man sat down. I felt it impolite to just look away whenever the conversation wasn’t going.
The train began to lurch forward, signaling the beginning of our journey.
He glanced at me and smirked. “No, but it is exciting to see anything that a person is not used too. America changes so much between train stations.”
He was once again looking out at the window; his hair was the only thing I could see besides gazing out the window along with him. The view was currently a city view of Louisville, Kentucky. It was boring—unexciting, really, for me, but my travelling companion seemed more than interested in the mundane of the city. I supposed were I in some foreign city, I would’ve found amazement in the everyday too.
I offered him a nod before I returned back to my book. To me, Napoleon’s plans with the Continental System were more interesting than watching the city that I spent the biggest part of my life in begin to slip away.
The compartment remained quiet for a time as I read about the different taxes Bonaparte levied against the British. I was hardly aware of the presence of the other person. I wouldn’t have minded conversation, but I supposed my lack of interesting conversation starters or lack of observed cues of interest for communication kept the man quiet.
Silence was a normal thing for me. People usually didn’t go out of their way to speak with me. I was told by my brother once several years ago that it was simply because that I looked too serious, that when he speaks to me, my body language tells him that I can’t be bothered with what he has to say. He tells me that I always look as if I have something better to do.
I supposed the same went for my students. I taught the secondary education history at a local, private, all-boys preparatory school. My classes never had more than fifteen boys in them and I taught history for grades nine through twelve. Most of the boys learned immediately that I meant business. I remembered being told that I was seen as the strictest teacher the school had seen in years. I still had yet to figure out if I was to take that as a compliment or a hint to be more lax.
I didn’t consider myself a serious man, but passionate, yes. I saw my pupils as the pillars of tomorrow and knew that they needed to know history so that they were not doomed to repeat it but to learn from it and expand upon it. Besides that, it is almost too easy to let information get lost from one generation to the next.
One specific afternoon comes to mind when I think of how I’m viewed socially. Again, I was with my brother in the parlor of the home we had inherited when our father died, a great man who had died of pneumonia over a decade earlier, around the time of the market crash. Gregory, my brother, was getting ready for a date with one of the local girls and again I was working on a thesis for a scholarly history journal out of New York. I was lost in the world of Germanic tribes, my area of study and what I was writing about when I heard a gentle tap at the door to my office.
My brother is younger than me by seven years. He’s not my only sibling, but my sisters had been married off and had their own homes and families by that point. He had just graduated from college at the time and fancied himself as Louisville’s most eligible bachelor. I had thought him to be too confident in his beliefs, but apparently several women agreed with his sentiment and there was hardly a night where he didn’t go out on the town.
After letting himself in to ask to borrow my good jacket, he asked if I were jealous that he would probably be married before his big brother. I told him I wouldn’t be, that those things didn’t matter to me, but I was lying.
He merely smirked and called my bluff, telling me that I would never get married because I was not only a hermit, but also because I have a permanent scowl chiseled onto my face that cemented my seriousness. Girls liked a guy that knew how to cut loose and have a good time and that I wouldn’t know a good time if it were to smack me in the back of the head.
It was too bad that I wasn’t lamenting over the fact I couldn’t get a young lady to woo. I was constantly lamenting my lack of interest in women at all. And as appealing as having a family was to me, my problem is clearly the lack of interest in trying to find the right woman to start a family with. The whole idea of dating and wooing women felt as if it took too much effort for something that probably wouldn’t work out in the end. It was something that I learned after my several failed relationships from my adolescence.
However, Gregory did like to taunt me. I felt hurt and believed that what he had said was probably true. My serious nature would turn off anyone. I told him to leave and he commented that it was this attitude that chased the girls away. He also mentioned that I find a brothel and learn to relax. I told him to put my suit jacket away, that he was no longer welcome to it and went back to work.
“May I ask what you are reading, Monsieur?”
I glanced up from my book and saw the man looking at the volume in my lap with an interested smile. I supposed the country that we were currently riding through wasn’t as interesting as the city had been.
“It’s a book on Napoleon,” I said.
His eyes brightened at my statement. “Do you study Napoleon, Monsieur?” he asked me, sliding down the wooden bench until he was sitting before me.
“He’s more of a hobby, I suppose,” I muttered, closing my book to give the man my full attention.
“What do you think of the book, Monsieur? It’s all you’ve been reading for the last hour.”
I met his eyes and immediately felt uncomfortable. I wasn’t bad in social situations, normally. I was just not used to being spoken to by people in public. Everywhere I went, people would avert their gaze and my brother’s words would echo in my head. Most social interactions happened between my coworkers and family and me.
“It’s good. The author did his research well. It hasn’t been too long since we were bereft of Napoleon, but it is interesting to read of Napoleon from the words of a citizen who lived in Post-Napoleonic France and wrote in English. Most of the sources I read are in French.”
The man didn’t say anything for a moment. He merely chuckled and sighed. “I am complimented that you think that. Please forgive me for being facetious, but I am the author of the book. I saw that you were reading it and wanted to know your thoughts.”
I straightened up in my seat. I had nearly a hundred pages invested into this book so far. It was probably one of the best books on Napoleonic France that I had ever read and I was sure that I was going to be more than impressed with the lecturer when I was sitting in the audience.
But, having the author before me now somehow made me appreciate the book all the more. I could hardly believe that someone so much younger than I was such an accomplished author.
Surprise must’ve shown on my face because he grinned and took the book. “I’m actually surprised that my book garnered so much attention in the academic community,” he said as he flipped through the pages before handing it back to me. “I had just expanded on my thesis that I wrote for graduate school. I didn’t think that I would be doing lectures and such. I’m actually on my way to give a lecture in Atlanta, Georgia. Would it happen that you are going there as well, mon amie?”
“Yes, I’m going,” I said; I could feel my face ease up at the admission. I hadn’t realized that I had been so tense.
“Bon! Then we have much to speak about. I hardly have had time to explore America since arriving. I had a lecture to give at a college in New York and now I’m being shipped to this conference. Do not get me wrong, I am thankful for the opportunity, but it’s nice to,” he paused and searched for his words, “have someone to slow down and speak with. May I ask your name?”
“J-Jonathan Waverly,” I stammered out. I held out my hand, giving his hand a firm grip as I made eye contact with him, giving two solid shakes before I pulled away.
“It is a pleasure, Jonathan. I did not think I would find a fellow historian on my journey. But let’s not talk about history just yet. No, tell me about your life. What do you do?”
“I’m a history teacher at a boy’s preparatory. When I’m not there, I’m in my study writing resources for journals at the university and magazines.”
“A teacher? Trés Bien! It is good that a man of knowledge gives back to the youth. I am not working in such an honorable profession. I work in an office for publishing in Versailles. I wanted to write historical fiction, however the gathering of materials for my work during my college years proved more interesting than the story that I wished to write.”
I blinked at him. “What was your story?” I asked without thinking.
His eyes widened slightly before he looked away, a slight flush covering his cheeks, and I knew immediately that whatever he had actually wanted to write would’ve been considered unsavory compared to the research that was giving him critical acclaim at the moment.
“I wanted to write an erotic story of Napoleon and the supposed women he was with and the children he bore with them. It was going to showcase of how he managed the situation as he ruled. I wanted it to be as close to the real Napoleon as I could, just a bit different to make my story,” he said softly. The glow never left his cheeks. He must’ve been embarrassed to admit to it. I wondered how many people he told this secret wish. I reasoned that it must’ve not been many.
I felt heat on my own face. The thought reading such a story made me blush. I never pictured this side of the historical figure. I saw him how I saw most historical figures: a man that could no longer be touched or changed. Sure, different interpretations of his deeds were available, but what he did was known. This idea of coming up with a different back-story for someone who was real was strange to me.
“I see the surprise on your face. Do not think strange of me, Monsieur Waverly. It was merely a passing fancy. The genre is kind of popular in some parts of France. I know it was a strange wish, but, despite it, it got me into an amazing field.”
I nodded my head. It wasn’t the craziest reason I had ever heard someone taking up a field of study. The thing that surprised me more than his reason for taking on the research was simply that he was able to tell that I was slightly shocked. Either my emotions weren’t as difficult to interpret as I’ve been told they were by my brother or this man just happened to be empathic.
“Don’t worry yourself about it. If you feel uncomfortable about telling people, just don’t. It’s always worked for me.” Which was true. I never told anyone that I studied history because I admire the leaders of the past much more than I admire the so-called “heroes” of today. That the people of the past were so much more …chivalrous is the word I want to use, but I don’t know if it accurately describes how I feel.
I didn’t like telling people that I felt like I wanted to live in another time. I mentioned it to a few college colleagues while I had been at the University, but they never seemed to get it. To them, history was just an interesting collection of stories and facts. To me, history was an escape.
Growing up, I learned that I would never be able to give service to the military due to moderate asthma problems. It was a personal blow because I grew up picturing myself in the ranks, hoping to live the life that my heroes lived. However, it was taken away when I was discharged during training for being unable to properly control my attacks at the time.
So, instead of trying to become one of my heroes, I decided to learn more about them so that their great lives wouldn’t be lost to the next generation. I hadn’t planned on being a teacher; I had wanted to lecture in colleges, but I grew tired of the air of arrogance that accompanied the undergraduates who sat in lecture halls and the general lack of interest students had when they were working on a general education requirement.
“Do you have a private reason of your own for becoming a scholar?”
“There are various reasons, I suppose,” I said. I felt bad that I hadn’t been quite as honest as he, but the difference between his reason and mine was that his was not due to physical limitation while mine was. Any kind of limitations can shame the proudest of us and I already had a strong lack of personal pride.
Eugéne didn’t say a word. He merely nodded his head. I apparently got the notion across that I really didn’t want to talk about it. He was really a good man. A good, observant man.
“What do you study specifically, Monsieur? Obviously you know my field of study—what is it that you do?” A pleasant smile came over his features as he folded his hands in his lap.
“Uhm, I have written a thesis on several subjects. Pagan Germanic tribes, specifically the Goths and Danes. I work in the pre-Christian era,” I said, feeling my hands run over the cover of the book.
The reason I did my work specifically with the Goths and Danes was because I felt they were so untouched. While I had done research in other subjects, I kept getting ideas for the Goths. I suppose everything relates back to the first subject one learns.
“The Goths and Napoleon are your hobbies. You study a lot of diverse things, Monsieur Waverly. I suppose it is a lowly admission that I don’t study much outside of Napoleon. I’ve wanted to settle down and write a book. I never lost the passion to do so, just been side-tracked by other, more easily-attainable passions. My biggest fear is that my work as a scholar will be discounted if I write something that I wish to write.”
“Why not publish under another name?” I said like it was the most obvious choice and instantly knew he must’ve thought about it as well.
His face fell ever-so-slightly. “I have thought about it. I suppose it is my only choice if I fear ridicule. It is just that I always pictured being remembered as an author of fiction instead of a scholar of Napoleon. I do not mind, but it is not the same, n’est-ce pas?”
I could understand. It was similar to my ordeal. It was close to what you wanted, but not close enough to really make you happy in the end. In the end, I still wanted to join the army and give my shot at being a hero and, in the end, he still wanted to be famous for writing his fantasy Napoleonic novel.
“Well, Mr. Babineaux, the best I can say is that, if you want to do it, you should. Don’t let ridicule stop you. If it’s what you want to be remembered for, you should do it.” I felt myself leaning forward, imploring him.
He looked at me for a moment as if I had slapped him before leaning back in his seat. His face softened greatly and he smiled.
“You are a good man, Monsieur Waverly. I suppose you are right. Perhaps I should do it. It shows on your face how serious you are. You must be a rock for your family and students. You are a good support.”
I felt my feet unconsciously began to shuffle below me on the hardwood floor. My students and family certainly did see me as a rock. However, instead of a rock that they could turn to and look to for support, in their eyes I was more of the rock that one stepped on while walking on a path and carelessly kicked aside.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Babineaux. I—”
“Call me Eugéne, please, Monsieur Waverly,” he said holding his hand in the air as if to pause me. He pulled it away a moment later and I watched as it moved to rested with his other hand, folded on his leg.
“Eugéne,” I began again, “You are too kind. I am not much of a rock for anyone. I am seen more as stick in the mud, I suppose.”
He blinked at me for a moment and I wondered briefly if he understood the idiom that I had used before his face regained the smile he had a moment ago.
“A stick wedged deep in the mud is still a support. I am sure they appreciate you. Either they are too afraid to tell you or you simply don’t see.”
I didn’t want to argue with the man. He didn’t know my situation and I didn’t feel like I knew him well enough to burden him with my life’s story… but I almost wanted to. I wanted to tell him that my brother made me miserable and that I didn’t have close friends. I wanted to tell him that I feared that I was unable to properly express any emotion. That I spent my time away from work as a recluse in my study, reading about men who did things that I never would but the story feels like such a pathetic one that it wasn’t worth telling. Either that, or I just didn’t want to depress myself further by vocalizing it.
And I didn’t. I just shrugged my shoulders and uttered a hurried, “If you say so.”
“If it means anything to you, Monsieur Waverly, I think you are right. It is not important about what people think of us. Life is too short to let ridicule and hurtful words stand in our way. However, ridicule is what makes a person. It is what builds your reputation, whether we like it or not.”
He was very right. You’re most known for not only what you say, but from what others say about you. A book won’t sell with bad reviews even if you love it. A person won’t make a political office if he has a few skeletons in his closet and a man convicted of a crime would definitely find himself looking harder for a job than a man with a clean record.
“Eugéne, it’s up to you whether or not you want to take the risk and write your story. Your dream is one much easier to attain than most. You simply just have to write the story you want to tell and hope others love it as much as you do. It is simply a matter of dealing with the people who wouldn’t like what you had to put out there.”
The next several hours were spent speaking about plans for the convention, the possibility of a future collaboration, and what our next projects were. He spoke of his book ideas excitedly and I told him to send me a copy when he finished. I told him of my wishes to one day travel and some about my family.
We got off the train and bid each other farewell. I told him that I would be at his lecture. He thanked me once again for the conversation and left with a man that had been waiting for him at the train station.
I saw his lecture the following morning. He spoke as I thought he would of the French Emperor and was given a standing ovation. I didn’t see him after that, being the busy scholar he was, he was impeded with several higher-ups that wanted to have one-on-one conversations with him.
However, as I checked out of the hotel, I was given a note that I had been told that was to be delivered to me.
I held the letter in my hand and looked over the white paper before unfolding it. I glanced over his long, thin handwriting before I began reading:
Monsieur Waverly,
I regret that we could not have spoken longer. I have thought about what you have said and have made a decision. While I am not sure that I am ready to fall from the graces of my colleagues, I do know that my desire to write won’t be extinguished. Perhaps a different take on my story is required or perhaps something closer to the truth.
I do believe that it isn’t about the ridicule. It’s more how we’re afraid for the way people will view us and I know that I, for one, am a coward when it comes to such things.
You did not tell me your reasons for becoming a scholar, but I can’t help but feel that you were telling me more about yourself with your lack of words than with what you were actually saying. Whatever problem you are facing, just think about how your level of life is at the moment. It takes but a few words for people to either love or hate you. It is you who control what it is that those words are.
I apologize if I am being forward in my assertions about your private life. I do hope to meet you again. I have enclosed my address. Please feel free to write me if you want to broaden your horizons or mine with a new research project.
Sincerely,
Eugéne Babineaux
I smiled to myself as I folded the letter and placed it inside the copy of the book he had written. I thanked the man at the desk and paid him before I made my way out of the hotel.
Unlike Eugéne Babineaux’s attainable dream, I knew that I would never become the military leader that I truly wanted to be, but his words made me think immediately of my current circumstances at home.
People were already ridiculing me there for how I spent my life, my brother especially. I thought it was high time for a change in scenery when I got back. I wouldn’t leave my home, but I would speak with my brother. Just because he didn’t understand me didn’t mean that I had listen to his snide comments about how I was currently living my life.
As for my colleagues, perhaps I would take a job at a more serious environment. I liked the preparatory, but I felt that I perhaps needed a fresher start. Maybe lecturing back at the university would be good for me. Perhaps I would stick to teaching mostly graduate students.
I just needed a change of pace, I guess. I needed more to look forward to and a long conversation with those around me.
As I boarded the train, I was luckier to find a compartment to myself. However, I wasn’t lucky enough to be alone on my return trip.
I once again mourned my solitude as a woman entered the compartment. She looked at Mr. Babineaux’s book in my hand and smiled. I looked at her and returned the smile as I asked her if she were interested too in Napoleon.