teacher of the Diallobé?”
“The teacher of the Diallobé is in good health. He says that you are not to worry about him. He thinks of you. You must not cry any more.… You are a man now.”
“No, it isn’t that.…”
It was not sadness that had made him weep, that evening. He knew now that the teacher of the Diallobé would not leave him, even after his death. Even Old Rella, held to Coumba by nothing but a memory—a fleshly love—continued to stir her daughter. When the teacher’s fragile body had disappeared, what would remain of him would be more than a love and a memory. For the rest, the teacher was still living, and yet Samba Diallo no longer knew what he looked like—that ridiculous appearance of his!—except in a blurred fashion, through memory. Nevertheless, the teacher continued to keep him on guard and to be present to his attention, as effectively as if he had been there, holding the burning faggot. When the teacher died, what was left of him would be more exacting than memory. Old Rella, when she was living, had had nothingbut her love; when she died her body disappeared completely and her love left a memory. The teacher, Samba Diallo was thinking, has a body so fragile that already it seemed to be scarcely there. But, in addition, he has the Word, which is made of nothing corporeal, but which endures.… which endures. He has the fire which runs like flame through the disciples and sets the hearth aglow. He has that restless concern which had more force than his body has weight. The disappearance of this body—could it negate all that?
Dead love leaves a memory—and dead fervor? And restless concern? The teacher, who was richer than Old Rella, would die less completely than she. Samba Diallo knew that.
This evening, in this twilight that was so beautiful, he had felt himself swept by a sudden exaltation while he was praying, an exaltation such as he had formerly felt when he was near the teacher.
He lived over in his mind the circumstances of his departure from the Glowing Hearth.
Some time after the chief of the Diallobé had found Samba Diallo peacefully asleep close to Old Rella’s grave in the cemetery, there had been a long private meeting between the chief, the teacher, and the Most Royal Lady. The little boy never knew what they said to one another. Afterward, the chief had called him into his presence and had announced to him that he was going to go back to L., to be with his father. At the moment, Samba Diallo’s joy had been overwhelming; he had begun at once to think of L., and of his parents, with extraordinary intensity.
“But before you leave, you are going to say goodbye to the teacher,” the chief had added.
At this word, Samba Diallo had felt his heart rising in his throat and choking him. The teacher.… What it amounted to was that he was about to leave the teacher. That was what his departure for L. meant. He would not see the teacher any more. The teacher’s voice reciting the Word.… The look of the teacher as he listened to the Word. Far from the teacher, there were indeed his father and mother, there was indeed the sweetness of his home in L. But at the teacher’s side Samba Diallo had known something else, which he had learned to love. When he tried to envisage to himself what it was that kept him so attached to the teacher, in spite of his burning faggots and his cruelties, Samba Diallo saw nothing, except perhaps that the reasons for this attraction were not of the same order as those which made him love his father and mother and his home in L. These reasons belonged rather with the fascination which the mystery of Old Rella exercised over his mind. They must be of the same order as those which made him hate being reminded of the noble status of his family. Whatever they might be, these reasons had an imperious power.
“Well, well, you are crying?” said the chief. “Think of that, at your age! You are not pleased to be going back to L.? Come here.
“The teacher of the Diallobé is in good health. He says that you are not to worry about him. He thinks of you. You must not cry any more.… You are a man now.”
“No, it isn’t that.…”
It was not sadness that had made him weep, that evening. He knew now that the teacher of the Diallobé would not leave him, even after his death. Even Old Rella, held to Coumba by nothing but a memory—a fleshly love—continued to stir her daughter. When the teacher’s fragile body had disappeared, what would remain of him would be more than a love and a memory. For the rest, the teacher was still living, and yet Samba Diallo no longer knew what he looked like—that ridiculous appearance of his!—except in a blurred fashion, through memory. Nevertheless, the teacher continued to keep him on guard and to be present to his attention, as effectively as if he had been there, holding the burning faggot. When the teacher died, what was left of him would be more exacting than memory. Old Rella, when she was living, had had nothingbut her love; when she died her body disappeared completely and her love left a memory. The teacher, Samba Diallo was thinking, has a body so fragile that already it seemed to be scarcely there. But, in addition, he has the Word, which is made of nothing corporeal, but which endures.… which endures. He has the fire which runs like flame through the disciples and sets the hearth aglow. He has that restless concern which had more force than his body has weight. The disappearance of this body—could it negate all that?
Dead love leaves a memory—and dead fervor? And restless concern? The teacher, who was richer than Old Rella, would die less completely than she. Samba Diallo knew that.
This evening, in this twilight that was so beautiful, he had felt himself swept by a sudden exaltation while he was praying, an exaltation such as he had formerly felt when he was near the teacher.
He lived over in his mind the circumstances of his departure from the Glowing Hearth.
Some time after the chief of the Diallobé had found Samba Diallo peacefully asleep close to Old Rella’s grave in the cemetery, there had been a long private meeting between the chief, the teacher, and the Most Royal Lady. The little boy never knew what they said to one another. Afterward, the chief had called him into his presence and had announced to him that he was going to go back to L., to be with his father. At the moment, Samba Diallo’s joy had been overwhelming; he had begun at once to think of L., and of his parents, with extraordinary intensity.
“But before you leave, you are going to say goodbye to the teacher,” the chief had added.
At this word, Samba Diallo had felt his heart rising in his throat and choking him. The teacher.… What it amounted to was that he was about to leave the teacher. That was what his departure for L. meant. He would not see the teacher any more. The teacher’s voice reciting the Word.… The look of the teacher as he listened to the Word. Far from the teacher, there were indeed his father and mother, there was indeed the sweetness of his home in L. But at the teacher’s side Samba Diallo had known something else, which he had learned to love. When he tried to envisage to himself what it was that kept him so attached to the teacher, in spite of his burning faggots and his cruelties, Samba Diallo saw nothing, except perhaps that the reasons for this attraction were not of the same order as those which made him love his father and mother and his home in L. These reasons belonged rather with the fascination which the mystery of Old Rella exercised over his mind. They must be of the same order as those which made him hate being reminded of the noble status of his family. Whatever they might be, these reasons had an imperious power.
“Well, well, you are crying?” said the chief. “Think of that, at your age! You are not pleased to be going back to L.? Come here.
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