The time now arrived for me to begin regular lessons and to write
exercises in copy-books, which I invariably smeared with ink--ah! what
gloom and dreariness suddenly came into my life.
I remember that I performed my tasks spiritlessly and sulkily, and that
my lessons bored me inexpressibly. And since I wish to be very sincere,
it is necessary for me to add that my teachers also were well-nigh
intolerable to me.
Alas! well do I remember the one who first taught me Latin (rosa, the
rose; cornu, the horn; tonitru, the thunder). This tutor was very old
and bent, and as sad of face as a rainy November day. He is dead now,
the poor old fellow--sweet peace to his soul! He was exactly like that
“Mr. Ratin” hit off in caricature so neatly by Topffer; he had all the
marks, even to the wart with the three hairs, and fine wrinkles
beyond number at the end of his old nose; to me his face was the
personification of all that was hideous and disgusting.
He arrived every day precisely at noon; and a chill would pass through
me when I heard his knock which I would have recognized among a
thousand.
Always after his departure, I attempted to purify that part of my table
where his elbow had rested by rubbing it hard with the napkin which
I had taken clandestinely from the linen-closet. And the repulsion
extended itself to the very books, already unattractive enough to me,
which he touched; I even tore certain leaves out of them because I
suspected that he had handled them a great deal.
My books were always full of ink blots, always stained and covered with
smeared sketches and pictures, which one draws idly when his attention
wanders from his task. I who was usually so careful and proper a child
had such a detestation for the books which I was obliged to learn
from, that I abused them in the commonest fashion; altogether I was a
miserable pupil. I found--and this is the astonishing part--that all
my scruples of conscience deserted me when my teacher questioned me in
regard to the time I had spent upon my lessons (I usually studied them
in a mad hurry at the last moment); my aversion for study was the first
thing that caused me to temporize with my conscience.
In spite, however, of a pricking conscience, I still continued to
give only a passing glance at my lessons at the very last moment. But
generally “Mr. Ratin” would write “good” or “very good” upon the paper
which it was my duty each evening to show to my father.
I believe that if he, or the other professors who succeeded him, could
have suspected the truth, could have guessed that out of their presence
my mind did not dwell for more than five minutes a day upon what they
had taught me, their honest heads would have split with indignation.