nothing else in the social world； unless it be the resistance of the
opposition to the ministry in a representative government。 But
journalists and opposition speakers are probably less prompt to take
advantage of a weak point； less extreme in resenting an injury； and
less merciless in their mockery than boys are in regard to those who
rule over them。 It is a task to put angels out of patience。 An unhappy
class…master must then not be too severely blamed； ill…paid as he is；
and consequently not too competent； if he is occasionally unjust or
out of temper。 Perpetually watched by a hundred mocking eyes； and
surrounded with snares； he sometimes revenges himself for his own
blunders on the boys who are only too ready to detect them。
Unless for serious misdemeanors； for which there were other forms of
punishment； the strap was regarded at Vendome as the /ultima ratio
Patrum/。 Exercises forgotten； lessons ill learned； common ill behavior
were sufficiently punished by an imposition； but offended dignity
spoke in the master through the strap。 Of all the physical torments to
which we were exposed； certainly the most acute was that inflicted by
this leathern instrument； about two fingers wide； applied to our poor
little hands with all the strength and all the fury of the
administrator。 To endure this classical form of correction； the victim
knelt in the middle of the room。 He had to leave his form and go to
kneel down near the master's desk under the curious and generally
merciless eyes of his fellows。 To sensitive natures these
preliminaries were an introductory torture； like the journey from the
Palais de Justice to the Place de Greve which the condemned used to
make to the scaffold。
Some boys cried out and shed bitter tears before or after the
application of the strap； others accepted the infliction with stoic
calm； it was a question of nature； but few could control an expression
of anguish in anticipation。
Louis Lambert was constantly enduring the strap； and owed it to a
peculiarity of his physiognomy of which he was for a long time quite
unconscious。 Whenever he was suddenly roused from a fit of abstraction
by the master's cry； 〃You are doing nothing！〃 it often happened that；
without knowing it； he flashed at his teacher a look full of fierce
contempt； and charged with thought； as a Leyden jar is charged with
electricity。 This look； no doubt； discomfited the master； who；
indignant at this unspoken retort； wished to cure his scholar of that
thunderous flash。
The first time the Father took offence at this ray of scorn； which
struck him like a lightning…flash； he made this speech； as I well
remember：
〃If you look at me again in that way； Lambert； you will get the
strap。〃
At these words every nose was in the air； every eye looked alternately
at the master and at Louis。 The observation was so utterly foolish；
that the boy again looked at the Father； overwhelming him with another
flash。 From this arose a standing feud between Lambert and his master；
resulting in a certain amount of 〃strap。〃 Thus did he first discover
the power of his eye。
The hapless poet； so full of nerves； as sensitive as a woman； under
the sway of chronic melancholy； and as sick with genius as a girl with
love that she pines for； knowing nothing of it；this boy； at once so
powerful and so weak； transplanted by 〃Corinne〃 from the country he
loved； to be squeezed in the mould of a collegiate routine to which
every spirit and every body must yield； whatever their range or
temperament； accepting its rule and its uniform as gold is crushed
into round coin under the press； Louis Lambert suffered in every spot
where pain can touch the soul or the flesh。 Stuck on a form；
restricted to the acreage of his desk； a victim of the strap and to a
sickly frame； tortured in every sense； environed by distress
everything compelled him to give his body up to the myriad tyrannies
of school life； and； like the martyrs who smiled in the midst of
suffering； he took refuge in heaven； which lay open to his mind。
Perhaps this life of purely inward emotions helped him to see
something of the mysteries he so entirely believed in！
Our independence； our illicit amusements； our apparent waste of time；
our persistent indifference； our frequent punishments and aversion for
our exercises and impositions； earned us a reputation； which no one
cared to controvert； for being an idle and incorrigible pair。 Our
masters treated us with contempt； and we fell into utter disgrace with
our companions； from whom we concealed our secret studies for fear of
being laughed at。 This hard judgment； which was injustice in the
masters； was but natural in our schoolfellows。 We could neither play
ball； nor run races； nor walk on stilts。 On exceptional holidays； when
amnesty was proclaimed and we got a few hours of freedom； we shared in
none of the popular diversions of the school。 Aliens from the
pleasures enjoyed by the others； we were outcasts； sitting forlorn
under a tree in the playing…ground。 The Poet…and…Pythagoras formed an
exception and led a life apart from the life of the rest。
The penetrating instinct and unerring conceit of schoolboys made them
feel that we were of a nature either far above or far beneath their
own； hence some simply hated our aristocratic reserve； others merely
scorned our ineptitude。 These feelings were equally shared by us
without our knowing it； perhaps I have but now divined them。 We lived
exactly like two rats； huddled into the corner of the room where our
desks were； sitting there alike during lesson time and play hours。
This strange state of affairs inevitably and in fact placed us on a
footing of war with all the other boys in our division。 Forgotten for
the most part； we sat there very contentedly； half happy； like two
plants； two images who would have been missed from the furniture of
the room。 But the most aggressive of our schoolfellows would sometimes
torment us； just to show their malignant power； and we responded with
stolid contempt； which brought many a thrashing down on the Poet…and…
Pythagoras。
Lambert's home…sickness lasted for many months。 I know no words to
describe the dejection to which he was a prey。 Louis has taken the
glory off many a masterpiece for me。 We had both played the part of
the 〃Leper of Aosta；〃 and had both experienced the feelings described
in Monsieur de Maistre's story； before we read them as expressed by
his eloquent pen。 A book may； indeed； revive the memories of our
childhood； but it can never compete with them successfully。 Lambert's
woes had taught me many a chant of sorrow far more appealing than the
finest passages in 〃Werther。〃 And； indeed； there is no possible
comparison between the pangs of a passion condemned； whether rightly
or wrongly； by every law； and the grief of a poor child pining for the
glorious sunshine； the dews of the valley； and liberty。 Werther is the
slave of desire； Louis Lambert was an enslaved soul。 Given equal
talent； the more pathetic sorrow； founded on desires which； being
purer； are the more genuine； must transcend the wail even of genius。
After sitting for a long time with his eyes fixed on a lime…tree in
the playground； Louis would say just a word； but that word would
reveal an infinite speculation。
〃Happily for me；〃 he exclaimed one day； 〃there are hours of comfort
when I feel as though the walls of the room had fallen and I were
awayaway in the fields！ What a pleasure it is to let oneself go on
the stream of one's thoughts as a bird is borne up on its wings！〃
〃Why is green a color so largely diffused throughout creation？〃 he
would ask me。 〃Why are there so few straight lines in nature？ Why is
it that man； in his structures； rarely introduces curves？ Why is it
that he alone； of all creatures； has a sense of straightness？〃
These queries revealed long excursions in space。 He had； I am sure；
seen vast landscapes； fragrant with the scent of woods。 He was always
silent and resigned； a living elegy； always suffering but unable to
complain of suffering。 An eagle that needed the world to feed him；
shut in between four narrow； dirty walls； and thus this life became an
ideal life in the strictest meaning of the words。 Filled as he was
with contempt of the almost useless studies to which we were
harnessed； Louis went on his skyward way absolutely unconscious of the
things about us。
I； obeying the imitative instinct that is so strong in childhood；
tired to regulate my life in conformity with his。 And Louis the more
easily infected me with the sort of torpor in which deep contemplation
leaves the body； because I was younger and more impressionable than
he。 Like two lovers； we got into the habit of thinking together in a
common reverie。 His intuitions had already acquired that acuteness
which must surely characterize the intellectual perceptiveness of
great poets and often bring them to the verge of madness。
〃Do you ever feel；〃 said he to me one day； 〃as though imagined
suffering affected you in spite of yourself？ If； for instance； I think
with concentration of the effect that the blade of my penknife would
have in piercing my flesh； I feel an acute pain as if I had really cut
myself； only the blood is wanting。 But the pain comes suddenly； and
startles me like a sharp noise breaking profound silence。 Can an idea
cause physical pain？What do you say to that； eh？〃
When he gave utterance to such subtle reflections； we both fell into
artless meditation； we set to work to detect in ourselves the
inscrutable phenomena of the origin of thoughts； which Lambert hoped
to discover in their earliest germ； so as to describe some day the
unknown process。 Then； after much discussion； often mixed up with
childish notions； a look would flash from Lambert's eager eyes； he
would grasp my hand； and a word from the depths of his soul would show
the current of his mind。
〃Thinking is seeing；〃 said he one day； carried away by some objection
raised as to the first principles of our organization。 〃Every human
science is based on deduction； which is a slow process of seeing by
which we work up from the effect to the cause； or； in a wider sense；
all poetry； like every work of art； procee