Louis Lambert

LouisLambert

Louis Lambert was born at Montoire, a little town in the Vendomois, where his father owned a tannery of no great magnitude, and intended that his son should succeed him; but his precocious bent for study modified the paternal decision.  For, indeed, the tanner and his wife adored Louis, their only child, and never contradicted him in anything.

At the age of five Louis had begun by reading the Old and New Testaments; and these two Books, including so many books, had sealed his fate.  Could that childish imagination understand the mystical depths of the Scriptures?  Could it so early follow the flight of the Holy Spirit across the worlds?  Or was it merely attracted by the romantic touches which abound in those Oriental poems!  Our narrative will answer these questions to some readers.

One thing resulted from this first reading of the Bible:  Louis went all over Montoire begging for books, and he obtained them by those winning ways peculiar to children, which no one can resist.  While devoting himself to these studies under no sort of guidance, he reached the age of ten.

At that period substitutes for the army were scarce; rich families secured them long beforehand to have them ready when the lots were drawn.  The poor tanner’s modest fortune did not allow of their purchasing a substitute for their son, and they saw no means allowed by law for evading the conscription but that of making him a priest; so, in 1807, they sent him to his maternal uncle, the parish priest of Mer, another small town on the Loire, not far from Blois.  This arrangement at once satisfied Louis’ passion for knowledge, and his parents’ wish not to expose him to the dreadful chances of war; and, indeed, his taste for study and precocious intelligence gave grounds for hoping that he might rise to high fortunes in the Church.

After remaining for about three years with his uncle, an old and not uncultured Oratorian, Louis left him early in 1811 to enter the college at Vendome, where he was maintained at the cost of Madame de Stael.

Lambert owed the favor and patronage of this celebrated lady to chance, or shall we not say to Providence, who can smooth the path of forlorn genius?  To us, indeed, who do not see below the surface of human things, such vicissitudes, of which we find many examples in the lives of great men, appear to be merely the result of physical phenomena; to most biographers the head of a man of genius rises above the herd as some noble plant in the fields attracts the eye of a botanist in its splendor.  This comparison may well be applied to Louis Lambert’s adventure; he was accustomed to spend the time allowed him by his uncle for holidays at his father’s house; but instead of indulging, after the manner of schoolboys, in the sweets of the delightful far niente that tempts us at every age, he set out every morning with part of a loaf and his books, and went to read and meditate in the woods, to escape his mother’s remonstrances, for she believed such persistent study to be injurious.  How admirable is a mother’s instinct!  From that time reading was in Louis a sort of appetite which nothing could satisfy; he devoured books of every kind, feeding indiscriminately on religious works, history, philosophy, and physics.  He has told me that he found indescribable delight in reading dictionaries for lack of other books, and I readily believed him.  What scholar has not many a time found pleasure in seeking the probable meaning of some unknown word?  The analysis of a word, its physiognomy and history, would be to Lambert matter for long dreaming.  But these were not the instinctive dreams by which a boy accustoms himself to the phenomena of life, steels himself to every moral or physical perception—­an involuntary education which subsequently brings forth fruit both in the understanding and character of a man; no, Louis mastered the facts, and he accounted for them after seeking out both the principle and the end with the mother wit of a savage.  Indeed, from the age of fourteen, by one of those startling freaks in which nature sometimes indulges, and which proved how anomalous was his temperament, he would utter quite simply ideas of which the depth was not revealed to me till a long time after.

“Often,” he has said to me when speaking of his studies, “often have I made the most delightful voyage, floating on a word down the abyss of the past, like an insect embarked on a blade of grass tossing on the ripples of a stream.  Starting from Greece, I would get to Rome, and traverse the whole extent of modern ages.  What a fine book might be written of the life and adventures of a word!  It has, of course, received various stamps from the occasions on which it has served its purpose; it has conveyed different ideas in different places; but is it not still grander to think of it under the three aspects of soul, body, and motion?  Merely to regard it in the abstract, apart from its functions, its effects, and its influence, is enough to cast one into an ocean of meditations?  Are not most words colored by the idea they represent?  Then, to whose genius are they due?  If it takes great intelligence to create a word, how old may human speech be?  The combination of letters, their shapes, and the look they give to the word, are the exact reflection, in accordance with the character of each nation, of the unknown beings whose traces survive in us.

“Who can philosophically explain the transition from sensation to thought, from thought to word, from the word to its hieroglyphic presentment, from hieroglyphics to the alphabet, from the alphabet to written language, of which the eloquent beauty resides in a series of images, classified by rhetoric, and forming, in a sense, the hieroglyphics of thought?  Was it not the ancient mode of representing human ideas as embodied in the forms of animals that gave rise to the shapes of the first signs used in the East for writing down language?  Then has it not left its traces by tradition on our modern languages, which have all seized some remnant of the primitive speech of nations, a majestic and solemn tongue whose grandeur and solemnity decrease as communities grow old; whose sonorous tones ring in the Hebrew Bible, and still are noble in Greece, but grow weaker under the progress of successive phases of civilization?

“Is it to this time-honored spirit that we owe the mysteries lying buried in every human word?  In the word True do we not discern a certain imaginary rectitude?  Does not the compact brevity of its sound suggest a vague image of chaste nudity and the simplicity of Truth in all things?  The syllable seems to me singularly crisp and fresh.

“I chose the formula of an abstract idea on purpose, not wishing to illustrate the case by a word which should make it too obvious to the apprehension, as the word Flight for instance, which is a direct appeal to the senses.

“But is it not so with every root word?  They are all stamped with a living power that comes from the soul, and which they restore to the soul through the mysterious and wonderful action and reaction between thought and speech.  Might we not speak of it as a lover who finds on his mistress’ lips as much love as he gives?  Thus, by their mere physiognomy, words call to life in our brain the beings which they serve to clothe.  Like all beings, there is but one place where their properties are at full liberty to act and develop.  But the subject demands a science to itself perhaps!”

And he would shrug his shoulders as much as to say, “But we are too high and too low!”

Louis’ passion for reading had on the whole been very well satisfied.  The cure of Mer had two or three thousand volumes.  This treasure had been derived from the plunder committed during the Revolution in the neighboring chateaux and abbeys.  As a priest who had taken the oath, the worthy man had been able to choose the best books from among these precious libraries, which were sold by the pound.  In three years Louis Lambert had assimilated the contents of all the books in his uncle’s library that were worth reading.  The process of absorbing ideas by means of reading had become in him a very strange phenomenon.  His eye took in six or seven lines at once, and his mind grasped the sense with a swiftness as remarkable as that of his eye; sometimes even one word in a sentence was enough to enable him to seize the gist of the matter.

His memory was prodigious.  He remembered with equal exactitude the ideas he had derived from reading, and those which had occurred to him in the course of meditation or conversation.  Indeed, he had every form of memory—­for places, for names, for words, things, and faces.  He not only recalled any object at will, but he saw them in his mind, situated, lighted, and colored as he had originally seen them.  And this power he could exert with equal effect with regard to the most abstract efforts of the intellect.  He could remember, as he said, not merely the position of a sentence in the book where he had met with it, but the frame of mind he had been in at remote dates.  Thus his was the singular privilege of being able to retrace in memory the whole life and progress of his mind, from the ideas he had first acquired to the last thought evolved in it, from the most obscure to the clearest.  His brain, accustomed in early youth to the mysterious mechanism by which human faculties are concentrated, drew from this rich treasury endless images full of life and freshness, on which he fed his spirit during those lucid spells of contemplation.

“Whenever I wish it,” said he to me in his own language, to which a fund of remembrance gave precocious originality, “I can draw a veil over my eyes.  Then I suddenly see within me a camera obscura, where natural objects are reproduced in purer forms than those under which they first appeared to my external sense.”

At the age of twelve his imagination, stimulated by the perpetual exercise of his faculties, had developed to a point which permitted him to have such precise concepts of things which he knew only from reading about them, that the image stamped on his mind could not have been clearer if he had actually seen them, whether this was by a process of analogy or that he was gifted with a sort of second sight by which he could command all nature.

“When I read the story of the battle of Austerlitz,” said he to me one day, “I saw every incident.  The roar of the cannon, the cries of the fighting men rang in my ears, and made my inmost self quiver; I could smell the powder; I heard the clatter of horses and the voices of men; I looked down on the plain where armed nations were in collision, just as if I had been on the heights of Santon.  The scene was as terrifying as a passage from the Apocalypse.”  On the occasions when he brought all his powers into play, and in some degree lost consciousness of his physical existence, and lived on only by the remarkable energy of his mental powers, whose sphere was enormously expanded, he left space behind him, to use his own words.

But I will not here anticipate the intellectual phases of his life.  Already, in spite of myself, I have reversed the order in which I ought to tell the history of this man, who transferred all his activities to thinking, as others throw all their life into action.

A strong bias drew his mind into mystical studies.

“Abyssus abyssum,” he would say.  “Our spirit is abysmal and loves the abyss.  In childhood, manhood, and old age we are always eager for mysteries in whatever form they present themselves.”

This predilection was disastrous; if indeed his life can be measured by ordinary standards, or if we may gauge another’s happiness by our own or by social notions.  This taste for the “things of heaven,” another phrase he was fond of using, this mens divinior, was due perhaps to the influence produced on his mind by the first books he read at his uncle’s.  Saint Theresa and Madame Guyon were a sequel to the Bible; they had the first-fruits of his manly intelligence, and accustomed him to those swift reactions of the soul of which ecstasy is at once the result and the means.  This line of study, this peculiar taste, elevated his heart, purified, ennobled it, gave him an appetite for the divine nature, and suggested to him the almost womanly refinement of feeling which is instinctive in great men; perhaps their sublime superiority is no more than the desire to devote themselves which characterizes woman, only transferred to the greatest things.

As a result of these early impressions, Louis passed immaculate through his school life; this beautiful virginity of the senses naturally resulted in the richer fervor of his blood, and in increased faculties of mind.

The Baroness de Stael, forbidden to come within forty leagues of Paris, spent several months of her banishment on an estate near Vendome.  One day, when out walking, she met on the skirts of the park the tanner’s son, almost in rags, and absorbed in reading.  The book was a translation of Heaven and Hell.  At that time Monsieur Saint-Martin, Monsieur de Gence, and a few other French or half German writers were almost the only persons in the French Empire to whom the name of Swedenborg was known.  Madame de Stael, greatly surprised, took the book from him with the roughness she affected in her questions, looks, and manners, and with a keen glance at Lambert,—­

“Do you understand all this?” she asked.

“Do you pray to God?” said the child.

“Why? yes!”

“And do you understand Him?”

The Baroness was silent for a moment; then she sat down by Lambert, and began to talk to him.  Unfortunately, my memory, though retentive, is far from being so trustworthy as my friend’s, and I have forgotten the whole of the dialogue excepting those first words.

Such a meeting was of a kind to strike Madame de Stael very greatly; on her return home she said but little about it, notwithstanding an effusiveness which in her became mere loquacity; but it evidently occupied her thoughts.

The only person now living who preserves any recollection of the incident, and whom I catechised to be informed of what few words Madame de Stael had let drop, could with difficulty recall these words spoken by the Baroness as describing Lambert, “He is a real seer.”

Louis failed to justify in the eyes of the world the high hopes he had inspired in his protectress.  The transient favor she showed him was regarded as a feminine caprice, one of the fancies characteristic of artist souls.  Madame de Stael determined to save Louis Lambert alike from serving the Emperor or the Church, and to preserve him for the glorious destiny which, she thought, awaited him; for she made him out to be a second Moses snatched from the waters.  Before her departure she instructed a friend of hers, Monsieur de Corbigny, to send her Moses in due course to the High School at Vendome; then she probably forgot him.

Having entered this college at the age of fourteen, early in 1811, Lambert would leave it at the end of 1814, when he had finished the course of Philosophy.  I doubt whether during the whole time he ever heard a word of his benefactress—­if indeed it was the act of a benefactress to pay for a lad’s schooling for three years without a thought of his future prospects, after diverting him from a career in which he might have found happiness.  The circumstances of the time, and Louis Lambert’s character, may to a great extent absolve Madame de Stael for her thoughtlessness and her generosity.  The gentleman who was to have kept up communications between her and the boy left Blois just at the time when Louis passed out of the college.  The political events that ensued were then a sufficient excuse for this gentleman’s neglect of the Baroness’ protege.  The authoress of Corinne heard no more of her little Moses.

A hundred louis, which she placed in the hands of Monsieur de Corbigny, who died, I believe, in 1812, was not a sufficiently large sum to leave lasting memories in Madame de Stael, whose excitable nature found ample pasture during the vicissitudes of 1814 and 1815, which absorbed all her interest.

At this time Louis Lambert was at once too proud and too poor to go in search of a patroness who was traveling all over Europe.  However, he went on foot from Blois to Paris in the hope of seeing her, and arrived, unluckily, on the very day of her death.  Two letters from Lambert to the Baroness remained unanswered.  The memory of Madame de Stael’s good intentions with regard to Louis remains, therefore, only in some few young minds, struck, as mine was, by the strangeness of the story.

No one who had not gone through the training at our college could understand the effect usually made on our minds by the announcement that a “new boy” had arrived, or the impression that such an adventure as Louis Lambert’s was calculated to produce.

And here a little information must be given as to the primitive administration of this institution, originally half-military and half-monastic, to explain the new life which there awaited Lambert.  Before the Revolution, the Oratorians, devoted, like the Society of Jesus, to the education of youth—­succeeding the Jesuits, in fact, in certain of their establishments—­the colleges of Vendome, of Tournon, of la Fleche, Pont-Levoy, Sorreze, and Juilly.  That at Vendome, like the others, I believe, turned out a certain number of cadets for the army.  The abolition of educational bodies, decreed by the convention, had but little effect on the college at Vendome.  When the first crisis had blown over, the authorities recovered possession of their buildings; certain Oratorians, scattered about the country, came back to the college and re-opened it under the old rules, with the habits, practices, and customs which gave this school a character with which I have seen nothing at all comparable in any that I have visited since I left that establishment.

Standing in the heart of the town, on the little river Loire which flows under its walls, the college possesses extensive precincts, carefully enclosed by walls, and including all the buildings necessary for an institution on that scale:  a chapel, a theatre, an infirmary, a bakehouse, gardens, and water supply.  This college is the most celebrated home of learning in all the central provinces, and receives pupils from them and from the colonies.  Distance prohibits any frequent visits from parents to their children.

The rule of the House forbids holidays away from it.  Once entered there, a pupil never leaves till his studies are finished.  With the exception of walks taken under the guidance of the Fathers, everything is calculated to give the School the benefit of conventual discipline; in my day the tawse was still a living memory, and the classical leather strap played its terrible part with all the honors.  The punishment originally invented by the Society of Jesus, as alarming to the moral as to the physical man, was still in force in all the integrity of the original code.

Letters to parents were obligatory on certain days, so was confession.  Thus our sins and our sentiments were all according to pattern.  Everything bore the stamp of monastic rule.  I well remember, among other relics of the ancient order, the inspection we went through every Sunday.  We were all in our best, placed in file like soldiers to await the arrival of the two inspectors who, attended by the tutors and the tradesmen, examined us from the three points of view of dress, health, and morals.

The two or three hundred pupils lodged in the establishment were divided, according to ancient custom, into the minimes (the smallest), the little boys, the middle boys, and the big boys.  The division of the minimes included the eighth and seventh classes; the little boys formed the sixth, fifth, and fourth; the middle boys were classed as third and second; and the first class comprised the senior students—­of philosophy, rhetoric, the higher mathematics, and chemistry.  Each of these divisions had its own building, classrooms, and play-ground, in the large common precincts on to which the classrooms opened, and beyond which was the refectory.

This dining-hall, worthy of an ancient religious Order, accommodated all the school.  Contrary to the usual practice in educational institutions, we were allowed to talk at our meals, a tolerant Oratorian rule which enabled us to exchange plates according to our taste.  This gastronomical barter was always one of the chief pleasures of our college life.  If one of the “middle” boys at the head of his table wished for a helping of lentils instead of dessert—­for we had dessert—­the offer was passed down from one to another:  “Dessert for lentils!” till some other epicure had accepted; then the plate of lentils was passed up to the bidder from hand to hand, and the plate of dessert returned by the same road.  Mistakes were never made.  If several identical offers were made, they were taken in order, and the formula would be, “Lentils number one for dessert number one.”  The tables were very long; our incessant barter kept everything moving; we transacted it with amazing eagerness; and the chatter of three hundred lads, the bustling to and fro of the servants employed in changing the plates, setting down the dishes, handing the bread, with the tours of inspection of the masters, made this refectory at Vendome a scene unique in its way, and the amazement of visitors.

To make our life more tolerable, deprived as we were of all communication with the outer world and of family affection, we were allowed to keep pigeons and to have gardens.  Our two or three hundred pigeon-houses, with a thousand birds nesting all round the outer wall, and above thirty garden plots, were a sight even stranger than our meals.  But a full account of the peculiarities which made the college at Vendome a place unique in itself and fertile in reminiscences to those who spent their boyhood there, would be weariness to the reader.  Which of us all but remembers with delight, notwithstanding the bitterness of learning, the eccentric pleasures of that cloistered life?  The sweetmeats purchased by stealth in the course of our walks, permission obtained to play cards and devise theatrical performances during the holidays, such tricks and freedom as were necessitated by our seclusion; then, again, our military band, a relic of the cadets; our academy, our chaplain, our Father professors, and all our games permitted or prohibited, as the case might be; the cavalry charges on stilts, the long slides made in winter, the clatter of our clogs; and, above all, the trading transactions with “the shop” set up in the courtyard itself.

This shop was kept by a sort of cheap-jack, of whom big and little boys could procure—­according to his prospectus—­boxes, stilts, tools, Jacobin pigeons, and Nuns, Mass-books—­an article in small demand —­penknives, paper, pens, pencils, ink of all colors, balls and marbles; in short, the whole catalogue of the most treasured possessions of boys, including everything from sauce for the pigeons we were obliged to kill off, to the earthenware pots in which we set aside the rice from supper to be eaten at next morning’s breakfast.  Which of us was so unhappy as to have forgotten how his heart beat at the sight of this booth, open periodically during play-hours on Sundays, to which we went, each in his turn, to spend his little pocket-money; while the smallness of the sum allowed by our parents for these minor pleasures required us to make a choice among all the objects that appealed so strongly to our desires?  Did ever a young wife, to whom her husband, during the first days of happiness, hands, twelve times a year, a purse of gold, the budget of her personal fancies, dream of so many different purchases, each of which would absorb the whole sum, as we imagined possible on the eve of the first Sunday in each month?  For six francs during one night we owned every delight of that inexhaustible shop! and during Mass every response we chanted was mixed up in our minds with our secret calculations.  Which of us all can recollect ever having had a sou left to spend on the Sunday following?  And which of us but obeyed the instinctive law of social existence by pitying, helping, and despising those pariahs who, by the avarice or poverty of their parents, found themselves penniless?

Any one who forms a clear idea of this huge college, with its monastic buildings in the heart of a little town, and the four plots in which we were distributed as by a monastic rule, will easily conceive of the excitement that we felt at the arrival of a new boy, a passenger suddenly embarked on the ship.  No young duchess, on her first appearance at Court, was ever more spitefully criticised than the new boy by the youths in his division.  Usually during the evening play-hour before prayers, those sycophants who were accustomed to ingratiate themselves with the Fathers who took it in turns two and two for a week to keep an eye on us, would be the first to hear on trustworthy authority:  “There will be a new boy to-morrow!” and then suddenly the shout, “A New Boy!—­A New Boy!” rang through the courts.  We hurried up to crowd round the superintendent and pester him with questions: 

“Where was he coming from?  What was his name?  Which class would he be in?” and so forth.

Louis Lambert’s advent was the subject of a romance worthy of the Arabian Nights.  I was in the fourth class at the time—­among the little boys.  Our housemasters were two men whom we called Fathers from habit and tradition, though they were not priests.  In my time there were indeed but three genuine Oratorians to whom this title legitimately belonged; in 1814 they all left the college, which had gradually become secularized, to find occupation about the altar in various country parishes, like the cure of Mer.

Father Haugoult, the master for the week, was not a bad man, but of very moderate attainments, and he lacked the tact which is indispensable for discerning the different characters of children, and graduating their punishment to their powers of resistance.  Father Haugoult, then, began very obligingly to communicate to his pupils the wonderful events which were to end on the morrow in the advent of the most singular of “new boys.”  Games were at an end.  All the children came round in silence to hear the story of Louis Lambert, discovered, like an aerolite, by Madame de Stael, in a corner of the wood.  Monsieur Haugoult had to tell us all about Madame de Stael; that evening she seemed to me ten feet high; I saw at a later time the picture of Corinne, in which Gerard represents her as so tall and handsome; and, alas! the woman painted by my imagination so far transcended this, that the real Madame de Stael fell at once in my estimation, even after I read her book of really masculine power, De l’Allemagne.

But Lambert at that time was an even greater wonder.  Monsieur Mareschal, the headmaster, after examining him, had thought of placing him among the senior boys.  It was Louis’ ignorance of Latin that placed him so low as the fourth class, but he would certainly leap up a class every year; and, as a remarkable exception, he was to be one of the “Academy.” Proh pudor! we were to have the honor of counting among the “little boys” one whose coat was adorned with the red ribbon displayed by the “Academicians” of Vendome.  These Academicians enjoyed distinguished privileges; they often dined at the director’s table, and held two literary meetings annually, at which we were all present to hear their elucubrations.  An Academician was a great man in embryo.  And if every Vendome scholar would speak the truth, he would confess that, in later life, an Academician of the great French Academy seemed to him far less remarkable than the stupendous boy who wore the cross and the imposing red ribbon which were the insignia of our “Academy.”

It was very unusual to be one of that illustrious body before attaining to the second class, for the Academicians were expected to hold public meetings every Thursday during the holidays, and to read tales in verse or prose, epistles, essays, tragedies, dramas —­compositions far above the intelligence of the lower classes.  I long treasured the memory of a story called the “Green Ass,” which was, I think, the masterpiece of this unknown Society.  In the fourth, and an Academician!  This boy of fourteen, a poet already, the protege of Madame de Stael, a coming genius, said Father Haugoult, was to be one of us! a wizard, a youth capable of writing a composition or a translation while we were being called into lessons, and of learning his lessons by reading them through but once.  Louis Lambert bewildered all our ideas.  And Father Haugoult’s curiosity and impatience to see this new boy added fuel to our excited fancy.

“If he has pigeons, he can have no pigeon-house; there is not room for another.  Well, it cannot be helped,” said one boy, since famous as an agriculturist.

“Who will sit next to him?” said another.

“Oh, I wish I might be his chum!” cried an enthusiast.

In school language, the word here rendered chum—­faisant, or in some schools, copin—­expressed a fraternal sharing of the joys and evils of your childish existence, a community of interests that was fruitful of squabbling and making friends again, a treaty of alliance offensive and defensive.  It is strange, but never in my time did I know brothers who were chums.  If man lives by his feelings, he thinks perhaps that he will make his life the poorer if he merges an affection of his own choosing in a natural tie.

The impression made upon me by Father Haugoult’s harangue that evening is one of the most vivid reminiscences of my childhood; I can compare it with nothing but my first reading of Robinson Crusoe.  Indeed, I owe to my recollection of these prodigious impressions an observation that may perhaps be new as to the different sense attached to words by each hearer.  The word in itself has no final meaning; we affect a word more than it affects us; its value is in relation to the images we have assimilated and grouped round it; but a study of this fact would require considerable elaboration, and lead us too far from our immediate subject.

Not being able to sleep, I had a long discussion with my next neighbor in the dormitory as to the remarkable being who on the morrow was to be one of us.  This neighbor, who became an officer, and is now a writer with lofty philosophical views, Barchou de Penhoen, has not been false to his pre-destination, nor to the hazard of fortune by which the only two scholars of Vendome, of whose fame Vendome ever hears, were brought together in the same classroom, on the same form, and under the same roof.  Our comrade Dufaure had not, when this book was published, made his appearance in public life as a lawyer.  The translator of Fichte, the expositor and friend of Ballanche, was already interested, as I myself was, in metaphysical questions; we often talked nonsense together about God, ourselves, and nature.  He at that time affected pyrrhonism.  Jealous of his place as leader, he doubted Lambert’s precocious gifts; while I, having lately read Les Enfants celebres, overwhelmed him with evidence, quoting young Montcalm, Pico della Mirandola, Pascal—­in short, a score of early developed brains, anomalies that are famous in the history of the human mind, and Lambert’s predecessors.

I was at the time passionately addicted to reading.  My father, who was ambitious to see me in the Ecole Polytechnique, paid for me to have a special course of private lessons in mathematics.  My mathematical master was the librarian of the college, and allowed me to help myself to books without much caring what I chose to take from the library, a quiet spot where I went to him during play-hours to have my lesson.  Either he was no great mathematician, or he was absorbed in some grand scheme, for he very willingly left me to read when I ought to have been learning, while he worked at I knew not what.  So, by a tacit understanding between us, I made no complaints of being taught nothing, and he said nothing of the books I borrowed.

Carried away by this ill-timed mania, I neglected my studies to compose poems, which certainly can have shown no great promise, to judge by a line of too many feet which became famous among my companions—­the beginning of an epic on the Incas: 

  “O Inca!  O roi infortune et malheureux!”

In derision of such attempts, I was nicknamed the Poet, but mockery did not cure me.  I was always rhyming, in spite of good advice from Monsieur Mareschal, the headmaster, who tried to cure me of an unfortunately inveterate passion by telling me the fable of a linnet that fell out of the nest because it tried to fly before its wings were grown.  I persisted in my reading; I became the least emulous, the idlest, the most dreamy of all the division of “little boys,” and consequently the most frequently punished.

This autobiographical digression may give some idea of the reflections I was led to make in anticipation of Lambert’s arrival.  I was then twelve years old.  I felt sympathy from the first for the boy whose temperament had some points of likeness to my own.  I was at last to have a companion in daydreams and meditations.  Though I knew not yet what glory meant, I thought it glory to be the familiar friend of a child whose immortality was foreseen by Madame de Stael.  To me Louis Lambert was as a giant.

The looked-for morrow came at last.  A minute before breakfast we heard the steps of Monsieur Mareschal and of the new boy in the quiet courtyard.  Every head was turned at once to the door of the classroom.  Father Haugoult, who participated in our torments of curiosity, did not sound the whistle he used to reduce our mutterings to silence and bring us back to our tasks.  We then saw this famous new boy, whom Monsieur Mareschal was leading by the hand.  The superintendent descended from his desk, and the headmaster said to him solemnly, according to etiquette:  “Monsieur, I have brought you Monsieur Louis Lambert; will you place him in the fourth class?  He will begin work to-morrow.”

Then, after speaking a few words in an undertone to the class-master, he said: 

“Where can he sit?”

It would have been unfair to displace one of us for a newcomer; so as there was but one desk vacant, Louis Lambert came to fill it, next to me, for I had last joined the class.  Though we still had some time to wait before lessons were over, we all stood up to look at Louis Lambert.  Monsieur Mareschal heard our mutterings, saw how eager we were, and said, with the kindness that endeared him to us all: 

“Well, well, but make no noise; do not disturb the other classes.”

These words set us free to play some little time before breakfast, and we all gathered round Lambert while Monsieur Mareschal walked up and down the courtyard with Father Haugoult.

There were about eighty of us little demons, as bold as birds of prey.  Though we ourselves had all gone through this cruel novitiate, we showed no mercy on a newcomer, never sparing him the mockery, the catechism, the impertinence, which were inexhaustible on such occasions, to the discomfiture of the neophyte, whose manners, strength, and temper were thus tested.  Lambert, whether he was stoical or dumfounded, made no reply to any questions.  One of us thereupon remarked that he was no doubt of the school of Pythagoras, and there was a shout of laughter.  The new boy was thenceforth Pythagoras through all his life at the college.  At the same time, Lambert’s piercing eye, the scorn expressed in his face for our childishness, so far removed from the stamp of his own nature, the easy attitude he assumed, and his evident strength in proportion to his years, infused a certain respect into the veriest scamps among us.  For my part, I kept near him, absorbed in studying him in silence.

Louis Lambert was slightly built, nearly five feet in height; his face was tanned, and his hands were burnt brown by the sun, giving him an appearance of manly vigor, which, in fact, he did not possess.  Indeed, two months after he came to the college, when studying in the classroom had faded his vivid, so to speak, vegetable coloring, he became as pale and white as a woman.

His head was unusually large.  His hair, of a fine, bright black in masses of curls, gave wonderful beauty to his brow, of which the proportions were extraordinary even to us heedless boys, knowing nothing, as may be supposed, of the auguries of phrenology, a science still in its cradle.  The distinction of this prophetic brow lay principally in the exquisitely chiseled shape of the arches under which his black eyes sparkled, and which had the transparency of alabaster, the line having the unusual beauty of being perfectly level to where it met the top of the nose.  But when you saw his eyes it was difficult to think of the rest of his face, which was indeed plain enough, for their look was full of a wonderful variety of expression; they seemed to have a soul in their depths.  At one moment astonishingly clear and piercing, at another full of heavenly sweetness, those eyes became dull, almost colorless, as it seemed, when he was lost in meditation.  They then looked like a window from which the sun had suddenly vanished after lighting it up.  His strength and his voice were no less variable; equally rigid, equally unexpected.  His tone could be as sweet as that of a woman compelled to own her love; at other times it was labored, rough, rugged, if I may use such words in a new sense.  As to his strength, he was habitually incapable of enduring the fatigue of any game, and seemed weakly, almost infirm.  But during the early days of his school-life, one of our little bullies having made game of this sickliness, which rendered him unfit for the violent exercise in vogue among his fellows, Lambert took hold with both hands of one of the class-tables, consisting of twelve large desks, face to face and sloping from the middle; he leaned back against the class-master’s desk, steadying the table with his feet on the cross-bar below, and said: 

“Now, ten of you try to move it!”

I was present, and can vouch for this strange display of strength; it was impossible to move the table.

Lambert had the gift of summoning to his aid at certain times the most extraordinary powers, and of concentrating all his forces on a given point.  But children, like men, are wont to judge of everything by first impressions, and after the first few days we ceased to study Louis; he entirely belied Madame de Stael’s prognostications, and displayed none of the prodigies we looked for in him.

After three months at school, Louis was looked upon as a quite ordinary scholar.  I alone was allowed really to know that sublime—­why should I not say divine?—­soul, for what is nearer to God than genius in the heart of a child?  The similarity of our tastes and ideas made us friends and chums; our intimacy was so brotherly that our school-fellows joined our two names; one was never spoken without the other, and to call either they always shouted “Poet-and-Pythagoras!” Some other names had been known coupled in a like manner.  Thus for two years I was the school friend of poor Louis Lambert; and during that time my life was so identified with his, that I am enabled now to write his intellectual biography.

It was long before I fully knew the poetry and the wealth of ideas that lay hidden in my companion’s heart and brain.  It was not till I was thirty years of age, till my experience was matured and condensed, till the flash of an intense illumination had thrown a fresh light upon it, that I was capable of understanding all the bearings of the phenomena which I witnessed at that early time.  I benefited by them without understanding their greatness or their processes; indeed, I have forgotten some, or remember only the most conspicuous facts; still, my memory is now able to co-ordinate them, and I have mastered the secrets of that fertile brain by looking back to the delightful days of our boyish affection.  So it was time alone that initiated me into the meaning of the events and facts that were crowded into that obscure life, as into that of many another man who is lost to science.  Indeed, this narrative, so far as the expression and appreciation of many things is concerned, will be found full of what may be termed moral anachronisms, which perhaps will not detract from its peculiar interest.

In the course of the first few months after coming to Vendome, Louis became the victim of a malady which, though the symptoms were invisible to the eye of our superiors, considerably interfered with the exercise of his remarkable gifts.  Accustomed to live in the open air, and to the freedom of a purely haphazard education, happy in the tender care of an old man who was devoted to him, used to meditating in the sunshine, he found it very hard to submit to college rules, to walk in the ranks, to live within the four walls of a room where eighty boys were sitting in silence on wooden forms each in front of his desk.  His senses were developed to such perfection as gave them the most sensitive keenness, and every part of him suffered from this life in common.

The effluvia that vitiated the air, mingled with the odors of a classroom that was never clean, nor free from the fragments of our breakfasts or snacks, affected his sense of smell, the sense which, being more immediately connected than the others with the nerve-centers of the brain, must, when shocked, cause invisible disturbance to the organs of thought.

Besides these elements of impurity in the atmosphere, there were lockers in the classrooms in which the boys kept their miscellaneous plunder—­pigeons killed for fete days, or tidbits filched from the dinner-table.  In each classroom, too, there was a large stone slab, on which two pails full of water were kept standing, a sort of sink, where we every morning washed our faces and hands, one after another, in the master’s presence.  We then passed on to a table, where women combed and powdered our hair.  Thus the place, being cleaned but once a day before we were up, was always more or less dirty.  In spite of numerous windows and lofty doors, the air was constantly fouled by the smells from the washing-place, the hairdressing, the lockers, and the thousand messes made by the boys, to say nothing of their eighty closely packed bodies.  And this sort of humus, mingling with the mud we brought in from the playing-yard, produced a suffocatingly pestilent muck-heap.

The loss of the fresh and fragrant country air in which he had hitherto lived, the change of habits and strict discipline, combined to depress Lambert.  With his elbow on his desk and his head supported on his left hand, he spent the hours of study gazing at the trees in the court or the clouds in the sky; he seemed to be thinking of his lessons; but the master, seeing his pen motionless, or the sheet before him still a blank, would call out: 

“Lambert, you are doing nothing!”

This “you are doing nothing!” was a pin-thrust that wounded Louis to the quick.  And then he never earned the rest of the play-time; he always had impositions to write.  The imposition, a punishment which varies according to the practice of different schools, consisted at Vendome of a certain number of lines to be written out in play hours.  Lambert and I were so overpowered with impositions, that we had not six free days during the two years of our school friendship.  But for the books we took out of the library, which maintained some vitality in our brains, this system of discipline would have reduced us to idiotcy.  Want of exercise is fatal to children.  The habit of preserving a dignified appearance, begun in tender infancy, has, it is said, a visible effect on the constitution of royal personages when the faults of such an education are not counteracted by the life of the battle-field or the laborious sport of hunting.  And if the laws of etiquette and Court manners can act on the spinal marrow to such an extent as to affect the pelvis of kings, to soften their cerebral tissue, and so degenerate the race, what deep-seated mischief, physical and moral, must result in schoolboys from the constant lack of air, exercise, and cheerfulness!

Indeed, the rules of punishment carried out in schools deserve the attention of the Office of Public Instruction when any thinkers are to be found there who do not think exclusively of themselves.