Louis Lambert

We incurred the infliction of an imposition in a thousand ways.  Our memory was so good that we never learned a lesson.  It was enough for either of us to hear our class-fellows repeat the task in French, Latin, or grammar, and we could say it when our turn came; but if the master, unfortunately, took it into his head to reverse the usual order and call upon us first, we very often did not even know what the lesson was; then the imposition fell in spite of our most ingenious excuses.  Then we always put off writing our exercises till the last moment; if there were a book to be finished, or if we were lost in thought, the task was forgotten—­again an imposition.  How often have we scribbled an exercise during the time when the head-boy, whose business it was to collect them when we came into school, was gathering them from the others!

In addition to the moral misery which Lambert went through in trying to acclimatize himself to college life, there was a scarcely less cruel apprenticeship through which every boy had to pass:  to those bodily sufferings which seemed infinitely varied.  The tenderness of a child’s skin needs extreme care, especially in winter, when a school-boy is constantly exchanging the frozen air of the muddy playing-yard for the stuffy atmosphere of the classroom.  The “little boys” and the smallest of all, for lack of a mother’s care, were martyrs to chilblains and chaps so severe that they had to be regularly dressed during the breakfast hour; but this could only be very indifferently done to so many damaged hands, toes, and heels.  A good many of the boys indeed were obliged to prefer the evil to the remedy; the choice constantly lay between their lessons waiting to be finished or the joys of a slide, and waiting for a bandage carelessly put on, and still more carelessly cast off again.  Also it was the fashion in the school to gibe at the poor, feeble creatures who went to be doctored; the bullies vied with each other in snatching off the rags which the infirmary nurse had tied on.  Hence, in winter, many of us, with half-dead feet and fingers, sick with pain, were incapable of work, and punished for not working.  The Fathers, too often deluded by shammed ailments, would not believe in real suffering.

The price paid for our schooling and board also covered the cost of clothing.  The committee contracted for the shoes and clothes supplied to the boys; hence the weekly inspection of which I have spoken.  This plan, though admirable for the manager, is always disastrous to the managed.  Woe to the boy who indulged in the bad habit of treading his shoes down at heel, of cracking the shoe-leather, or wearing out the soles too fast, whether from a defect in his gait, or by fidgeting during lessons in obedience to the instinctive need of movement common to all children.  That boy did not get through the winter without great suffering.  In the first place, his chilblains would ache and shot as badly as a fit of the gout; then the rivets and pack-thread intended to repair the shoes would give way, or the broken heels would prevent the wretched shoes from keeping on his feet; he was obliged to drag them wearily along the frozen roads, or sometimes to dispute their possession with the clay soil of the district; the water and snow got in through some unnoticed crack or ill-sewn patch, and the foot would swell.

Out of sixty boys, not ten perhaps could walk without some special form of torture; and yet they all kept up with the body of the troop, dragged on by the general movement, as men are driven through life by life itself.  Many a time some proud-tempered boy would shed tears of rage while summoning his remaining energy to run ahead and get home again in spite of pain, so sensitively afraid of laughter or of pity —­two forms of scorn—­is the still tender soul at that age.

At school, as in social life, the strong despise the feeble without knowing in what true strength consists.

Nor was this all.  No gloves.  If by good hap a boy’s parents, the infirmary nurse, or the headmaster gave gloves to a particularly delicate lad, the wags or the big boys of the class would put them on the stove, amused to see them dry and shrivel; or if the gloves escaped the marauders, after getting wet they shrunk as they dried for want of care.  No, gloves were impossible.  Gloves were a privilege, and boys insist on equality.

Louis Lambert fell a victim to all these varieties of torment.  Like many contemplative men, who, when lost in thought, acquire a habit of mechanical motion, he had a mania for fidgeting with his shoes, and destroyed them very quickly.  His girlish complexion, the skin of his ears and lips, cracked with the least cold.  His soft, white hands grew red and swollen.  He had perpetual colds.  Thus he was a constant sufferer till he became inured to school-life.  Taught at last by cruel experience, he was obliged to “look after his things,” to use the school phrase.  He was forced to take care of his locker, his desk, his clothes, his shoes; to protect his ink, his books, his copy-paper, and his pens from pilferers; in short, to give his mind to the thousand details of our trivial life, to which more selfish and commonplace minds devoted such strict attention—­thus infallibly securing prizes for “proficiency” and “good conduct”—­while they were overlooked by a boy of the highest promise, who, under the hand of an almost divine imagination, gave himself up with rapture to the flow of his ideas.

This was not all.  There is a perpetual struggle going on between the masters and the boys, a struggle without truce, to be compared with 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 away—­away 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, proceeds from a swift vision of things.”

He was a spiritualist (as opposed to materialism); but I would venture to contradict him, using his own arguments to consider the intellect as a purely physical phenomenon.  We both were right.  Perhaps the words materialism and spiritualism express the two faces of the same fact.  His considerations on the substance of the mind led to his accepting, with a certain pride, the life of privation to which we were condemned in consequence of our idleness and our indifference to learning.  He had a certain consciousness of his own powers which bore him up through his spiritual cogitations.  How delightful it was to me to feel his soul acting on my own!  Many a time have we remained sitting on our form, both buried in one book, having quite forgotten each other’s existence, and yet not apart; each conscious of the other’s presence, and bathing in an ocean of thought, like two fish swimming in the same waters.

Our life, apparently, was merely vegetating; but we lived through our heart and brain.

Lambert’s influence over my imagination left traces that still abide.  I used to listen hungrily to his tales, full of the marvels which make men, as well as children, rapturously devour stories in which truth assumes the most grotesque forms.  His passion for mystery, and the credulity natural to the young, often led us to discuss Heaven and Hell.  Then Louis, by expounding Swedenborg, would try to make me share in his beliefs concerning angels.  In his least logical arguments there were still amazing observations as to the powers of man, which gave his words that color of truth without which nothing can be done in any art.  The romantic end he foresaw as the destiny of man was calculated to flatter the yearning which tempts blameless imaginations to give themselves up to beliefs.  Is it not during the youth of a nation that its dogmas and idols are conceived?  And are not the supernatural beings before whom the people tremble the personification of their feelings and their magnified desires?

All that I can now remember of the poetical conversations we held together concerning the Swedish prophet, whose works I have since had the curiosity to read, may be told in a few paragraphs.

In each of us there are two distinct beings.  According to Swedenborg, the angel is an individual in whom the inner being conquers the external being.  If a man desires to earn his call to be an angel, as soon as his mind reveals to him his twofold existence, he must strive to foster the delicate angelic essence that exists within him.  If, for lack of a lucid appreciation of his destiny, he allows bodily action to predominate, instead of confirming his intellectual being, all his powers will be absorbed in the use of his external senses, and the angel will slowly perish by the materialization of both natures.  In the contrary case, if he nourishes his inner being with the aliment needful to it, the soul triumphs over matter and strives to get free.

When they separate by the act of what we call death, the angel, strong enough then to cast off its wrappings, survives and begins its real life.  The infinite variety which differentiates individual men can only be explained by this twofold existence, which, again, is proved and made intelligible by that variety.

In point of fact, the wide distance between a man whose torpid intelligence condemns him to evident stupidity, and one who, by the exercise of his inner life, has acquired the gift of some power, allows us to suppose that there is as great a difference between men of genius and other beings as there is between the blind and those who see.  This hypothesis, since it extends creation beyond all limits, gives us, as it were, the clue to heaven.  The beings who, here on earth, are apparently mingled without distinction, are there distributed, according to their inner perfection, in distinct spheres whose speech and manners have nothing in common.  In the invisible world, as in the real world, if some native of the lower spheres comes, all unworthy, into a higher sphere, not only can he never understand the customs and language there, but his mere presence paralyzes the voice and hearts of those who dwell therein.

Dante, in his Divine Comedy, had perhaps some slight intuition of those spheres which begin in the world of torment, and rise, circle on circle, to the highest heaven.  Thus Swedenborg’s doctrine is the product of a lucid spirit noting down the innumerable signs by which the angels manifest their presence among men.

This doctrine, which I have endeavored to sum up in a more or less consistent form, was set before me by Lambert with all the fascination of mysticism, swathed in the wrappings of the phraseology affected by mystical writers:  an obscure language full of abstractions, and taking such effect on the brain, that there are books by Jacob Boehm, Swedenborg, and Madame Guyon, so strangely powerful that they give rise to phantasies as various as the dreams of the opium-eater.  Lambert told me of mystical facts so extraordinary, he so acted on my imagination, that he made my brain reel.  Still, I loved to plunge into that realm of mystery, invisible to the senses, in which every one likes to dwell, whether he pictures it to himself under the indefinite ideal of the Future, or clothes it in the more solid guise of romance.  These violent revulsions of the mind on itself gave me, without my knowing it, a comprehension of its power, and accustomed me to the workings of the mind.

Lambert himself explained everything by his theory of the angels.  To him pure love—­love as we dream of it in youth—­was the coalescence of two angelic natures.  Nothing could exceed the fervency with which he longed to meet a woman angel.  And who better than he could inspire or feel love?  If anything could give an impression of an exquisite nature, was it not the amiability and kindliness that marked his feelings, his words, his actions, his slightest gestures, the conjugal regard that united us as boys, and that we expressed when we called ourselves chums?

There was no distinction for us between my ideas and his.  We imitated each other’s handwriting, so that one might write the tasks of both.  Thus, if one of us had a book to finish and to return to the mathematical master, he could read on without interruption while the other scribbled off his exercise and imposition.  We did our tasks as though paying a task on our peace of mind.  If my memory does not play me false, they were sometimes of remarkable merit when Lambert did them.  But on the foregone conclusion that we were both of us idiots, the master always went through them under a rooted prejudice, and even kept them to read to be laughed at by our schoolfellows.

I remember one afternoon, at the end of the lesson, which lasted from two till four, the master took possession of a page of translation by Lambert.  The passage began with Caius Gracchus, vir nobilis; Lambert had construed this by “Caius Gracchus had a noble heart.”

“Where do you find ‘heart’ in nobilis?” said the Father sharply.

And there was a roar of laughter, while Lambert looked at the master in some bewilderment.

“What would Madame la Baronne de Stael say if she could know that you make such nonsense of a word that means noble family, of patrician rank?”

“She would say that you were an ass!” said I in a muttered tone.

“Master Poet, you will stay in for a week,” replied the master, who unfortunately overheard me.

Lambert simply repeated, looking at me with inexpressible affection, “Vir nobilis!”

Madame de Stael was, in fact, partly the cause of Lambert’s troubles.  On every pretext masters and pupils threw the name in his teeth, either in irony or in reproof.

Louis lost no time in getting himself “kept in” to share my imprisonment.  Freer thus than in any other circumstances, we could talk the whole day long in the silence of the dormitories, where each boy had a cubicle six feet square, the partitions consisting at the top of open bars.  The doors, fitted with gratings, were locked at night and opened in the morning under the eye of the Father whose duty it was to superintend our rising and going to bed.  The creak of these gates, which the college servants unlocked with remarkable expedition, was a sound peculiar to that college.  These little cells were our prison, and boys were sometimes shut up there for a month at a time.  The boys in these coops were under the stern eye of the prefect, a sort of censor who stole up at certain hours, or at unexpected moments, with a silent step, to hear if we were talking instead of writing our impositions.  But a few walnut shells dropped on the stairs, or the sharpness of our hearing, almost always enabled us to beware of his coming, so we could give ourselves up without anxiety to our favorite studies.  However, as books were prohibited, our prison hours were chiefly filled up with metaphysical discussions, or with relating singular facts connected with the phenomena of mind.

One of the most extraordinary of these incidents beyond question is this, which I will here record, not only because it concerns Lambert, but because it perhaps was the turning-point of his scientific career.  By the law of custom in all schools, Thursday and Sunday were holidays; but the services, which we were made to attend very regularly, so completely filled up Sunday, that we considered Thursday our only real day of freedom.  After once attending Mass, we had a long day before us to spend in walks in the country round the town of Vendome.  The manor of Rochambeau was the most interesting object of our excursions, perhaps by reason of its distance; the smaller boys were very seldom taken on so fatiguing an expedition.  However, once or twice a year the class-masters would hold out Rochambeau as a reward for diligence.

In 1812, towards the end of the spring, we were to go there for the first time.  Our anxiety to see this famous chateau of Rochambeau, where the owner sometimes treated the boys to milk, made us all very good, and nothing hindered the outing.  Neither Lambert nor I had ever seen the pretty valley of the Loire where the house stood.  So his imagination and mine were much excited by the prospect of this excursion, which filled the school with traditional glee.  We talked of it all the evening, planning to spend in fruit or milk such money as we had saved, against all the habits of school-life.

After dinner next day, we set out at half-past twelve, each provided with a square hunch of bread, given to us for our afternoon snack.  And off we went, as gay as swallows, marching in a body on the famous chateau with an eagerness which would at first allow of no fatigue.  When we reached the hill, whence we looked down on the house standing half-way down the slope, on the devious valley through which the river winds and sparkles between meadows in graceful curves—­a beautiful landscape, one of those scenes to which the keen emotions of early youth or of love lend such a charm, that it is wise never to see them again in later years—­Louis Lambert said to me, “Why, I saw this last night in a dream.”

He recognized the clump of trees under which we were standing, the grouping of the woods, the color of the water, the turrets of the chateau, the details, the distance, in fact every part of the prospect which we looked on for the first time.  We were mere children; I, at any rate, who was but thirteen; Louis, at fifteen, might have the precocity of genius, but at that time we were incapable of falsehood in the most trivial matters of our life as friends.  Indeed, if Lambert’s powerful mind had any presentiment of the importance of such facts, he was far from appreciating their whole bearing; and he was quite astonished by this incident.  I asked him if he had not perhaps been brought to Rochambeau in his infancy, and my question struck him; but after thinking it over, he answered in the negative.  This incident, analogous to what may be known of the phenomena of sleep in several persons, will illustrate the beginnings of Lambert’s line of talent; he took it, in fact, as the basis of a whole system, using a fragment—­as Cuvier did in another branch of inquiry—­as a clue to the reconstruction of a complete system.

At this moment we were sitting together on an old oak-stump, and after a few minutes’ reflection, Louis said to me: 

“If the landscape did not come to me—­which it is absurd to imagine—­I must have come here.  If I was here while I was asleep in my cubicle, does not that constitute a complete severance of my body and my inner being?  Does it not prove some inscrutable locomotive faculty in the spirit with effects resembling those of locomotion in the body?  Well, then, if my spirit and my body can be severed during sleep, why should I not insist on their separating in the same way while I am awake?  I see no half-way mean between the two propositions.

“But if we go further into details:  either the facts are due to the action of a faculty which brings out a second being to whom my body is merely a husk, since I was in my cell, and yet I saw the landscape —­and this upsets many systems; or the facts took place either in some nerve centre, of which the name is yet to be discovered, where our feelings dwell and move; or else in the cerebral centre, where ideas are formed.  This last hypothesis gives rise to some strange questions.  I walked, I saw, I heard.  Motion is inconceivable but in space, sound acts only at certain angles or on surfaces, color is caused only by light.  If, in the dark, with my eyes shut, I saw, in myself, colored objects; if I heard sounds in the most perfect silence and without the conditions requisite for the production of sound; if without stirring I traversed wide tracts of space, there must be inner faculties independent of the external laws of physics.  Material nature must be penetrable by the spirit.

“How is it that men have hitherto given so little thought to the phenomena of sleep, which seem to prove that man has a double life?  May there not be a new science lying beneath them?” he added, striking his brow with his hand.  “If not the elements of a science, at any rate the revelation of stupendous powers in man; at least they prove a frequent severance of our two natures, the fact I have been thinking out for a very long time.  At last, then, I have hit on evidence to show the superiority that distinguishes our latent senses from our corporeal senses! Homo duplex!

“And yet,” he went on, after a pause, with a doubtful shrug, “perhaps we have not two natures; perhaps we are merely gifted with personal and perfectible qualities, of which the development within us produces certain unobserved phenomena of activity, penetration, and vision.  In our love of the marvelous, a passion begotten of our pride, we have translated these effects into poetical inventions, because we did not understand them.  It is so convenient to deify the incomprehensible!

“I should, I own, lament over the loss of my illusions.  I so much wished to believe in our twofold nature and in Swedenborg’s angels.  Must this new science destroy them?  Yes; for the study of our unknown properties involves us in a science that appears to be materialistic, for the Spirit uses, divides, and animates the Substance; but it does not destroy it.”

He remained pensive, almost sad.  Perhaps he saw the dreams of his youth as swaddling clothes that he must soon shake off.

“Sight and hearing are, no doubt, the sheaths for a very marvelous instrument,” said he, laughing at his own figure of speech.

Always when he was talking to me of Heaven and Hell, he was wont to treat of Nature as being master; but now, as he pronounced these last words, big with prescience, he seemed to soar more boldly than ever above the landscape, and his forehead seemed ready to burst with the afflatus of genius.  His powers—­mental powers we must call them till some new term is found—­seemed to flash from the organs intended to express them.  His eyes shot out thoughts; his uplifted hand, his silent but tremulous lips were eloquent; his burning glance was radiant; at last his head, as though too heavy, or exhausted by too eager a flight, fell on his breast.  This boy—­this giant—­bent his head, took my hand and clasped it in his own, which was damp, so fevered was he for the search for truth; then, after a pause, he said: 

“I shall be famous!—­And you, too,” he added after a pause.  “We will both study the Chemistry of the Will.”

Noble soul!  I recognized his superiority, though he took great care never to make me feel it.  He shared with me all the treasures of his mind, and regarded me as instrumental in his discoveries, leaving me the credit of my insignificant contributions.  He was always as gracious as a woman in love; he had all the bashful feeling, the delicacy of soul which make life happy and pleasant to endure.

On the following day he began writing what he called a Treatise on the Will; his subsequent reflections led to many changes in its plan and method; but the incident of that day was certainly the germ of the work, just as the electric shock always felt by Mesmer at the approach of a particular manservant was the starting-point of his discoveries in magnetism, a science till then interred under the mysteries of Isis, of Delphi, of the cave of Trophonius, and rediscovered by that prodigious genius, close on Lavater, and the precursor of Gall.

Lambert’s ideas, suddenly illuminated by this flash of light, assumed vaster proportions; he disentangled certain truths from his many acquisitions and brought them into order; then, like a founder, he cast the model of his work.  At the end of six months’ indefatigable labor, Lambert’s writings excited the curiosity of our companions, and became the object of cruel practical jokes which led to a fatal issue.

One day one of the masters, who was bent on seeing the manuscripts, enlisted the aid of our tyrants, and came to seize, by force, a box that contained the precious papers.  Lambert and I defended it with incredible courage.  The trunk was locked, our aggressors could not open it, but they tried to smash it in the struggle, a stroke of malignity at which we shrieked with rage.  Some of the boys, with a sense of justice, or struck perhaps by our heroic defence, advised the attacking party to leave us in peace, crushing us with insulting contempt.  But suddenly, brought to the spot by the noise of a battle, Father Haugoult roughly intervened, inquiring as to the cause of the fight.  Our enemies had interrupted us in writing our impositions, and the class-master came to protect his slaves.  The foe, in self-defence, betrayed the existence of the manuscript.  The dreadful Haugoult insisted on our giving up the box; if we should resist, he would have it broken open.  Lambert gave him the key; the master took out the papers, glanced through them, and said, as he confiscated them: 

“And it is for such rubbish as this that you neglect your lessons!”

Large tears fell from Lambert’s eyes, wrung from him as much by a sense of his offended moral superiority as by the gratuitous insult and betrayal that he had suffered.  We gave the accusers a glance of stern reproach:  had they not delivered us over to the common enemy?  If the common law of school entitled them to thrash us, did it not require them to keep silence as to our misdeeds?

In a moment they were no doubt ashamed of their baseness.

Father Haugoult probably sold the Treatise on the Will to a local grocer, unconscious of the scientific treasure, of which the germs thus fell into unworthy hands.

Six months later I left the school, and I do not know whether Lambert ever recommenced his labors.  Our parting threw him into a mood of the darkest melancholy.

It was in memory of the disaster that befell Louis’ book that, in the tale which comes first in these Etudes, I adopted the title invented by Lambert for a work of fiction, and gave the name of a woman who was dear to him to a girl characterized by her self-devotion; but this is not all I have borrowed from him:  his character and occupations were of great value to me in writing that book, and the subject arose from some reminiscences of our youthful meditations.  This present volume is intended as a modest monument, a broken column, to commemorate the life of the man who bequeathed to me all he had to leave—­his thoughts.

In that boyish effort Lambert had enshrined the ideas of a man.  Ten years later, when I met some learned men who were devoting serious attention to the phenomena that had struck us and that Lambert had so marvelously analyzed, I understood the value of his work, then already forgotten as childish.  I at once spent several months in recalling the principal theories discovered by my poor schoolmate.  Having collected my reminiscences, I can boldly state that, by 1812, he had proved, divined, and set forth in his Treatise several important facts of which, as he had declared, evidence was certain to come sooner or later.  His philosophical speculations ought undoubtedly to gain him recognition as one of the great thinkers who have appeared at wide intervals among men, to reveal to them the bare skeleton of some science to come, of which the roots spread slowly, but which, in due time, bring forth fair fruit in the intellectual sphere.  Thus a humble artisan, Bernard Palissy, searching the soil to find minerals for glazing pottery, proclaimed, in the sixteenth century, with the infallible intuition of genius, geological facts which it is now the glory of Cuvier and Buffon to have demonstrated.

I can, I believe, give some idea of Lambert’s Treatise by stating the chief propositions on which it was based; but, in spite of myself, I shall strip them of the ideas in which they were clothed, and which were indeed their indispensable accompaniment.  I started on a different path, and only made use of those of his researches which answered the purpose of my scheme.  I know not, therefore, whether as his disciple I can faithfully expound his views, having assimilated them in the first instance so as to color them with my own.

New ideas require new words, or a new and expanded use of old words, extended and defined in their meaning.  Thus Lambert, to set forth the basis of his system, had adopted certain common words that answered to his notions.  The word Will he used to connote the medium in which the mind moves, or to use a less abstract expression, the mass of power by which man can reproduce, outside himself, the actions constituting his external life.  Volition—­a word due to Locke—­expressed the act by which a man exerts his will.  The word Mind, or Thought, which he regarded as the quintessential product of the Will, also represented the medium in which the ideas originate to which thought gives substance.  The Idea, a name common to every creation of the brain, constituted the act by which man uses his mind.  Thus the Will and the Mind were the two generating forces; the Volition and the Idea were the two products.  Volition, he thought, was the Idea evolved from the abstract state to a concrete state, from its generative fluid to a solid expression, so to speak, if such words may be taken to formulate notions so difficult of definition.  According to him, the Mind and Ideas are the motion and the outcome of our inner organization, just as the Will and Volition are of our external activity.

He gave the Will precedence over the Mind.

“You must will before you can think,” he said.  “Many beings live in a condition of Willing without ever attaining to the condition of Thinking.  In the North, life is long; in the South, it is shorter; but in the North we see torpor, in the South a constant excitability of the Will, up to the point where from an excess of cold or of heat the organs are almost nullified.”

The use of the word “medium” was suggested to him by an observation he had made in his childhood, though, to be sure, he had no suspicion then of its importance, but its singularity naturally struck his delicately alert imagination.  His mother, a fragile, nervous woman, all sensitiveness and affection, was one of those beings created to represent womanhood in all the perfection of her attributes, but relegated by a mistaken fate to too low a place in the social scale.  Wholly loving, and consequently wholly suffering, she died young, having thrown all her energies into her motherly love.  Lambert, a child of six, lying, but not always sleeping, in a cot by his mother’s bed, saw the electric sparks from her hair when she combed it.  The man of fifteen made scientific application of this fact which had amused the child, a fact beyond dispute, of which there is ample evidence in many instances, especially of women who by a sad fatality are doomed to let unappreciated feelings evaporate in the air, or some superabundant power run to waste.

In support of his definitions, Lambert propounded a variety of problems to be solved, challenges flung out to science, though he proposed to seek the solution for himself.  He inquired, for instance, whether the element that constitutes electricity does not enter as a base into the specific fluid whence our Ideas and Volitions proceed?  Whether the hair, which loses its color, turns white, falls out, or disappears, in proportion to the decay or crystallization of our thoughts, may not be in fact a capillary system, either absorbent or diffusive, and wholly electrical?  Whether the fluid phenomena of the Will, a matter generated within us, and spontaneously reacting under the impress of conditions as yet unobserved, were at all more extraordinary than those of the invisible and intangible fluid produced by a voltaic pile, and applied to the nervous system of a dead man?  Whether the formation of Ideas and their constant diffusion was less incomprehensible than evaporation of the atoms, imperceptible indeed, but so violent in their effects, that are given off from a grain of musk without any loss of weight.  Whether, granting that the function of the skin is purely protective, absorbent, excretive, and tactile, the circulation of the blood and all its mechanism would not correspond with the transsubstantiation of our Will, as the circulation of the nerve fluid corresponds to that of the Mind?  Finally, whether the more or less rapid affluence of these two real substances may not be the result of a certain perfection or imperfection of organs whose conditions require investigation in every manifestation?

Having set forth these principles, he proposed to class the phenomena of human life in two series of distinct results, demanding, with the ardent insistency of conviction, a special analysis for each.  In fact, having observed in almost every type of created thing two separate motions, he assumed, nay, he asserted, their existence in our human nature, and designated this vital antithesis Action and Reaction.

“A desire,” he said, “is a fact completely accomplished in our will before it is accomplished externally.”

Hence the sum-total of our Volitions and our Ideas constitutes Action, and the sum-total of our external acts he called Reaction.

When I subsequently read the observations made by Bichat on the duality of our external senses, I was really bewildered by my recollections, recognizing the startling coincidences between the views of that celebrated physiologist and those of Louis Lambert.  They both died young, and they had with equal steps arrived at the same strange truths.  Nature has in every case been pleased to give a twofold purpose to the various apparatus that constitute her creatures; and the twofold action of the human organism, which is now ascertained beyond dispute, proves by a mass of evidence in daily life how true were Lambert’s deductions as to Action and Reaction.

The inner Being, the Being of Action—­the word he used to designate an unknown specialization—­the mysterious nexus of fibrils to which we owe the inadequately investigated powers of thought and will—­in short, the nameless entity which sees, acts, foresees the end, and accomplishes everything before expressing itself in any physical phenomenon—­must, in conformity with its nature, be free from the physical conditions by which the external Being of Reaction, the visible man, is fettered in its manifestation.  From this followed a multitude of logical explanation as to those results of our twofold nature which appear the strangest, and a rectification of various systems in which truth and falsehood are mingled.