louis lambert-第6部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


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