Sought out, therefore, this same venerable man, whose fame, in
truth, was more the result of long-established custom than of the
potency of his own talent or intellect. If any one came to him
impelled by doubt on any subject, he went away more doubtful still.
He was wonderful, indeed, in the eyes of these who only listened to
him, but those who asked him questions perforce held him as nought.
He had a miraculous flock of words, but they were contemptible in
meaning and quite void of reason. When he kindled a fire, he filled
his house with smoke and illumined it not at all. He was a tree
which seemed noble to those who gazed upon its leaves from afar,
but to those who came nearer and examined it more closely was
revealed its barrenness. When, therefore, I had come to this tree
that I might pluck the fruit thereof, I discovered that it was
indeed the fig tree which Our Lord cursed (Matthew xxi, 19; Mark
xi, 13), or that ancient oak to which Lucan likened Pompey, saying:

"... he stands, the shade of a name once mighty,
Like to the towering oak in the midst of the fruitful field."
(Lucan, "Pharsalia," IV, 135.)

It was not long before I made this discovery, and stretched myself
lazily in the shade of that same tree. I went to his lectures less
and less often, a thing which some among his eminent followers took
sorely to heart, because they interpreted it as a mark of contempt
for so illustrious a teacher. Thenceforth they secretly sought to
influence him against me, and by their vile insinuations made me
hated of him. It chanced, moreover, that one day, after the
exposition of certain texts, we scholars were jesting among
ourselves, and one of them, seeking to draw me out, asked me what I