I had taken clandestinely from the linen-closet. And the repulsion
extended itself to the very books, already unattractive enough to me,
which he touched; I even tore certain leaves out of them because I
suspected that he had handled them a great deal.

My books were always full of ink blots, always stained and covered with
smeared sketches and pictures, which one draws idly when his attention
wanders from his task. I who was usually so careful and proper a child
had such a detestation for the books which I was obliged to learn
from, that I abused them in the commonest fashion; altogether I was a
miserable pupil. I found--and this is the astonishing part--that all
my scruples of conscience deserted me when my teacher questioned me in
regard to the time I had spent upon my lessons (I usually studied them
in a mad hurry at the last moment); my aversion for study was the first
thing that caused me to temporize with my conscience.

In spite, however, of a pricking conscience, I still continued to
give only a passing glance at my lessons at the very last moment. But
generally "Mr. Ratin" would write "good" or "very good" upon the paper
which it was my duty each evening to show to my father.

I believe that if he, or the other professors who succeeded him, could
have suspected the truth, could have guessed that out of their presence
my mind did not dwell for more than five minutes a day upon what they
had taught me, their honest heads would have split with indignation.




CHAPTER XXII.