CHAPTER XXI.
The time now arrived for me to begin regular lessons and to write exercises in copy-books, which I invariably smeared with ink--ah! what gloom and dreariness suddenly came into my life.
I remember that I performed my tasks spiritlessly and sulkily, and that my lessons bored me inexpressibly.

And since I wish to be very sincere, it is necessary for me to add that my teachers also were well-nigh intolerable to me.
Alas! well do I remember the one who first taught me Latin (rosa, the rose; cornu, the horn; tonitru, the thunder).

This tutor was very old and bent, and as sad of face as a rainy November day.

He is dead now, the poor old fellow--sweet peace to his soul! He was exactly like that "Mr.Ratin" hit off in caricature so neatly by Topffer; he had all the marks, even to the wart with the three hairs, and fine wrinkles beyond number at the end of his old nose; to me his face was the personification of all that was hideous and disgusting.
He arrived every day precisely at noon; and a chill would pass through me when I heard his knock which I would have recognized among a thousand.
Always after his departure, I attempted to purify that part of my table where his elbow had rested by rubbing it hard with the napkin which 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.