The time now arrived for me to begin regular lessons and to write exercises in copy-books, which I invariably smeared¹ with ink—ah! what gloom and dreariness² 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.
 
Alas³! 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 bent⁴, 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 neatly⁵ by Topffer; he had all the marks, even to the wart⁶ 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 hideous⁷ and disgusting.
 
He arrived every day precisely⁸ 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 clandestinely⁹ from the linen-closet. And the ............