“Moreover, I remained taciturn, reserved, shrinking and friendless. The ferment of exaltation was working within me obscurely but surely—children’s nerves are easily excited; care should be taken that they live in really peaceful surroundings until their characters are nearly formed. But who ever considers that an unjust imposition may be as great a grief to some schoolboys as the death of a friend will be later on? How many realise that some youngsters suffer terribly for a mere trifle, and become sick, miserable souls in a very short time? Such was the case with me; this faculty for grieving developed to such a degree that my whole life became a martyrdom. I told no one about it. I said nothing, but gradually I became so acutely sensitive that my whole being was like a running sore. Everything that touched upon it produced twinges of pain, horrible reactions, and consequently caused permanent injury. Happy the man whom nature has girt with indifference and armed with stoicism!
“I reached my sixteenth year; owing to this aptitude for unlimited suffering, I was extremely timid. Feeling open to every attack of chance or fate, I shrank from all contact with others, every friendly advance, and from participation in any event. I was on the alert, as if constantly menaced by some unknown but anticipated misfortune. I dared neither to speak nor to act in public. I felt that life was a battle, a terrific struggle in which one receives tremendous blows, painful, deadly wounds. Unlike human beings who indulge in hopes for a happy future, I felt nothing but vague dread and wanted to hide myself away to avoid the conflict in which I would surely be overcome and killed.
“As soon as I had finished school, I was given six months’ holiday in which to choose a career. A very simple event made me suddenly see myself quite clearly, showed me how ill I was mentally, made me realise the danger I was in, and decide to escape from it.
“Verdiers is a small town surrounded by plains and woods. Our house was in the principal street, and I spent my days far from the home I had so much regretted, so longed for, when at school. All kinds of dreams stirred within me, and I tramped the fields alone to allow them to escape, to find their wings.
“My father and mother, entirely preoccupied with the business and my future, only talked to me about sales and my plans for the future. They loved me in their positive and practical way; they loved me much more with their head than with their heart. I lived shut up within my thoughts, trembling at my eternal apprehensiveness. Then one evening, after a long walk, as I was returning in a great hurry so as not to be late, I caught sight of a dog running towards me. It was a kind of red spaniel, very thin, with long, wavy ears. When it was about ten yards away it stopped, so did I. Then it started to wag its tail and creep slowly towards me with a frightened wriggling of its body, bending its legs as if in supplication, gently moving its head from side to side. I called it. Then it pretended to crawl along so humbly, so sadly, so entreatingly, that I felt my eyes fill with tears. I went nearer, it ran away, then came back, and I put one knee on the ground, speaking to it very gently so as to attract it. At last it came within arm’s length and I patted it very gently, taking care not to frighten it away.
“Getting bolder, it gradually raised itself, put its paws on my shoulders and began to lick my face, and followed me home.
“It was the first live thing that I loved with passion, because it loved me in return. My affection for the animal was certainly exaggerated and ridiculous, I felt vaguely that we were brothers who had strayed into the world, both of us lonely and defenceless. It never left me, slept at the foot of my bed, ate at table in spite of my parents’ disapproval, and accompanied me on my solitary walks.
“I would often stop by the hedge-side and sit down on the grass; Sam would come running up to me, lie down by my side or on my knee, and raise my hand with his muzzle to make me pat him.
“One day towards the end of June I saw the Ravereau coach coming along the road from Saint-Pierre-de-Chavrol. The yellow box with its black leather top over the outside seats was being hurried along by the four galloping horses; the driver was cracking his whip, and a cloud of dust rose from the wheels of the heavy carriage, floating behind it like a cloud.
“As the coach was passing me, Sam suddenly dashed in front of it; frightened, perhaps, by the noise, he was trying to join me. He was knocked down by one of the horses and I saw him roll over, then get up and fall down flat; the coach gave two big jerks, I caught sight of something stirring in the dust where it had passed. He was nearly cut in two: his torn entrails were hanging out of his body in a torrent of blood. He tried to get up, to walk, but could only move his two front legs, which were scratching the ground as if trying to make a hole, the hind legs were already dead. Mad with pain, the dog was howling terribly.
“In a few minutes he was dead. I cannot express what I felt
