Over the course of the next several days, Mr. Sharpe met with each of the academicians to determine which philosophical projects should be pursued, and which put aside. In the end, they were each stinted various courses of inquiry that should in some measure produce more visible results than their previous studies: They now spent their days melting and rendering the subcutaneous fats of animals, or determining which birds ate which pests, or tracing the genealogy of the more amorous peaches.

The arts were not much marked in the new regime. Mr. Sharpe and the new investors made us sensible of how unprofitable were the products of crayon, quill, and fiddle. Our attention was directed at those pursuits which would yield clear benefit to ordinary men.

And is this, after all, not just? On this head, are not the afternoons spent playing Corelli with my mother — afternoons defunct, now that her harpsichord was sold — do these not seem like the arts of idleness? A galling, sweet example of privilege exercised?

I should say that chief among the peculiarities of the new regime was the use of surnames in address. So unaccustomed were we to appellations other than the numerical that we hesitated each time we spoke a name; we fumbled for words. So doth even the most absurd of habits, after a time, inscribe itself as law, and come to resonate as ineluctable truth.

Mr. Sharpe betrayed an early dislike for my mother, whose arts and airs excited in him nought but irritation. He spoke to her flatly, turned to the side; then swiveling to survey her heighth rapidly, he delivered his determinations respecting her inquiries, and was done with her. He engaged in no flirtation. He said he would not, at present, allow for expenditure on any dresses of fine stuffs, but rather recommended she brood on worsted and prunella twill. He would not brook special dishes being prepared for her at supper-time. He could not abide her luxuries; and when she wore the blood-speckled dress to shame him, he revealed no interest or consternation.

For some few weeks, I continued my studies as before, Dr. Trefusis guiding me without remark through stories of slaves who had achieved greatness. He prompted nothing; he betrayed by no comment that I should consider the courses described in these narratives. He simply supplied the texts, aided with the translations, and rapped my hand when I failed at declension or agreement.

This came to an end at the turn of the fourth week from the day I first laid eyes upon Mr. Sharpe. That individual requested to visit my tutorial with Dr. Trefusis. To this, we could do nothing but render assent.

He did not arrive punctually at the opening of the lesson. Dr. Trefusis and I sate awkwardly in silence, the pretense of tuition abandoned; knowing that the coming lesson would be but a simulation of learning; and being unwilling to begin this pretense without an audience.

After a time, Dr. Trefusis shrugged, went to the desk, and drew forth the text, and, he having set it before me, we began to read of the plebian revolution in Rome.

At this point, there was a rap on the door, and Mr. Sharpe side-stepped into the chamber and bowed. “Pray continue,” he said. “Mind me not.”

Continue we did. Dr. Trefusis had chosen Latin for the day, the better to show my excellence in the subject. The text was not a difficult one, and I encountered no obstacles in my translation. This gave me confidence, and when I saw Dr. Trefusis smile upon Mr. Sharpe after I had performed a particularly felicitous rendering, I was so bold as to smile upon the man too, as if to say: We all pursue excellence together.

“Yes, fine,” said Mr. Sharpe.

“The boy is extraordinarily gifted,” said Dr. Trefusis. “His grasp of sciences would be enough to recommend him as an excellent student; but his achievements in Classical literature and music suggest genius. He speaks Latin like a native of Augustus’s Rome, he speaks French and Greek passably, and we are endeavoring to form him as an English prose stylist as well.”

“I suppose I shall be the judge of all that,” said Mr. Sharpe.

“Yes,” said Dr. Trefusis.

“You misunderstand,” said Mr. Sharpe. “I appreciate your efforts in training the child, but I feel that this experiment has been severely mismanaged.” He pressed his hands, as if in prayer, against his nose. He said sadly, “I have read many of the boy’s translation exercises. The course you have pursued is all wrong. You have engaged in entertainment rather than instruction. More to the point, you have prejudiced the results.”

“Sir,” said Dr. Trefusis, “I see no such thing.”

“Precisely why I am afraid that you must retire from this experiment.” He gestured carelessly towards me. “The subject’s people are a story-telling people. Their converse is formed largely of tales of fallen heroes and the most absurd myths respecting talking jungle animals. Such propensities are hardly evidence of a rational society. And yet, you have been cultivating the same propensities in your lessons with the boy. You have nourished him on narrative. Narrative, sir, is precisely what we wish to wean him from.

“We wish to determine whether the subject is capable of growth in his rational faculties. That alone. This would constitute growth away from his hereditary savage nature. Do you see? What you have been doing is feeding him precisely the kind of story that he would have been receiving in his native land. It is to this that he has responded, not the abstract logic of the language. He evinces considerable enthusiasm at these stories — seems to be involved in them. You are, look ye, granting him an unfair advantage. You are training him, as a vine, upon a considerable armature, when we wish to see precisely whether he can flourish on his own.

“I, on the other hand, will teach him logic and grammar without narrative. We wish to judge his abstract thinking, not his commitment to tale-telling, which is, in any case, merely a relapse into the pagan stupor of his forebears.”

He turned, at last, to me. “From this point out, you shall translate only fragments. You shall be debarred from literature and history. The history of a race fallen fifteen hundred years ago is, in any case, of little moment to us now. There is no utility in it.”

Dr. Trefusis was aghast. “You will ruin the boy,” he said.

“You have done that already,” said Mr. Sharpe. And, turning to me: “Now. Let us begin.”