Day succeeded day, filled with fragments. Mr. Sharpe hardly spoke to me. I appeared at the appointed hour in the school room. He parlayed not, but simply handed me sheets of quotations, bowed briefly, and walked out. He pursued more stimulating projects, whilst I, alone in the chamber, labored through his Classical obscurities.

The languages swift became intractable. Whereas before, I had anticipated my lessons as the hour most gratifying in the day, now, in measure equal to my former pleasure, I dreaded their advent.

Whippings were the desert of failure.

These were not as harsh as the first I had received from Lord Cheldthorpe; they were transacted with a birch wand, rather than a whip, and were but a stroke or two; but they were more regular.

I still may bring to memory the smell of the varnish, my face smothered against the desk, my hands stretched before me in a gesture of offering and obeisance.

Mr. Sharpe did not seem sensible that these hands he cut with the ferule were the same which, an hour later, bleeding, bandaged, arranged his frock-coats according to his order. To mark the silk of his coats with blood would have merited the most grievous punishments, so Bono and I wrapped my hands tightly in cloth; but with my hands thus bandaged, I could not help but fumble. I received further reprimands for my labored and deliberate service, or, as he called it, my sloth. For this, he whipped my hands again.

I did not complain of my treatment; indeed, complaint may often make intolerable some circumstances which otherwise were swallowed, digested, and let pass. On some heads, this demotion from scholar to servant simplified my lot, for as I passed from childhood to youth, it would have been increasing awkward for me to act as a lordling in that house, merely reading and playing the violin while the others toiled around me; luxury would have pained me. I now saw their stares when I was favored, due to my experimental status; and so it was preferable to work alongside them; after a time, my lessons with Mr. Sharpe seeming to all — myself included — not so much like a privilege as a more peculiar and arcane chore, as we viewed the grooming of the silkworms or the supper of the asp.

It was curious to aid in my small ways with the preparation of the meal, turning the spit or shaving the sweet-potatoes, and then to run and dress for dining, when my presence was required at table; to sit amidst the chatter of those who never saw the yams skinned or the luncheon-fowl with its head on; Bono over my shoulder silently serving me morsels I had just cut into a bucket an hour before.