The French Mathematician

/, Literature, Blesok no. 52/The French Mathematician

The French Mathematician

Three boys appear from the latrines, glance in the direction of the teachers’ quarters, and hurry across the yard. Two of them are m the third year, the other is in the second. This one seems frightened, and he is almost carried along by the others. Another initiation! One of the third-year boys tried to initiate me when I first arrived. He spoke of a secret source of pleasure, a way to overcome sleepless nights, said it was the only way to manhood. I followed him into the stinking latrines. Smiling, swearing the pleasure was beyond words, he unbuttoned his trousers and put his hand inside. I ran out and retched in a corner of the yard. There and then I vowed never to degrade myself through that disgusting practice. Not because the Church condemned it, but because I realized that those who abstained were somehow superior to those who indulged. To abstain meant to overcome instinct with intellect, to live by a higher morality, to raise oneself to the level of the hero. A few days later, the pimply third-year student accosted me in the yard and shouted in my face that I would never grow to be a man. I replied that I would sooner kill myself than follow his example. He gave a green-toothed grin and ran off toward the latrines.
The bell rings chillingly for the next class. Mathematics. I have not studied it before. Mother taught me little more than the basics of arithmetic. I have been in Vernier’s class two weeks, doing a course for beginners. Still smarting from the demotion, I cannot motivate myself to work or even to take an interest in the subject. I spent the first few lessons at the back of the room, brooding, sketching Napoleon’s profile instead of doing the exercises. Damned demotion! I will show them! The teachers conspired against me. They misrepresented me to Father, who read their reports when I went home for Christmas two months ago.
Called to the study on the afternoon of my arrival, I was struck by how he had aged since my last visit home. His dark hair had turned ashen and there was an unusually somber look about him. Was he working too hard? He was the mayor of Bourg-la-Reine, a position he won during the Hundred Days, and which he continued to hold even after Napoleon’s defeat. When the monarchy was restored he took an oath to Louis XVIII without renouncing his strong liberal views and ardent Republican sentiments. Father is neither a hypocrite nor an opportunist: He took that oath in order to keep a monarchist from the position. Apart from his duties as mayor, he also runs the town’s boarding school, which he inherited from Grandfather, who obtained it during the Revolution. The school is a profitable business, and I know Father is grooming me for it.
– You have disappointed me, Son, he said in a flat voice, pinching the flesh under his chin. I refused to have you demoted last August because I believed in your ability. I hoped you would prove me right. Seems I was mistaken.
I did not look up from the inkpot on his desk. Were my poor grades responsible for the change that had come over him?
– But your reports show no progress. Quite the opposite. How do you account for this? “Apart from the last few weeks when he has worked a little, and then only from fear of punishment, this student has generally neglected his studies. The strangeness of his character keeps him from his companions.”
– And this: “Though somewhat strange in his manner, the student is very gentle and filled with innocence and good qualities. He never knows a lesson badly—either he hasn’t learned it at all, or knows it well.”
– What am I to make of this, Son? Is this why I sent you to Paris?
I felt a pang of remorse. Loving Father more than anybody else, I wanted to please him, to obtain good grades, but I could not overcome the hatred I felt for everyone at school.
– Well, there’s no avoiding it this time. I cannot intercede again. You will just have to endure another six months in the second year. You might as well get something out of the demotion. Do something different, maybe a course in mathematics.
Placing his hand on my shoulder, he looked at me tenderly. I wanted to apologize, to promise I would do better, but I fought back an impulse to embrace him and cry in his arms. Noticing the emotion rising to my eyes, he moved to the window overlooking the town square, pulled aside the lace curtain, and gazed at the church at the far end.
– We’re living in uncertain times, he said. There’s no telling what will happen next year. You can’t rely on anything but your own intelligence, Evariste. A good education will serve you well for the rest of your life.
I wanted to see him cheerful again, and if a course of mathematics were needed to dispel that worried look, so be it.

The bell-ringer threatens the stragglers and those reluctant to leave their games. Holding the feather in one palm, I balance it against a thin spread of light in the other.
Should I make an effort? Should I stop playing the fool, at least in mathematics, for Father’s sake?
I am now alone in the yard, with a few springy starlings pecking at my cobbled shadow. As though signing a resolution, I use the feather’s bony point to scratch my name and date on the back of my hand crimson from the cold: Evariste Galois, 14 February 1827.

AuthorTom Petsinis
2018-08-21T17:23:10+00:00 February 20th, 2007|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 52|0 Comments