and because I had no words in which to express the truth if I knew
it, which is doubtful. For some reason I could not tell them at home
why I got on so badly at school, or no doubt they would have taken me
away and sent me to a country school, as they did afterwards. Nearly
all the real sorrows of childhood are due to this dumbness of the
emotions; we teach children to convey facts by means of words, but we
do not teach them how to make their feelings intelligible.
Unfortunately, perhaps, I was very happy at night with my story-books
and my dreams, so that the real misery of my days escaped the
attention of the grown-up people. Of course I never even thought of
doing my homework, and the labour of inventing new lies every day to
account for my negligence became so wearisome that once or twice I
told the truth and simply said I had not done it; but the masters
held that this frankness aggravated the offence, and I had to take up
anew my tiresome tale of improbable calamities. Sometimes my stories
were so wild that the whole class would laugh, and I would have to
laugh myself; yet on the strength of this elaborate politeness to
authority I came to believe myself that I was untruthful by nature.

The boys disliked me because I was not sociable, but after a time
they grew tired of bullying me and left me alone. I detested them
because they were all so much alike that their numbers filled me with
horror. I remember that the first day I went to school I walked round
and round the quadrangle in the luncheon-hour, and every boy who
passed stopped me and asked me my name and what my father was. When I
said he was an engineer every one of the boys replied, "Oh! the man
who drives the engine." The reiteration of this childish joke made me
hate them from the first, and afterwards I discovered that they were
equally unimaginative in everything they did. Sometimes I would stand
in the midst of them, and wonder what was the matter with me that I