Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - II. Quartier Latin
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rubbing my aching eyes, I plunged into my book
again with frantic fury, like a race-horse spurred
on towards his goal with bleeding flanks. Yes,
it became a race, a race for prizes and trophies.
My comrades began to bet on me as an easy
winner, and even the Master with the head of a
Caesar and the eye of an eagle mistook me for a
rising man—the only error of diagnosis I ever
knew Professor Charcot commit during years of
watchful observation of his unerring judgment
in the wards of his Salpêtrière or in his
consulting-room at Boulevard St. Germain, thronged with
patients from all the world. It cost me dearly
this mistake of his. It cost me my sleep, and it
nearly cost me the sight of my eyes. This
question is not settled yet for the matter of that.
Such was my faith in the infallibility of Charcot
who knew more than any living man about the
human brain that for a short time I believed he
was right. Spurred by ambition to fulfil his
prophecy, insensible to fatigue, to sleep, even to
hunger, I strained every fibre of mind and body
to breaking-point in an effort to win at all costs.
No more walks under the lime-trees of the
Luxembourg Gardens, no more strolls in the Louvre.
From morning till night my lungs filled with the
foul air of the hospital wards and the
amphitheatres, from night till morning with the smoke
of endless cigarettes in my stuffy room at the
Hôtel de l’Avenir. Exam after exam in rapid
succession, far too rapid, alas, to be of any value,
success after success. Work, work, work! I
was to take my degree in the spring. Luck in
everything my hand touched, never failing,
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