s to studying desperately. Ah!
if you could hear the music there, if you could see them when they are
playing, with their heads thrown back a smile on their lips, their faces
aflame, trembling with emotion, in ecstasies at listening to that
harmony which replies to them in the obscurity which envelops them, you
would feel what a divine consolation is music! And they shout for joy,
they beam with happiness when a teacher says to them, "You will become
an artist." The one who is first in music, who succeeds the best on the
violin or piano, is like a king to them; they love, they venerate him.
If a quarrel arises between two of them, they go to him; if two friends
fall out, it is he who reconciles them. The smallest pupils, whom he
teaches to play, regard him as a father. Then all go to bid him good
night before retiring to bed. And they talk constantly of music. They
are already in bed, late at night, wearied by study and work, and half
asleep, and still they are discussing, in a low tone, operas, masters,
instruments, and orchestras. It is so great a punishment for them to be
deprived of the reading, or lesson in music, it causes them such sorrow
that one hardly ever has the courage to punish them in that way. That
which the light is to our eyes, music is to their hearts."

Derossi asked whether we could not go to see them.

"Yes," replied the teacher; "but you boys must not go there now. You
shall go there later on, when you are in a condition to appreciate the
whole extent of this misfortune, and to feel all the compassion which it
merits. It is a sad sight, my boys. You will sometimes see there boys
seated in front of an open window, enjoying the fresh air, with
immovable countenances, which seem to be gazing at the wide green
expanse and the beautiful blue mountains which you can see; and when you
remember that they see nothing--that they will never see anything--of
that vast loveliness, your soul is oppressed, as though you had
yourselves become blind at that moment. And then there are those who
were born blind, who, as they have never seen the world, do not complain
because they do not possess the image of anything, and who, therefore,
arouse less compassion. But there are lads who have been blind but a few
months, who still recall everything, who thoroughly understand all that
they have lost; and these have, in addition, the grief of feeling their
minds obscured, the dearest images grow a little more dim in their