Measuring the World by Daniel Kehlmann Read Free Book Online Page B

later he was staring blank-faced at Gauss. He knew he wasn't a good teacher. He had neither the vocation nor any particular abilities. But this much was clear: if Gauss didn't go on to high school, he, Büttner, would have lived in vain. He looked at him up and down, eyes swimming, then, presumably to control his emotions, grabbed the stick and Gauss received the last beating of his life.
    The same afternoon a young man knocked at the door of Gauss's parents’ home. He was seventeen, his name was Martin Bartels, he was studying mathematics, and he was working as Büttner's assistant. Might he have a few words with the son of the house?
    He only had one son, said Gauss's father, and he was eight years old.
    That was the one, said Bartels. Might he have permission to do mathematics with the young gentleman three times a week? He didn't wish to speak of lessons, because the very concept was inappropriate, and here he smiled nervously, when this was an activity from which he might learn more than his pupil.
    The father told him to stand up straight. The whole thing was absolute nonsense! He thought for a time. On the other hand, there was really nothing to say against it.
    They worked together for a year. At the beginning Gauss enjoyed the afternoons, which broke up the monotony of the weeks, although he didn't have much time for mathematics; what he really would have wanted were Latin lessons. Then things got boring. Granted, Bartels didn't think as laboriously as the others, but he still made Gauss impatient.
    Bartels announced that he'd talk to the rector at the high school. If his father would permit, Gauss would be given a free place.
    Gauss sighed.
    It wasn't right, said Bartels reproachfully, that a child should always be sad!
    He thought about this, it was an interesting idea. Why was he sad? Maybe because he could see his mother was dying. Because the world seemed so disappointing as soon as you realized how thinly it was woven, how crudely the illusion was knitted together, how amateurish the stitches were when you turned it over to the back. Because only secrets and forgetfulness could make it bearable. Because without sleep, which snatched you out of reality, it was intolerable. Not being able to look away was sadness. Being awake was sadness. To know, poor Bartels, was to despair. Why, Bartels? Because time was always passing.
    Together, Bartels and Büttner persuaded his father that he shouldn't be going to work in the spinning mill, he should be going to high school. The father gave his unwilling consent, along with the advice that he should always stand up straight, no matter what happened. Gauss had already been watching gardeners at work for years, and understood that it wasn't lack of human moral fiber that upset his father, it was the chronic back pain that attended his profession. He got two new shirts and free room and board with the pastor.
    High school was a disappointment. There really wasn't much to learn: some Latin, rhetoric, Greek, laughably primitive mathematics, and a little theology. His new classmates were not much smarter than the old ones; the teachers resorted to the stick just as often, but at least they didn't hit as hard. At their first midday meal, the pastor asked him how things were going at school.
    Passable, he replied.
    The pastor asked him if he found learning hard.
    He sniffed and shook his head.
    Take care, said the pastor.
    Gauss looked up, startled.
    The pastor looked at him severely. Pride was a deadly sin!
    Gauss nodded.
    He should never forget it, said the pastor. Never in his whole life. No matter how clever one was, one must always remain humble.
    Why?
    The pastor apologized. He must have misunderstood.
    Nothing, said Gauss, really—nothing.
    On the contrary, said the pastor, he wanted to hear it.
    He meant it strictly theologically, said Gauss. God created you the way you were, but then you were supposed to spend your life perpetually apologizing to Him. It wasn't