THE MADNESS OF W.E. GRIM
Grim and Wilson had come back to St. Amory's firmly convinced that
Biffen's was the most glorious house that had ever existed, and that it
would do--thanks to Acton, Worcester, and the dervishes--great things
when the cricket housers came round.
"Grimmy," said Wilson, "you'll have to try to get into the team this
year. You would last, if your batting hadn't been so rotten."
"All right, old man; don't rub that in too often."
"You put in a lot of extra practice at one of those bottom nets, Grimmy,
and you'll find Worcester'll shove you in first choice, almost, this
go."
"Serene. Shall we try to raise a bottle of cherries now," said Grim,
lazily, lounging from net to net. "It's heaps too soon to think of
housers yet."
"You conceited ass, Grimmy! Not for you. Your batting is too awful."
"Don't worry now. Oceans of time, I tell you. We'll try some cherries,
eh?"
The pair strolled lazily off the field, and made several purchases in
the preserved fruit line, and then adjourned to their common room for
refreshment.
But, as time went on, Grim did not fall in with Wilson's arrangements
quite as enthusiastically as that single-hearted Biffenite would have
liked him to. A fortnight passed, and Grim had only put in the
regulation practice at the nets to Wilson's intense disgust, and the
time that should have been devoted to extra cricket was "wasted,"
according to that ardent Biffenite, in doing, of all things, needlessly
elaborate translations for Merishall.
"Whatever is the good of getting the very word the beak wants, Grimmy. I
always translate _Carmen_--a song. Does it matter a cherry-stone that it
sometimes means a charm? What good does it do you, you idiot? It only
means that Merishall is harder on us. Think of your friends, Grimmy, do.
If I didn't know you were a bit cracked, I'd say your performance was
undiluted 'smugging.'"
"Cork that frivol, do," said Grim, who was stretched full length on the
grass and gazing skywards with a rapt expression in his eyes, "and look
over there. How beautiful it is!"
"How beautiful what is?" asked Wilson, astonished.
"The sunset, you ass!"
"I don't see anything special about it," said Wilson. "An ordinary
affair!"
"Ordinary affair! Ugh, you idiot. Look at those lovely colours mingling
one with another, those light fleecy clouds floating in a purple sea,
that beautiful tint in the woods yonder, that--that--"
"Steady, Grim. Take time," said Wilson, squirming away from his chum.
"Wilson, you haven't any soul for beauty. A sunset is the loveliest
sight on earth, you duffer."
"Didn't know a sunset ever was on earth," said Wilson, sarcastically.
"Is that funny?"
"All serene, Grimmy," said Wilson, elaborately agreeing with his friend
as a mother might with a sick child. "Matter of fact, it is rather fine.
Not unlike a Zingari blazer, eh?"
"Zingari blazer!"
"Exactly like. And that pink on the trees would do for the Westminster
shirts."
"Blazers and shirts," cried Grim, in disgust. "Oh! get out."
"Let's get in, Grimmy, instead. You'd better see the doctor. 'Pon
honour, you aren't well."
"I can't help it," said W.E. Grim, resignedly, "if you haven't any soul.
Yes, I'll come. I've got Merishall's work."
There was a coolness that night between the two friends as they sat at
the opposite sides of their common table doing their work for Merishall,
and Wilson was determined to find out what was disturbing their
accustomed peace. He had soon done his modicum of prose and forthwith
broached matters.
"Let's have this business out, Grim. It will do you a lot of harm if you
keep it in."
"The fact is----" began Grim, hesitating.
"Allez! houp-la!" said Wilson, encouragingly.
"I'm going in strong for poetry."
For reply Wilson laughed as though his life depended on the effort, and
Grim turned a rich rosy hue. Wilson finally blurted out--
"Grim, you're an utter idiot."
"What do you think about it?"
"Nothing."
"I thought it would surprise you."
"It has, but nothing you do ever will again. Lord, Grimmy, was it for
this you chucked cricket and your chance of the house eleven?" Wilson
exploded again, uproariously. "I'll tell Rogers and Jack Bourne. You a
poet!"
"Why shouldn't I be, you silly cuckoo?"
"Why, you haven't got the cut of a poet, for one thing, and for another,
I believe, next to your mother, the thing you like best in the world is
a good dinner." Wilson waxed eloquent on Grim's defects from a poet's
standpoint. "Your hair is as stiff as any hair-brush; you can't deny
you're short and a trifle beefy; and was ever a poet made out of your
material and fighting weight?"
"That isn't criticism," said Grim, angrily.
"No," said Wilson, bitterly. "I don't pretend to that. They are a few
surface observations only. Just tell this to Rogers or even Cherry, and
watch 'em curl."
Wilson and Grim went to bed that night pretty cool towards each other,
but in the morning Grim was obstinately bent on being the poet as he
was the next week and the week after that. He wrestled with poetry
morning, noon, and night, and he made himself a horrible nuisance to his
old cronies. Wilson complained bitterly about their study being "simply
fizzing with poetry." Grim sprang a poem or a sonnet, or a tribute or
some other forsaken variety of poetry, on pretty well everything about
the place. He "_did_" the dawn and worked round to the sunset. He had a
little shy at the church and the tombstones, and wrote about the horse
pond's "placid wave." He did four sonnets on the school, looking from
north, south, east and west, and let himself go in fine style about the
school captain's batting. He sent this to Phil, and Phil passed the
disquisition on to me; it was very funny indeed. Not a single thing was
safe from his poetry, and he cut what he could of cricket to write
"tributes."
He had a lively time from his own particular knot of friends and
enemies, and they jollied him to an extent that, perhaps, reached
high-water mark, when Grim found one morning on his table a dozen
thoughtful addresses of lunatic asylums, and specimens of the writing of
mad people, culled from a popular magazine. But Grim recked not, and
persevered. He turned out, as became a budding poet, weird screeds from
Ovid, Virgil, and Horace--Bohn's cribs were simple to his tangled
stuff--and Merishall beamed wreathed smiles upon him, and told him he
was "catching the spirit of the original." After this patent, distinct
leg-up from Merishall, Grim took the bit between his teeth and went
careering up and down the plains of poesy until the lights were cut
off.
Wilson bore with his chum for a month, and then finally delivered his
ultimatum.
"If you're still a poet at midsummer, I'm going to cut, and dig with
Rogers or Cherry. This den isn't big enough for you, me, and the
'original spirits' you wing every night. I'm off to the nets. Coming?
No? Jove! Grimmy, what nightmares you must take to bed with you every
night."
But the kindly Fates had the keeping of the chums' friendship in their
safe keeping, and I haven't observed yet, that Grim and Wilson are less
friendly than they used to be. This consummation is owing to Miss
Varley. This young lady, _ætat_ XIV, or thereabouts, was responsible for
the reclamation of Grim. What the whole posse of his acquaintances with
their blandishments and threats could not effect in the space of a
month, she did within four and twenty hours. I cannot account for this,
except on the supposition that little girls with long yellow hair and
pretty brown eyes, and a perambulating blush, create mighty earthquakes
in the breasts of rowdy fags. Miss Hilda Elsie Varley, being Biffen's
niece, had taken the house under her protection, was more rabidly
Biffenite than even Rogers, adored Acton, reverenced Worcester, and
appreciated Chalmers, but despised fags who weren't "training-on" for
one of her houses' various elevens. Her sentiments on these matters were
mysteriously but accurately known amongst Biffenite juniors.
Grim finally turned his poetical talents upon this young lady. I am not
quite certain why he delayed so long. Perhaps he had waited until his
gift of song had matured so that the offering might be worthy of the
shrine, or perhaps because he had exhausted all other exalted subjects
for his muse, but anyhow, he sent Miss Varley an ode on her birthday.
This day was pretty generally known amongst Biffen's fags.
When he had finished he read it to Wilson, who unbent from his
antagonistic attitude towards poetry when he heard the subject of the
verse.
"After all, Grimmy, it doesn't sound more rotten than Virgil, and it
_is_ rather swagger to say that Biffen's is to Hilda what Samnos was to
Juno. It's a jolly lot more, though."
Grim had cheerfully compared Miss Hilda to the queenly Juno, and said
that if she would give Biffen's her protection, the house would give the
other houses "fits" when the housers came round again; then he put in
something about her hair, unconsciously cribbed from Ovid; and something
about her walk--this I tracked to Horace; and wound up the whole farrago
by saying he was ready to be her door-mat and to shield her from the
furies, _etc_., which, I think, Grim genuinely evolved out of his own
effervescing breast. The ode was properly posted by the poet himself,
and even Wilson felt genuinely interested in the result. As for Grim, he
was so jolly anxious that he could not tackle any more poems, but
divided his time between ices at Hooper's and loafing round the
letter-rack for Hilda's answer.
A day or so later Wilson was busy translating for Merishall--carefully
putting "songs" whenever he spotted "_carmina_"--when he heard Grim
flying upstairs, and when the poet had smashed into the room, he held up
a letter.
"It's come," he gasped.
Wilson laid down his pen and said, "Wait till you're cool, and then read
it out."
This is the letter _in extenso:_--
"Biffen's, Wednesday.
"DEAR GRIM,
"I don't think you'll ever be a poet, at least not a great one. I
believe I could give you the Latin for most of the lines you have
written: they are so dreadfully like the translations of my
school-books, and it isn't very flattering when one has to put up with
second-hand compliments several thousand years old, is it? But I am very
glad that you think my good opinion of any value to Biffen's, for I
should dearly like to see our house top of the school this year, and how
can it be when one, who ought to be in the House Eleven, gives up all
his time to writing 'poetry' instead of playing cricket? I hope you will
not be very vexed with me for writing this, but I know you would prefer
me to be
"Yours very sincerely,
"HILDA E. VARLEY.
"P.S.--If I see you admiring the sunsets or the rose-bushes when you
ought to be at the nets, I know I shall titter ... even if Miss Langton
be with me.
"H.E.V."
Grim struggled through this to the bitter end. Wilson made the very roof
echo with his howls of unqualified delight, but Grim's face was
uncommonly like that sunset he admired so much.
"This is a sickener," he gasped.
"Jove! Grim, you've wanted one long enough," said Wilson, holding his
aching sides.
"Crumbs! One would think she was old enough to be my mother."
"That's a way they have, when they're not feeling quite the thing. No
wonder, poor girl."
"Look here, Wilson, keep this dark. I'm not going to write any more
poetry. I've been thinking that, ever since I sent Hilda the ode. I
don't think it's quite the real article."
"No," said Wilson, consolingly; "only original-spirit catching."
"A lot you know about it, old man," said Grim, hotly.
"Granted, Grimmy; but Hilda twigged the fraud, quick enough."
"Well, I'm going to burn it all, right off."
They did. I believe I am doing Grim no injustice when I say he looks
less a poet, and acts up to his looks, than any junior in St. Amory's.
Two nights after the receipt of this fateful letter Grim was
industriously practising Ranjitsinghi's famous glance at a snug, quiet
net, when Miss Varley, accompanied by Miss Cornelia Langton, her
governess, went past the nets. Miss Langton told Hilda afterwards that
she ought not to speak to hard-working cricketers and distract them in
their game. Hilda, I don't think, minded this little wigging, and Grim
never went without a friendly nod as he turned from cutting Wilson into
the nets, if Miss Hilda Elsie Varley went by.