enemy, who will suffer if the proposal is carried; another will just
as strenuously oppose it for no other reason than the fact that his
opponent might gain by it if it were carried. The common good seems
to be about the last argument to carry weight. There are men here who
never speak to one another from year's end to year's end, although they
are forced to meet some twenty times a day and even sit next to one
another (we sit in order of seniority) at meals. Hallows is, I fear, a
case in point. He refused to shake hands with me when I came back this
term and I know perfectly well that he will not take my part if I ask
him to "ginger" up any boy in his house who shirks his prepared work.
_March 1, 1910_
A dreadful thing has happened. A boy in my form called Chorlthwaite
has been expelled for stealing. He happens to have been in Hallows'
house. He was certainly a boy without any moral sense at all. Twice I
detected him in the act of "cooking" his marks: the first time I talked
to him privately and gave him an imposition long enough (one would have
thought) to have brought the lesson home to him; on the second occasion
I went to see Hallows about it and he as good as told me that it was my
fault for putting temptation in his way by making it possible for the
boy to do such a thing.
"Trusting to a boy's honour?" he said with an ugly laugh when I tried
to explain, "you might just as well trust a bookie with your purse:
boys haven't got such a thing. The only way to keep them out of harm's
way is never to trust them an inch, that's my way and I've never had a
failure yet."
He is in a towering rage over this expulsion: he has told the Head
Master that the whole blame lies on my shoulders, because I encouraged
the boy to come up to my rooms and ransack my cupboards for chocolates
and cakes. (I always allow all the boys in my form to do this.) They
are not overfed here and several of them are too poor to be able to
afford to go often to the tuck-shop. The wind is apt to give one
a prodigious appetite, and most boys are only too glad to avail
themselves of my offer. I have only just heard that Hallows issued
an edict that no boy in his house was to come to my rooms under any
pretext except with a signed order from him. Chorlthwaite revenged
himself by helping himself lavishly from the cupboards of Benson,
the assistant music master. It is all frightfully depressing. In my
Divinity lessons on Sundays and Mondays I have always tried to put
before my boys a rigid code of moral ethics and I had hoped that I was
meeting with some success.
I trusted them all in everything: I always make a point of letting
them give up their own marks and, except in the case of Chorlthwaite,
I have never detected a boy in the act of cheating; neither have I
come across a single case of cribbing, but there would be little point
in that because a boy only cribs through fear of punishment and I
punish so rarely that I have even been told by the Head Master that I
am unduly lax. Anyway the boy has gone and I am abased and ashamed. I
hope that this sort of thing won't happen often or it will wreck all my
happiness. If my influence isn't good enough to keep my boys straight
it were better for me and for them that I should become a street
scavenger or a coal-heaver.
All the same I am not sure that expulsion meets the case. What is to
happen to Chorlthwaite in the future? Is he to be branded for life?
He had the elements of a Christian in him. I cannot think that his
power for evil was strong enough to make him a bad influence over
his fellows: their united good influence, on the other hand, would,
I should have thought, in time have changed his perverted sense of
morality.
Now I am fearful lest he should become callous and bitter and continue
to the end in the path which he at present treads. Punishment never
yet acted as a sufficient deterrent to any one who really wanted to
commit a crime.
One of the minor things in life which infuriates me about
schoolmastering is this silly rule about smoking. Every boy knows quite
well that practically every grown-up man smokes, and at home he sees
not only his father and elder brothers but also every man in the street
with a pipe, cigar or cigarette in his mouth, and yet he is supposed
to believe that his masters (unnatural beings) never condescend to the
vice. In Common Room we may smoke and in the seclusion of our own rooms
when there is no chance of any boy suddenly breaking in upon us ...
but nowhere else. We are expected to hide all traces of pipes, jars of
tobacco, or cigarette boxes before we admit any boy into our presence.
It is a laughable pretence, but apt to be infernally annoying. It also
strikes me as being immoral: we give our consent to the universal
acting of a lie. What makes it worse is the fact that most of the boys
smoke secretly far more than is good for them, solely from bravado.
If only, as in some schools, all boys over sixteen who have permission
from home were allowed to smoke at certain hours of the day, the
difficulty both for them and for us would be solved. It is like the
question of drink: in some schools boys are given a glass of beer with
their midday meal and again at supper. This effectually removes any
sort of temptation to dive into the secret recesses of a bar parlour
and there drink deep and long, as is the fashion among the bloods here.
I found this out by accident last Sunday. About four o'clock Jefferies,
a brilliant scholar and athlete, came to my rooms, white as to the
gills, and in a state of nervous terror unfolded a tale over which I
could not help but gloat.
Some half-dozen of the more "sporting" prefects apparently have a
habit of disappearing every Sunday after lunch and walking four miles
to an inn, where they flirt with a fat and ugly barmaid (I have only
Jefferies' word for the "fat and ugly") and drink until such time as
they are expected back in their houses. On this Sunday afternoon the
place was unfortunately raided by the police and Jefferies (luckily
without a school cap) was seized: he gave a fictitious name and address
and found that he was expected to appear at the local Police Court to
answer the charge against him.
Naturally the whole thing was bound to come out and he would inevitably
be expelled. The boy was in a state of pitiable terror and wanted
to know what to do. As luck would have it, we did hit upon a scheme
before he left the room which left him a loophole. He acted upon my
suggestion, which was a simple one, and as it turned out everything was
solved satisfactorily. He was fined heavily but did not appear, and I
had the immense joy to see the case reported in the local weekly paper
and read all unsuspectingly by members of Common Room, who never for
one instant guessed that the George Holmes, clerk, etc., who was fined
for obtaining drinks after hours, had any connexion with the noble and
honourable foundation of Radchester. I suppose I ought not to have been
a party to this nefarious scheme, but Jefferies was far too valuable a
member of the school to lose. He certainly did not deserve to have his
career ruined for a foolish prank like this.
If this came out, I imagine that I should also be thrown out into the
streets: I wonder how much of this hushing up goes on in all Public
Schools.
I remember that I took Dearden into my confidence over the case of
Jefferies. He is a dear, good soul: why on earth he allows the boys to
"rag" him as they do I can't think, except that he's too gentle and
generous with every one.
He has the next rooms to mine, and whenever I'm out of cigarettes, or
whisky, or cakes, I just raid his cupboards. Heavens! that places me
exactly on a level with Chorlthwaite: it is true that I have asked
him to take whatever he wants whenever he likes from my rooms, but
my cupboards are usually bare owing to the appetite of my own form.
When I told Dearden about Jefferies he laughed long and loud: he has
an infectious laugh, and his already rubicund cheeks become purple
with mirth. When his noises had somewhat subsided, except for a few
intermittent guffaws that he seemed unable to suppress, he replied:
"Oh! I suppose we all behave like that really: it's a rotten game
turning King's Evidence. I caught a fellow in this house with his arm
round a flapper's waist on the beach, kissing her with great energy
one night last summer term. It did me good to see them. He thought he
was safe for expulsion. As a matter of fact I had him up and tried to
lecture him, but it was all I could do to keep a straight face. What do
you think his defence was? 'It's so jolly monotonous here, sir, with
this continual round of work and games and corps and chapel, and never
a decent-looking girl for miles.' I couldn't resist asking him how he
unearthed so desirable a creature in a district which breeds little
but sea-gulls and mussels.
"'I met her in a village about five miles away one Sunday afternoon and
... well, she was as bored with life as I was, so we agreed to walk
to meet each other down the beach every Thursday and Saturday night:
it meant two and a half miles each way for each of us, sir. It was
rather a sweat, but it was worth it, just for the fun of the risk of
being caught.' I warned him to be careful in future: I hadn't even the
heart to make him promise never to see the girl again; I'm a rotten bad
schoolmaster."
From this he went on to a heated disquisition on the advantages of
co-education.
I'm in luck to have so delightful a companion as Dearden next door to
me. He is about ten years senior to me and has had a chequered career.
He has been already at about half a dozen schools and never given any
great satisfaction. He is, I imagine, too easy-going: he just drifts
along idly; he likes his game of bridge, his whisky, his nightly
chatter, and beyond that very little except good holidays. Like most
schoolmasters he is quite without ambition: he looks forward to nothing
better than his present state. "I can conceive," he said once to me,
"nothing more delightful than my present life, if only I were not so
persistently 'ragged'; it does so lower a fellow in his own esteem."
I have been attending all the recent debates at the School Debating
Society: it is a very formal and rigid body attended usually by some
fifteen or twenty persons, all very nervous and none of them able to
speak at all coherently or interestingly. Each time I have attended I
have said something, but I find I am as bad as the rest: there is an
air about the society which effectually prevents one from saying what
one means. I don't know what it is. The debates are dull and mainly
consist of long uncomfortable pauses, during which no one dares even to
whisper, varied by grotesque attempts at humour which make me want to
cry.
It seems to me that the power to state an argument concisely, without
stammering or hesitation and in an interesting way, is a very necessary
factor in our educational equipment. I have, therefore, started another
private debating society, which meets in my rooms every Saturday
night, limited to boys whom I take during the week. The bait of free
food has netted a prodigious catch. I rarely have less than fifty:
they lie about on the floor or prop themselves up against the walls.
The atmosphere after an hour and a half is indescribable, but we
certainly do debate. Blood-feuds seem to spring from the results of our
arguments: tempers are really lost, and at times I have imagined that
they resort to physical tests to prove the truth of their assertions as
soon as they get outside. At any rate I get them interested and they
certainly can talk--the difficulty is rather to make them desist.
We vary these debates with charades, mock trials, and readings of plays
ancient and modern. Occasionally I read to them humorous extracts, for
choice from Saki, Stephen Leacock, or some of the older school of comic
writers.
I find that I look forward to this more than to anything else in the
week: it unfortunately prevents me from going in to see Vera, but
somehow she and I always seem to be able to hit upon mutually free
evenings whenever we like. I never allow a week to pass without seeing
her. She is my safety-valve: she gives me a proper perspective. After
I have quarrelled violently with some colleague or taken some mistake
of mine too seriously, she acts as a corrective and makes me see
that Radchester is not, as Common Room fondly imagines, the whole of
the world. I do not over-emphasize my importance to the State when I
have been with her: to her I am just one of a crowd, very ordinary,
fairly cheerful and companionable, less flighty than if I were merely
"one of the boys," but not necessarily much more precious on that
account. England would not materially suffer if Radchester were razed
to the ground to-night; Radchester's idea is that England would
cease to count if such a dire catastrophe were within the bounds of
possibility. Yes, it is very good for me to see Vera weekly. I told
her the story of Dearden about the flapper, and she replied somewhat
to my astonishment, "Oh! you old goose. Why, I've been out with heaps
of Radchester boys. They come into Scarborough quite often. Of course
you wouldn't see them: they're not quite such fools, but I wouldn't
mind betting that they've seen you with me. Oh! don't get frightened.
Boys aren't likely to give you away: they understand only too well.
They probably think you're the only sensible master on the staff for
having the sense not to pretend that you can do without girls. I think
it's a mad idea shutting up four or five hundred boys in a lonely place
like Radchester. I shouldn't be surprised at the most horrible things
happening there: it's unnatural."
"But, my dear child," I replied, "if you'd read any of the old books
you'd realize how necessary it is, if you want to work, to get as far
away from distraction as possible. Now what greater or more charming
distraction could there be than you?"
"Oh! get along, you old silly! You're always pulling my leg. All the
same I'm certain that nothing but harm can come of separating the sexes
in this way."
"Oh, then, you are like my friend Dearden, in favour of co-education?"
"What's that?"
But I was not to be drawn into any argument. When I'm out with Vera
I'm out for lightness, sweetness and gaiety: I want to forget school
altogether. I go back refreshed, revivified and with new ideas. She is
the finest pick-me-up I know. She doesn't quote the classics at me. For
that alone I could hug her.
_April 3, 1910_
And here I am at the end of my second term. Anything more terrifying
than the way in which time flits by here I cannot conceive. I made
so many good resolutions at the beginning of term and none of them
seems to have materialized. I am still going too fast in mathematics,
although I keep a strict hold on myself all the time. I think the
secret is that I am more of a lecturer than a teacher. I find it
very hard indeed to repeat over and over again the same formulæ,
dinning them into thick heads day after day for weeks on end without
any variation. I want to keep the boys interested. Some of them make
tremendous headway with me: others learn nothing from me at all. In
English it is otherwise: most people who come to me for this subject
are beginning to read, which is the best possible sign. In the past
they seem to have read nothing, not even "The Arabian Nights," nor "The
Canterbury Tales," nor "Gulliver's Travels," nor any of the novels
of Thackeray, or Dickens, or the Brontës, nor any poetry, nor essays
nor plays. Now at least they do search the library for books which I
recommend.
The school library is worse than useless. In ecclesiastical history
no library can compare with it, but for the standard English classics
one may search in vain. Even if the book you want does by some strange
chance happen to be there, you are not allowed to remove it unless
you are in the Sixth Form. When I remonstrated with the librarian (a
foolish thing to do: I have now made him my enemy for life) all he
could say was, "My dear man, these rules have been in existence for
generations: what was good enough for our fathers is surely good enough
for us. Tell your boys to get these books from their House libraries."
I have lately been for a tour of inspection round the House libraries.
Edna Lyall, Charlotte Yonge, Conan Doyle, George Birmingham, H. A.
Vachell, Harrison Ainsworth, Mark Twain, Seton Merriman--yes, but no
Swift, no Pope, no Browning, no Thackeray, no Jane Austen, no Fielding,
no Johnson, no Milton, no Chaucer, no Keats, no Shelley, no Meredith.
Apparently the authorities wish boys to imitate Ruskin and not descend
to libraries but to purchase for themselves the masterpieces if they
want to read them.
Only the other day the Head Master posted a notice on the school board
urging the school to devote less time to the perusal of sixpenny
magazines and more to the reading of good, sound literature--very good
advice too--but it isn't every boy who can afford to read the best
authors, besides which the greatest writers cannot be tackled without
due preparation and a sharpening of the wits: the average boy is
prejudiced against all the classics as being intolerably dull. It never
strikes him that these works were written for our enjoyment, our solace
in woe, our constant companions in every mood.
He prefers to talk about the form displayed during the afternoon by his
House captain in a school match, or ruminate on his own shortcomings in
a recent House match.
Games seem to me to lose half their charm when they are taken so
seriously that a boy contemplates suicide because of his failure in a
House match.
I might give a hundred lectures in Big School on any subject under
Heaven and very few would voluntarily attend, but if I suggest giving a
few hints on how to train for games there wouldn't be a vacant seat. I
am certain this making a fetish of games is too much of a good thing.
There is a limit even to keenness. I love watching a fierce senior
final House match and all school matches. I love going "all out" when
I am playing any game, but I certainly object to treating it as if it
were a religious ceremonial, or rather a display before my Supreme
Judge and that on my merits or demerits I shall be saved or damned
everlastingly.
Quite the most enjoyable days of this term have been those wild, wet,
windy afternoons when I have expended all my energies dashing up and
down the shore in that peculiar game, half rugger, half hockey, which
is only played at Radchester, but I don't go back to my rooms and weep
if I play badly, or preen myself like a peacock if by some lucky chance
I give an exhibition beyond the normal.
This has been a better term than last, if only because of the three new
men on the staff, all of whom are younger than I am. It was pleasant
to watch them first of all roundly chafe at the limitless number of
rules and restrictions placed upon us all, and gradually succumb to
the tradition and become unquestioning, staunch adherents of a system
against which their better judgments first taught them to rebel.
One excitement of the last month has been the visit of the Inspectors:
they are due once every five years and are supposed to be selected with
scrupulous care. They are fêted for a week and shown everything at its
most abnormal and best: it is no fair test at all. For one whole week
no boy dared to "rag" even such a pitiable ass as Pennefeather, lest
the Head Master and Inspectors should suddenly come in. Richards having
carefully worked out an admirable lesson on the Siege of Syracuse
meticulously went through it every hour with his form for the whole
period on the off-chance and, as luck would have it, no Inspector came
near him.
I was not going to change my curriculum for any of the old dodderers,
and they called on me daily. The English expert was a gentleman,
and simply sat down and took notes of my methods all the time I was
teaching, while the mathematical inspector did all the work for me and
told me how to teach factors, without so much as worrying to ask how I
got on or watching me display my talents at all.
These inspections are merely farcical. Their report was one long
succession of "very good," "brilliant," "astonishingly capable," and so
on.
I have of late been worrying over the code of honour that prevails
among the boys. Apparently to cheat, to lie, to give way to unnatural
vice, to torture poor, half-witted, feckless youngsters are venal
offences, hardly counting as offences at all, whereas to make a friend
of a master, to "cut" or "slack" during a game, to work hard, are
unforgivable and heinous sins to be ruthlessly punished with the utmost
severity. Mixed up with the innocence and almost angelic tenderness
of some young boys there is a strain of dirt, craft, and hollow
insincerity that appals me. I would give a good deal to know whence
these theories of life have their source. I am certain that such things
are not inherent in the boy-nature: it is a fungus-growth that is
become part and parcel of the Public School spirit, the tares growing
up with the wheat, and no one has the courage to try to exterminate
them.
I am always priding myself upon the fact that none of my boys ever
"crib," but last week I discovered a boy writing out a theorem in
geometry from a fair copy which he had brought in with him. He knew
that I always walked round and round the room (I make it a practice
never to sit down in a classroom) and counted on my mistaking the fair
copy at his side for one of the propositions which he had already
written out. I could find it in my heart to wish that all propositions
were deleted from the mathematical syllabus. If we were always to
invent new exercises this temptation would be removed.
I am glad to be going away to-morrow: I want to think out all these
myriad problems of education: I am very tired and rather depressed
at the result of all my efforts. I have worked hard this term and yet
I have a feeling in my bones that most of my keenness is wasted: I am
almost a butterfly on a wheel. The system is going to be too strong for
me. I have a lurking suspicion that schoolmastering is not a man's job
at all. It only really appeals to humdrum invertebrates who can live in
an entirely unreal atmosphere, who like being placed on a pedestal and
held up as models of all the more insipid virtues and who can lay down
the law and see that it is obeyed to the last letter.
In no profession is the danger of thinking too much so obvious: any
one possessed of an introspective or imaginative temperament is quite
out of place in a Public School. Every day by reading I find that I am
enlarging my mind and getting to know all sorts of interesting things,
but most of them are not for the ears of babes and sucklings, and so I
am compelled to lead two quite different lives and am become a sort of
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
What I do hate about the end of the term is the fact that to-morrow
night I shall no longer be able to hear the merry shouts of the boys
in the House Room below or the careless chatter of hundreds coming
out of chapel or school: there will be no more games; but I have one
consolation. I am not, as I did at Christmas, going to a lonely home.
Illingworth is coming with me on a walking tour through Devon. I am
looking forward to that very much indeed.
III
_May 4, 1910_
I am glad to be back again, but I never enjoyed any holiday in all my
life as I enjoyed the one just finished. Illingworth and I took a train
to Bideford on the first day of the holidays and put up in the hotel
where Kingsley wrote "Westward Ho!" The difference between that old,
bizarre, mediæval sleepy town and Radchester is impossible to believe.
We spent our first evening talking to old sailors on the quay, and it
did not require much imagination to take us back to the brave days of
Elizabeth.