We went off together on the Saturday, and I think we were both decidedly
nervous. What were we in for? I had a feeling that I had plunged headlong
into rather a foolish adventure.
We did not talk much on the way down; it was all rather solemn. We were
going to put the bit in our mouths again, and Father Payne was an unknown
quantity. We both felt that there was something decidedly big and strong
there to be reckoned with.
We arrived, as before, at tea-time, and we both received a cordial
greeting. After tea Father Payne took us away, and told us the rules of the
house. They were simple enough; he described the day. Breakfast was from
8.30 to 9.15, and was a silent meal. "It's a bad thing to begin the day by
chattering and arguing," said Father Payne. Then we were supposed to work
in our own rooms or the library till one. We might stroll about, if we
wished, but there was to be no talking to anyone else, unless he himself
gave leave for any special reason. Luncheon was a cold meal, quite
informal, and was on the table for an hour. There was to be no talk then
either. From two to five we could do as we liked, and it was expected that
we should take at least an hour's exercise, and if possible two. Tea at
five, and work afterwards. At 8.15, dinner, and we could do as we wished
afterwards, but we were not to congregate in anyone's room, and it was
understood that no one was to go to another man's bedroom, which was also
his study, at any time, unless he was definitely invited, or just to ask a
question. The smoking-room was always free for general talk, but Father
Payne said that on the whole he discouraged any gatherings or cliques. The
point of the whole was solitary work, with enough company to keep things
fresh and comfortable.
He said that we were expected to valet ourselves entirely, and that if we
wanted a fire, we must lay it and clean it up afterwards. If we wanted to
get anything, or have anything done, we could ask him or the butler. "But I
rather expect everyone to look after himself," he said. We were not to
absent ourselves without his leave, and we were to go away if he told us to
do so. "Sometimes a man wants a little change and does not know it," he
said.
Then he also said that he would ask us, from time to time, what we were
doing--hear it read, and criticise it; and that one of the most definite
conditions of our remaining was that he must be satisfied that we really
were at work. If we wanted any special books, he said, we might ask him,
and he could generally get them from the London Library; but that we should
find a good many books of reference and standard works in the library.
He told us, too, of certain conditions of which we had not heard--that we
were to be away, either at home, or travelling wherever he chose to send
us, for three months in the year, and that he supplied the funds if
necessary. Moreover, for one month in the summer he kept open house. Half
of us were to go away for the first fortnight in July, and the other half
were to stay and entertain his guests, or even our own, if we wished to
invite them; then the other half of the men returned, and had their guests
to entertain, while the first half went away; and that during that time
there was to be very little work done. We were not to be always writing,
but there was to be reading, about which he would advise. Once a week there
was a meeting, on Saturday evening, when one of the men had to read
something aloud, and be generally criticised. "You see the idea?" he said.
"It sounds complicated now, but it really is very simple. It is just to get
solid work done regularly, with a certain amount of supervision and
criticism, and, what is more important still, real intervals of travelling.
I shall send you to a particular place for a particular purpose, and you
will have to write about it on lines which I shall indicate. The danger of
this sort of life is that of getting stale. That's why I don't want you to
see too much of each other. And last of all," he said, rather gravely, "you
must do what I tell you to do. There must be no mistake about that--but
with all the apparent discipline of it, I believe you will find it worth
while."
Then he saw us each separately. He inquired into our finances. Vincent had
a small allowance from his parents, about £50, which he was told to keep
for pocket-money, but Father Payne said he would pay his travelling
expenses. I gathered that he gave an allowance to men who had nothing of
their own. He told me that I should have to travel at my own expense, but
he was careful first to inquire whether my mother was in any way dependent
on me. Then he said to me with a smile: "I am glad you decided to come--I
thought my letter would have offended you. No? That's all right. Now, I
don't expect heroic exertions--just hard work. Mind," he said, "I will add
one thing to my letter, and that is that I think you _may_ make a
success of this--if you _do_ take to it, you will do well; but you
will have to be patient, and you may have a dreary time; but I want you to
tell me exactly at any time how you are feeling about it. You won't be
driven, and I think your danger is that you may try to make the pace too
much."
He further asked me exactly what I was writing. It happened to be some
essays on literary subjects. He mentioned a few books, and told me it would
do very well to start with. He was very kind and fatherly in his manner,
and when I rose to go, he put his arm through mine and said: "Come, it will
be strange if we can't hit it off together. I like your presence and talk,
and am glad to think you are in the house. Don't be anxious! The difficulty
with you is that you will foresee all your troubles beforehand, and try to
bolt them in a lump, instead of swallowing them one by one as they come.
Live for the day!" There was something magnetic about him, for by these few
words he established a little special relation with me which was never
broken.
When he dismissed me, I went and changed my things, and then came down. I
found that it was the custom for the men to go down to the hall about
eight. Father Payne said that it was a great mistake to work to the last
minute, and then to rush in to dinner. He said it made people nervous and
dyspeptic. He generally strolled in himself a few minutes before, and sate
silent by the fire.
Just as it struck eight, and the hum of the clock in the hall died away, a
little tune in harmony, like a gavotte, was played by softly-tingling tiny
bells. I could not tell where the music came from; it seemed to me like the
Ariel music in _The Tempest_, between earth and heaven, or the
"chiming shower of rare device" in _The Beryl Stone_.
Father Payne smiled at the little gesture I involuntarily made. "You're
right!" he said, when it was over. "How _can_ people talk through
that? It's the clock in the gallery that does it--they say it belonged to
George III. I hope, if so, that it gave him a few happier moments! It is an
ingenious little thing, with silver bells and hammers; I'll show it you
some day. It rings every four hours."
"I think I had rather not see the machinery," I said. "I never heard
anything so delicious."
"You're right again," said Father Payne;
"'The isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.'