I
The Scorpions were to meet at eight o'clock and before that hour Kenneth
Forbes had to finish the first chapter of a serial story. The literary
society, named in accordance with the grotesque whim of Oxford
undergraduates, consisted of eight members, and it was proposed that
each one should contribute a chapter. Forbes was of a fertile wit, and
he had been nominated the first operator. He had been allowed the whole
Christmas vacation to prepare his opening chapter; which was why on this
first Sunday of term while the rest of Merton College was at dinner in
hall, he sat at his desk desperately driving his pen across the paper.
Forbes's room in Fellows' Quad was one of those that had housed Queen
Henrietta Maria in 1643, and though Forbes's own tastes were nondescript
the chamber still had something of an air. The dark wood panelling might
well have done honour to a royal lodger, and a motion-picture producer
would have coveted it as a background for Mary Pickford. It was
unspoiled by pictures: two or three political maps of Europe, sketchily
drawn with coloured crayons, were pinned up here and there. The room was
a typical Oxford apartment: dark, a little faded, but redeemed by the
grate of glowing coals. Behind the chimney two recessed seats looked out
over the college gardens; long red curtains were drawn to shut out the
winter draughts. It was the true English January--driving squalls of
rain, dampness, and devastating chill. The east wind brought the booming
toll from Magdalen tower very distinctly to the ear, closely followed by
the tinny chime in Fellows' Quad. It was half past seven.
Forbes laid down his pen, looked quizzically at the last illegible lines
slanting up the paper, and realized that he was hungry. His untasted tea
and anchovy toast still stood in the fender where the scout had put them
three hours before.
He switched on the electric light over the dining table in the centre
of the room, and, dropping on the sofa before the fire, prodded the huge
lumps of soft coal into a blaze. The triangular slices of anchovy toast
were cold but still very good, and he devoured them with appetite. He
lit a cigarette with a sigh of content, and reflected that he had not
crossed his name off hall. Therefore he must pay eighteen pence for
dinner, even though he had not eaten it. Also there lay somewhat heavily
on his mind the fact that at ten the next morning he must read to his
tutor an essay on “Danton and Robespierre,” an essay as yet unwritten.
That would mean a very early rising and an uncomfortable chilly session
in the college library, a dismal place in the forenoon. Never mind,
first came a jolly evening with the Scorpions. The meetings were always
fun, and this one, coming after the separation of a six-weeks' vacation,
promised special sport. Carter was down for a paper on Rabelais; King
would have some of his amusing ballades and rondeaus; and above all
there would be the first chapter of the serial, from which the members
promised themselves much diversion. It was too late now to attempt
anything on Danton and Robespierre; he picked up a volume of Belloc and
sat cosily by the fire.
A thumping tread sounded on the winding stairs, then the faint clink
of a large metal tray laid on the serving table outside, and a muffled
knock at the “oak,” the thick outer door which Forbes had “sported”
when he came in at six to write his stint. He unfastened the barrier and
admitted Hinton, the scout, who bore in a tray of eatables, ordered by
Forbes from the college store-room for the refreshment of his coming
guests. Forbes, like most men of modest means, made it a point of honour
to entertain lavishly when it was his turn as host, and the display set
out by Hinton made an attractive still life under the droplight. A big
bowl of apples and oranges stood in the centre; tin boxes from Huntley
and Palmer, a couple of large iced cakes, raisins, nuts, and a dish of
candied fruits ended the solids. There was also a tray of coffee cups
and a huge silver coffee pot bearing the college arms, flanked by a
porcelain jug of hot milk. De Reszke cigarettes, whiskey and soda, and a
new tin of John Cotton smoking mixture completed the spread--which would
be faithfully reflected in Forbes's “battels,” or weekly bills, later
on. Young men at Oxford do themselves well, and this was a typical
lay-out for an undergraduate evening.
Hinton, a ruddy old man with iron-gray hair and a very red and bulby
nose, was a garrulous servant, and after a tentative cough made an
attempt at small talk.
“I didn't see you in 'all to-night, sir.”
“No,” said Forbes, “I had some writing to do, Hinton.”
“Oh yes, sir,” said Hinton, according to the invariable formula of
college servants. A moment later, after another embarrassed cough, he
began again.
“Very wet night, sir; they say the towpath will be under water in
another day or so.”
Forbes was not a rowing man, and the probable submerging of the towpath
was not news that affected him one way or the other. His only reply was
to ask the scout to refill the coal-scuttle. For this task Hinton donned
an old pair of gloves and carried in several large lumps of coal in
his hands from the bin outside. Then he disappeared into the adjoining
bedroom to pour out a few gallons of very cold water into Forbes's hip
bath, to turn down the sheets, lay out his pajamas, and remove a muddy
pair of boots to be cleaned. Such are the customs that make sweet the
lives of succeeding undergraduates at Oxford. It is pleasant to know
that Palmerston, Pitt, Gladstone, Asquith--they have all gone through
the old routine. Forbes's father had occupied the very same rooms,
thirty years before, and very likely old Hinton, then a “scout's boy,”
had blacked his boots. Certainly Forbes senior had lain in the same
bedroom and watched Magdalen Tower through the trees while delaying to
get up on chilly mornings.
“Anything else to-night, sir?” said Hinton, as Forbes put down Belloc
and began to clean a very crusty briar.
“Nothing to-night.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hinton and took his departure, after poking up
the fire and removing the dead tea things.
The eight o'clock chimes spoke as Hinton clumped downstairs, and a few
moments later Forbes's guests began to straggle in. All were wet and
ruddy from rain and wind, and, as they discarded raincoats and caps,
disclosed a pleasant medley of types. The Scorpions was a rather recent
and informal society, but it had gathered from various colleges a little
band of temperamental congenials who found a unique pleasure in their
Sunday evening meetings. None of them was of the acknowledged literary
successes of the university: their names were not those seen every week
in the undergraduate journals. And yet this obscure group, which had
drawn together in a spirit of satire, had in it two or three men of real
gift. Forbes himself was a man of uncommon vivacity. Small, stocky, with
an unruly thatch of yellow hair and a quaintly wry and homely face, he
hid his shyness and his brilliancy behind a brusque manner. Ostensibly
cynical and a witty satirist of his more sentimental fellows, his desk
was full of charming ballades and _pieces d'amour_, scratched off at
white heat in odd moments. His infinite fund of full-flavoured jest had
won him the nickname of Priapus. But beneath the uncouth exterior of the
man, behind his careless dress and humorously assumed coarseness,
lay the soul of a poet--sensitive as a girl, and devout before the
whisperings of Beauty.
Stephen Carter and Randall King were first to arrive, and seized the
ends of the fireside couch while Forbes poured their coffee.
“A Clark Russell of an evening!” said Carter, stretching his golfing
brogues to the blaze. “Don't you love a good drenching, downpouring
night? I do!” He was a burly full-blooded blond, extravagantly facetious
in convivial moments, and a mournful brooder in solitude. King, better
known as “The Goblin,” was a dark, whimsical elf in thick spectacles,
much loved in the 'varsity dramatic society for his brilliant
impersonations. The Goblin said nothing as he sipped his coffee and
gazed at the fire.
“There you go again, Falstaff!” exclaimed Forbes to Carter, as he
unlocked a corner cupboard and drew out a bottle of port. “The universal
enthusiast! I believe you'll be enthusiastic about the examiners that
plough you!”
“What, Falstaff get ploughed?” said a vast and rather handsome newcomer,
flinging open the door without knocking. “I think he's down for a ruddy
First!” This was Douglas Whitney, of Balliol.
Carter's only answer to both these remarks was to drain a glass of the
port which Forbes was decanting.
“I say, Priapus, what vile port!” he said. “Is this some of the vintage
you crocked poor old Hinton with?”
“Any port in a storm, Falstaff,” said the Goblin, mildly.
As Forbes was pouring out the coffee loud shouts of “Minters!” greeted
the next arrival. This was Johnny Blair of Tennessee and Trinity, the
only American among the Scorpions. Blair was a Rhodes Scholar whose
dulcet Southern drawl and quaint modes of speech were a constant delight
to his English comrades. His great popularity in his own college
was begun by his introduction of mint julep, which had given him his
nickname.
“Hello, Minters!” cried Forbes. “What cheer?”
“Large tabling and belly cheer,” said Blair, quoting his favourite
Elizabethan author.
By the time Forbes had poured out eight cups of coffee and as many
glasses of wine, Keith, Graham, and Twiston had come in, making the full
gathering. There was much laughing and banter as the men stood round
the table or by the fire, lighting pipes and cigarettes, and helping
themselves to fruit and cake. Finally, when everyone was settled in a
semicircle round the fire, Forbes hammered his coffee cup with a spoon.
According to the custom of the society the host of the evening always
acted as chairman.
“The meeting will please come to order,” said Forbes. “Brother
Scorpions, what is your pleasure? Has the secretary anything to report?”
The gatherings of the Scorpions were pleasingly devoid of formality, and
untrammeled by parliamentary conventions. There were no minutes, and
the only officer was a secretary who sent out postal cards each week,
reminding the members of the time and place of the next meeting.
King, puffing happily at a large pipe, declared that no official
business required attention.
“Then I call upon Falstaff for his delightful paper on Rabelais,” said
Forbes.
A small electric reading lamp was propped behind Carter's head, and
the Scorpions disposed themselves to listen. Carter pulled an untidy
manuscript from his pocket, and after an embarrassed cough, began to
read.
The general tenor of an undergraduate essay on Rabelais, intended for
the intimacy of a fireside circle, may readily be guessed. The general
thesis of the composition was of course to prove that Rabelais was by
no means the low-minded old dog of Puritan conception; or, as Carter
put it, that he was “not simply a George Moore”; but that his amazing
writings bore witness throughout to a high and devoted ethical purpose.
It is even conjecturable that Carter may have said _puribus omnia pura_;
but if he did so, it was with so droll an accent that his audience
laughed again. At all events his reading was punctuated with cheery
applause, and at the conclusion the Scorpions renewed their acquaintance
with those historic affinities whiskey and soda. Discussion was brisk.
The meditative Goblin then was called upon for his poems; and, after
becoming hesitation, unfolded a sheaf of verses. His rhymes were always
full of quaint and elvish humour which was very endearing. His ballade
with the refrain “_When Harry Baillie kept the Tabard Inn_,” was voted
the best of the six he read.
But the event of the evening was to be the serial story, which
Forbes had been appointed to begin. A new round of refreshments was
distributed, and then the host took his place under the reading lamp.
“This needs a word of explanation,” he said. “Having the whole vacation
to work on this, naturally I did nothing until tea time this afternoon.
I didn't even have an idea in my head until yesterday. About four
o'clock yesterday afternoon I was strolling down the Broad in
desperation. You know when there is some hateful task that has to be
done, one will snatch at any pretext for postponing it. I stopped in at
Blackwell's to look for a book I wanted. Up in one corner of the shop,
lying on a row of books, I found this.”
Impressively he drew from his pocket a double sheet of notepaper and
held it up.
“It was a letter, evidently written by some girl to a man at the
'varsity. Finding it there, forgotten and defenseless, I could not
resist reading it. It was a very charming letter, not too intimate, but
full of a delicious virgin coyness and reserve. Then a great idea struck
me. Why not take the people mentioned in the letter and use them as
the characters of our story? We know that they are real people; we know
their first names; that's all we know about them. The rest can be left
to the invention of the Scorpions.”
Generous laughter greeted the idea.
“Let's hear the letter!” cried someone.
“Yes,” said Forbes, “before reading my chapter I'll read you the letter.
And then remember that our story is to be built up solely upon this
document. There are to be no characters in the story except those
mentioned in the letter, and our task must be to delineate them in such
a way that they are in keeping with the suggestions the letter gives us.
Here it is.”