Produced by Al Haines
"_The wealth of youth, we spent it well
And decently, as very few can.
And is it lost? I cannot tell:
And what is more I doubt if you can._"
HILAIRE BELLOC.
YEARS OF PLENTY
BY IVOR BROWN
LONDON
MARTIN SECKER
NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET
ADELPHI
_First Published 1915_
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE: SCHOOL
BOOK TWO: UNIVERSITY
BOOK ONE
SCHOOL
I
Life seemed to Martin Leigh, as he gazed at the wooden walls of his
cubicle, very overwhelming: there were so many things to remember. He
had lived through his first day as a boarder at a public school and at
length he had the great joy of knowing that for nine hours there would
be nothing to find out. He seemed to have been finding things out ever
since seven o'clock that morning: finding out his form and his form
master, his desk at school and his desk in the house, his place in
chapel and his place at meals, his hours of work and his field for
play. He had moved in a world of mystery, a world of doors which had
to be opened and of locks which had to be picked. It had been
terrifying work, this probing of places.
All day Martin had been shown things by formidable people in a
hustling, inadequate way: he had been far too awed by the majesty of
his conductors to ask any questions and he realised now that he had
forgotten nearly all that he had been told. He knew that he was in the
Lower Fifth, Classical, and that his form master was a renowned terror:
he knew also that he was supposed to play football with the other small
boys of his house in a muddy-looking field some distance away. But his
place in chapel ... that had vanished entirely from his mind. And
to-morrow morning he would either have to pluck up his scanty courage
and make a fool of himself by asking one of the formidable people, or
else trust to luck and probably make an even greater fool of himself by
wandering disconsolate in the aisle. He was vague also as to the
locality of the Lower Fifth classroom: there was, indeed, one other
member of that form in the house, but he was a gigantic, moustachioed
person, a man of weight in the football world: to approach him would be
impossible. Martin came to the conclusion that not only would chapel
make him notorious for life, but that he would also get lost in school
and reach his classroom late: then he would come in blushing, amidst
the smiles of the superior. And the Terror would not rage and swear
like a gentleman: he would smile, as he had smiled that morning, and
make a little joke.
Life was undoubtedly overwhelming. And there were other no less cruel
facts to face. His collars were all wrong. All the other new boys, he
had noticed, wore Eton collars: these, apparently, should be retained
for a few terms, until the owner considered himself sufficiently
dignified for 'stick-ups.' Martin, who was fourteen and tall for his
age, had been sent to school with 'stick-ups' and no Eton collars. He
saw at once the horrid nature of his offence: it was side of the first
degree, involuntary side, but who would know that, much less conjecture
it? The new boys, as timid as himself, had of course said nothing, but
he had observed the smiles and queer looks of the people about a year
older, who had themselves only just assumed the emblem of position. It
was a very awkward and bothering occurrence, and he had already written
home for others to be sent as soon as possible. In reality Martin was
more worried about this than about all the information he had
forgotten. What made him dread the morrow with a fear he had never
known before was not so much the possibility of his wandering about
school and chapel like a lost sheep, but the certainty that he would be
dressed in open defiance of all the sartorial traditions of Elfrey
School.
Martin tried to console himself with the reflection that nothing could
now deprive him of nine hours' peace. He was glad that he was allowed
a cubicle and could enjoy a certain amount of privacy: he had
anticipated a large, bare room with rows of beds and the continual
shower, so dear to the books of his youth, of hurtling slippers and
sponges. Instead he had found a comfortable dormitory with a broad
passage separating two rows of nine wooden-sided cubicles. As far as
he could gather most of the boys adorned their cubicles with family
photographs, presumably because they were content with a hasty glance
at their parents and sisters during the shamefully few seconds in which
the acts of washing and dressing were completed: their actresses they
pinned inside their workroom desks, or, if they were study owners, hung
on their walls so that the long watches of the day were not
uncomforted. It struck Martin that here was another gap: he had not
brought with him any family photographs, and he expected that to seem
unfilial would be very bad form: nor had he a favourite actress. He
would have, he saw, to ask for his family photographs to be sent with
the Eton collars and the sardines, which he had discovered at tea to be
essential to the good life. The actress problem could be dealt with
later.
The rules of the dormitory were strict. Lights were turned out at ten
and no one could leave his cubicle without permission. No talking was
allowed after 'Lights out.' But to-night things were disorganised. In
the first place, Moore was the prefect on duty, an occurrence which
usually meant that no one was on duty, for it was Moore's habit to go
back to his study to find a book and then to forget about returning.
And besides it was only natural that at the beginning of term
discipline should not be established in all its accustomed rigour.
Everyone, except the six new boys, had plenty to say, and in the
prolonged absence of Moore they passed freely about from cubicle to
cubicle. It was already a quarter past ten.
Martin, of course, lay quietly in bed gazing at the cracks in the
plaster above him and wondering how long it would be before the lights
went out and sleep became possible. His thoughts shifted painfully
from chapel to collars, from collars to the Lower Fifth. This invasion
of a new world which had seemed only a week ago to be so supreme an
adventure was nothing but a nuisance and an agony. His sole comfort
lay in the reflection that bed, even a hard, knobbly, school bed is an
excellent place: here at least there was nothing to find out.
Suddenly he realised that a conversation was in progress close to the
curtain of his cubicle. Cullen, his neighbour in the dormitory, was
talking to a friend called Neave: already he had marked them both as
giants of a year's standing, youthful bloods of surpassing glory.
"I've got a ripping photo of Sally Savoy," said Cullen.
"She's a bit of fluff for you," answered Neave.
"Yes, by gum. My brother at Sandhurst told me a grand story about her."
"What was it?"
"It's jolly hot stuff."
"All the better. Let's have it."
Then Cullen launched out. Martin, who could not help overhearing every
word, understood the beginning of the tale, but just when Neave's
exclamation betrayed the listener's thrill, he found it unintelligible.
And later on there was the recitation of a Limerick which he could not
at all understand. It was not that anything deeply wicked was related,
but Martin had been a day boy at his private school and had only
received a vague impression of the ways of nature and of man. Never
before had it struck him how confused and ignorant he was.
Then a mighty voice roared: "What the deuce are you all playing at?"
Numerous forms in more or less advanced stages of nudity started like
rabbits to their proper cubicles, while Moore bellowed in the doorway.
If it had been anyone but Moore there would have been a row: but Moore
was an angel and never did anything but shout. The lights were turned
down and the voices died away.
Cullen took one lingering glance at Sally before he put her away and
said his prayers: Neave, having ended his supplications, lay chuckling
quietly in bed. Martin began to feel acutely miserable. In spite of
all his hopes that the dormitory would bring him peace, he had only
come across another door which had to be opened. There was no escape:
he would have to find out, for he might be expected to join in one of
these conversations and then he would be shown up. He would have to
discover some decent new boy and question him tactfully. It would be
embarrassing: it would be perfect hell: but it would be inevitable. He
began to wish he was back in Devonshire, at home. God, how he loathed
Life and Elfrey and Sally Savoy: he wanted ... but just when, in spite
of the promptings of conscience, he was yielding to the soft embrace of
sentiment and memory, sleep saved the situation.
II
It is one of the world's happiest phenomena that pessimism, by creating
expectations gloomier far than any possible event, destroys by that
very process its _raison d'etre_. For Martin the future had, almost of
necessity, to be brighter than its promise. He was pushed into his
right place in chapel and found his way, without undue meandering, to
the Lower Fifth classroom: he even appeased the Terror by his ability
to explain the history of the genitive case in Greek. A schoolmaster's
lot is hard enough without his making it worse, and the Terror sensibly
seized any opportunity of investing his work with an element of real
interest. With the bloods who found higher progress impossible and
remained to clog the Lower Fifth, it was always routine: but Martin had
come with a scholarship and was capable of an ingenious and tasteful
turn in translation. He was obviously a boy in whom an interest could
be taken, and the Terror warmed to him even to the extent of abandoning
the sardonic humour on which he so prided himself. According to all
the best traditions of scholastic fiction, Martin should have been
unpopular for this reason, but as a matter of fact the bloods were far
too bored with the Terror and all his works, and far too contemptuous
of all clever kids and 'sweat-guts,' to take the least notice of what
happened: or, if they did take notice, they were not going to give
themselves away by showing it.
The collar problem had been the hardest to face, and Martin still
longed eagerly for the Etons to arrive. As for the question of Neave,
Cullen, and Sally Savoy, he found that here too his fears had been
exaggerated. Most of the smaller boys did not talk on this subject:
Neave and Cullen turned out to be remote and superior creatures: by
their well-oiled hair and exquisite variety of ties and socks and
handkerchiefs they revealed the majesty of their doggishness. But
Martin was not prepared to run any risks: he became intimate with the
most imposing of the new boys, one Caruth, and plied him with
questions. He saw plainly that it was an ordeal which had to be gone
through if he was ever to attain peace of mind, and consequently he
bravely endured Caruth's surprise at the deficiencies in his knowledge.
Martin had foolishly begun by hinting that he really knew a good deal
and only wanted a few supplementary details, but he soon discovered
that he was giving himself most terribly away. Then he broke down and
confessed his ignorance.
"You are a kid," said Caruth. "You with your stick-ups!"
"Well, it's not my fault," protested Martin.
Thereupon Caruth became very patronising and talked to him at length,
telling him much that was true and more that was false: he also gave
information as to suitable passages in Shakespeare and the Bible for
the confirmation of theory. At first Martin was sickened and disgusted
by his investigations, but his sense of repulsion was soon outweighed
by the consideration that another barrier had been broken down and that
now he could join in conversation, if need be, without that gnawing
fear of being shown up. Caruth had the decency not to betray Martin's
ignorance to the other new boys.
Martin was in Berney's house. Berney's had a reputation for
mediocrity--that is to say, it rarely won many challenge cups, and
those which it did hold were gained more often by individuals than by
teams. Berney's usually had some brilliant athletes, but it never
succeeded in training good sides. Occasionally at the bidding of a
conscientious prefect it made an effort; but its efforts were nearly
always in vain. Berney's had a lofty contempt for pot-hunting, which
the other houses of course attributed to jealousy. When Martin came to
Berney's the house was in its usual state: two of the prefects,
Jamieson and Parker, were very clever men but indifferent athletes: the
other two, Moore and Leopard, were brilliant athletes and not at all
clever. The house as a whole was listless and apathetic, and there was
a healthy spirit of tolerance resulting in the formation of groups.
There was a doggish group, which discussed socks and hair oil and other
more exciting things, a young athletic group, a group of 'sweat-guts,'
and a group of complete nullities. The new boys remained in a bunch
until half-term and then began to drift to their appropriate circles.
Martin, reasoning from certain conversations at his private school, had
been afraid that the new boys might have a rough time. Nothing of the
sort occurred. They were left very much alone and, as long as they put
on no side, received quite reasonable treatment. In all his career at
Elfrey Martin never saw a fight or a case of bullying: at times there
would be a little playful ragging, and insolence usually met with its
reward, but there was no systematic oppression. Above all, the
'sweat-guts,' though they might be laughed at now and then, were never
persecuted.
At the end of this second week Martin received two invitations to
supper. One was from Mrs Berney, the other from Mrs Foskett, the
headmaster's wife. Mrs Berney's hospitality came first. Instead of
going in to house tea and eating bread and butter and whatever else he
chose to provide for himself, he went to the front part of the house
with a clean collar (Eton by now) and hair 'sloshed' down with copious
water. There he met Caruth and two others, all equally wet about the
hair. They were fed with fried soles, cold tongue, meringues, tea,
toast, and marmalade--not at all a bad business, thought Martin, and
well worth the previous exertions of the toilet.
Mr Berney sat at the head of the table. He was a little, freckled man
with a fair moustache: he had become a schoolmaster through despair and
a housemaster through patience. His chief interest lay in natural
history and botany, and he was never so happy as when he forgot all
about the school and his house and tramped the surrounding country. He
managed his house with a bare minimum of efficiency and was never loved
and never hated. In the routine of teaching at school and
administration at home he worked steadily, without mistakes and without
enthusiasm. He said all that a housemaster ought to say about games
and work and religion and moral tone without stopping to think whether
it was desirable or even consistent, for he had long ago discovered
that to start thinking would be to court anxiety, if not disaster. He
lived, on the whole, for his holidays.
At the other end of the table was his wife, small and dark and
interesting. She it was who ran the house, not because she liked it,
but because she worshipped her husband and knew that he loathed
responsibility. She was popular with the boys, who could pardon her
complete inability to understand games (a heinous sin in a
housemaster's wife) because of her unfailing kindness and sympathy.
She fed them well, as schools go, believed in culture, and used to
gather select spirits to read poetry in her drawing-room.
Martin sat next to her and found her easy to talk to. She too was
relieved, because she usually had to struggle with an athletic
conversation, a prolonged torture in which she would cause horror and
dismay by confusing half-backs and cover-points. But Martin could talk
about books and even pictures: she became interested and forgot to dole
out meringues, until, reminded by her husband, she looked up and saw
with shame the expectant faces of her guests. Afterwards she took them
to her comfortable drawing-room and talked on general school subjects:
she kept them until she was certain that of this batch Martin alone had
possibilities. Then she drove them to prep.
The Fosketts, as befitted a headmaster and his wife, were more
formidable. To begin with, their hospitality involved, in addition to
the clean collar and sloshed hair, the wearing of Sunday clothes and
the completion of prep in odd moments. The six new boys at Berney's
all went together, very timid and overwhelmed at the thought of being
entertained by one so remote and so tremendous as the Head. He was not
in their eyes so infinitely great as Llewelyn, the Captain of Football:
but, distinctly, he counted.
Foskett was one of the new headmasters. He was young (Elfrey figured
early in the _cursus honorum_ of one who aspired to the greatest
thrones), and he had declined to take holy orders. But, though
fashionably sceptical about the hardest dogmas, he believed intensely
in all the right things, in the Classics and the Empire and Moral Tone
and the Educational Value of Athletics and Our Duty to the Poor and the
Need for Personal Service. Consequently his name was already a byword
with all the conscientious young men in London and at the universities
who form quasi-religious clubs and believe that the world can be
reformed by heartiness and committee meetings. Foskett was a very able
man, who knew quite well what he wanted and was determined to get it:
being an Englishman to the backbone, he combined an affection for the
word Duty with an invincible belief that Duty, for him, always
corresponded with his own particular ambitions. He was by no means a
hypocrite: it simply never occurred to him that his policy of 'getting
on' might be inconsistent with some of his moral ideals. While he had
chosen to disguise the more unpalatable articles of faith with a sugary
paste of scientific catch-words, he never questioned the absolute value
of Christian Morality.
He had married, characteristically, the daughter of a colonial bishop,
a tall, gaunt woman with sparkling eyes and an immense capacity for
enthusiasm. Not only was she prepared to take up all her husband's
causes, but she also took up him and worshipped at his shrine with a
persistent and unflinching devotion. He represented for her all that
was estimable: he was strong and wise and pure: he was just the man to
mould the lives and ideals of the new generation, to make the finest
religion and the finest patriotism vital forces in the school, and to
pass through the richest headmasterships in England to a dignified old
age as head of an Oxford college. They were both of them supremely
methodical, and she bore him a child every three years. Naturally her
guests were overwhelmed. While Foskett looked quiet and authoritative
and made bad jokes in a quaint, theoretic manner at the head of the
table, his wife chattered and gushed and became vastly enthusiastic
over house junior football teams and the personnel of next year's
cricket eleven. Her grasp of detail and statistics carried dismay even
to boys. Martin was glad that he was in the middle of the table and
avoided the necessity of making conversation.
"Medio tutissimus ibis," he quoted to himself from that morning's
'trans' as he listened to Caruth, who had used Brilliantine instead of
water and was eager to shine socially, answering her questions and
assenting to her tremendous declamations.
"Isn't it splendid," said Mrs Foskett, "about the school athletics?
When we first came here Elfrey hardly ever won its school matches and
now we never get beaten. Fermor's play last summer was marvellous,
positively marvellous. D'you know, he actually got fifty wickets for
9.76 and had a batting average of 37. He's sure to get a blue at
Cambridge. The last Elfreyan to get a blue was Staples: he made 74 at
Lord's and was run out by an Old Etonian."
"Hard luck," said Caruth. "I do think being run out is rotten."
"Are you a cricketer?" continued Mrs Foskett.
"Well, I was captain of my preparatory school," said Caruth, assuming
the humble voice and depreciatory smile that betoken a proper modesty.
"But of course that's not much."
"It's the best beginning. You're sure to play for the school before
you're done."
"Oh, I don't suppose so," answered Caruth. He felt it to be an
inefficient answer and wondered, fingering his tie, what the ideal
reply would have been. Would 'Oh, Mrs Foskett!' have been too familiar?
Then it turned out that Caruth had been to Murren for the winter
sports. This was one of Mrs Foskett's well-known themes. Her subjects
included Greece, Switzerland, Patriotism, Sport, and the Nobility.
"Oh, I think Murren's so lovely," she began. "To be so high up, right
above those Wengen people. I love ski-ing. And the sun. And the
glorious air. There's nothing like it. And such nice people. Such
really charming people. Last winter we met Lord and Lady Dalston.
They're so interested in the personal side of Social Service. Lord
Dalston has a club in the Mile End Road, and in the evenings he goes
and sings there himself--such a beautiful voice. Of course they don't
get many people yet because of----"
"The picture palaces," suggested Caruth nobly. He thought it about
time that he got a word in and was eager to excuse the scandalous
absence of appreciation of Lord Dalston's art.
"Yes, those terrible places. And they do have such sensational films
in the East End. I'm sure they have a bad influence. What the people
really need is a drill hall with exercises and good music. I've been
putting the case to Lady Dalston."
"Rather," said Caruth, who was himself a staunch patron of the
pictorial drama. And then he added: "I think National Service would be
a good thing for the poor."
He had given Mrs Foskett her cue. She broke out into a triumph song in
whose turbulent flow the words 'physique' and 'efficiency' came
frequently rolling. She was careful to say that she was not a
militantist and hated the thought of war, but she didn't see any harm
in teaching people how to shoot one another if need be. "War's so
educational," she ended. "Brings out the strength of the nation."
And then there floated from the other end of the table the throaty
voice of the Head as he told an antique Jowett story, which had been
picked up in his under-graduate days and always did good service when
the flame of conversation flickered.
Martin, sitting silently in the middle of the table, concentrated on
the supper. It was worth all the attention he gave it. He managed to
consume a plate of soup, some fried sole, two sausages and bacon, one
helping of trifle and one of fruit salad, and as much dessert and
chocolate as came his way. The Fosketts certainly understood the art
of feeding.
Afterwards there was a feeble attempt made to play some games, but not
even Mrs Foskett could overcome the self-consciousness of her guests.
Interest waned and the Head's jokes became worse and worse. They were
all relieved when the time came for departure.
As they walked back Caruth, who was secretly pleased with his
conversational display, said loftily: "Thank the Lord that's over."
Martin answered: "I should think so. Ghastly show." In reality he was
thinking, 'Ripping grub.' He was not a particularly greedy person, but
Elfrey air is keen and any growing boy can appreciate a solid meal
about half-past six. Martin was quite prepared, for his part, to
change his clothes and undergo the ordeal of any company, even Mrs
Foskett's, for the sake of a meal which included sausages and trifle.
III
Elfrey was one of the numerous public schools brought into existence by
the sudden growth of the middle class during the nineteenth century.
Consequently it had neither money nor traditions. The lack of the
former was a severe handicap and could only result in the scandalous
underpayment of the masters and the abominable necessity of sending
round the hat, which of course returned half empty, whenever the school
needed a new building or playing-field. The absence of the latter was
more wholesome. Everyone had a hearty contempt for Eton and Harrow and
Winchester and considered that the fuss made about them was ridiculous.
"We could have damped the lot at cricket last summer" was the general
opinion, and it may have been correct, so great had Fermor been. How
far this attitude was based on mere jealousy, and how far it
represented a sound distrust of top-hats, side, and antiquated customs,
it would be difficult to decide. As a result of their abhorrence for
tradition, Elfrey had no organised system of fagging, and each house
had established its own regime.
At Berney's any prefect or member of the Sixth could, theoretically,
command the services of anyone who had not a study; but this right was
little used, and it was generally felt that too great assumption on the
part of a Sixth would lead to unpopularity.
Prefects, however, as opposed to Sixths, were accustomed to take unto
themselves a small boy and give him the use of their study on the
condition that he dusted it, cleaned their cups and plates, and made
himself generally useful. Although this office received the derogatory
title of 'being study-slut,' it was, on the whole, rather sought after,
as only the more attractive and popular members of the workroom were
chosen for the position.
Martin was therefore considerably surprised when one of the prefects,
called Leopard, adopted him in the fourth week of term. Leopard was a
genuine Olympian. He had played with distinction in the historic
Elfreyan eleven of last summer: he was school sports champion: he had
played rackets for Elfrey at Queen's Club: and now he was being tried
as wing three-quarter in the rugger team. By specialising in science
he had scraped into a Sixth, and he was intending to continue his
athletic, if not his scientific, career at Cambridge. This ambition,
however, necessitated the study of Greek, and the study of Greek
necessitated for a scientist laborious days. Leopard had discovered
that Martin was in the Lower Fifth and could write Greek prose without
howlers. He seemed also to be quite an attractive individual, and
neither law nor custom forbade the acquisition of a second menial. So
Martin became, to his own great satisfaction, the junior study-slut of
Leopard.
Pearson, his senior in that office, naturally attempted to make him do
all the work of tidying, but Leopard put an end to that, and it was
soon understood that Martin's function was the composition of correct
Greek prose. This he fulfilled efficiently and Leopard, who had
recently been harried by his instructor in Greek in a way quite
revolting to his dignity and self-respect, found life at once more easy
and more honourable. He became very intimate with Martin and would
talk to him at great length in a patronising but amusing way: he would
even allow Martin to rag him and call him by his nickname, Spots.
Inevitably Martin worshipped Spots. The study became to him a temple,
a very awful and a sacred place. On its walls were scores of
photographs, signed pictures of school bloods past and present,
photographs of elevens, photographs of fifteens, photographs of the
Racket Pair, and photographs of a girl, who was usually on horseback.
These last were carefully framed and signed in round, sprawling
letters, 'Kiddie.' Martin, as he gazed upon them, began to form
conceptions of the perfect life. There was a bookcase, too, with a
fine collection of shilling novels whose paper covers bore lurid
pictures of Life and Love. In spite of a certain monotony of theme and
a devastating dullness in its elaboration, Spots seemed to derive
considerable pleasure from those works, which he always read while
Martin was doing his Greek prose. Martin was kept too busy to do much
reading, but he appreciated the pictures on the covers and was
impressed by the dark-eyed women in red who accepted on divans the
passionate kisses of blond young men in faultless evening dress. The
room also contained some old swords (bought from a predecessor), a
number of rackets, a bag of golf-clubs, and a fine array of cushions
with humorous designs. The culinary outfit and china were complete to
the verge of opulence. The Leopard's Den, as the study was commonly
called, had achieved a certain reputation for magnificence, a
reputation in which Martin gloried. He even enjoyed the dusting and
cleaning and despised Pearson for his laziness and lack of proper
pride. But it was not mere priggishness that animated him.
Meanwhile Mrs Berney had not forgotten his possibilities, and it was
arranged that he should attend her poetry circle which met after
prayers on Saturday evenings. It was composed mainly of older boys,
and two of them were vast intellectuals in the Upper Sixth, so that
Martin felt very awed at the prospect of reading Keats amid such
company. One of them was actually the school poet and had lately
worked off in _The Elfreyan_ the emotions evoked by a summer holiday in
the Lakes:
"The flaming bracken fires the breast
Of bosky Borrowdale,
Down swoops the sun in a riot of red
Behind Scawfell to a watery bed,
And the moon hath clomb o'er Skiddaw's head,
So perfect and so pale."
Martin, who had also been in the Lakes, thought this rather good and
much better than Wordsworth. He was still a Tennysonian and connected
poetry with the lavish use of alliteration and words like 'clomb' and
'bosky.' The thought that on the next Saturday evening he was to read
in the company of such an one was as terrifying as it was inspiring.
But it was not yet to be.
Leopard's one fault was, in Martin's opinion, his tendency to sulk: his
career had been so uniformly successful that he was easily piqued by a
reverse. Once or twice before Martin had thought it expedient to slip
away quietly when he saw Spots looking black, but on this particular
Saturday Fate fought against him. Leopard was dropped from the school
fifteen for the match against Oxford A. It was admitted that once
Leopard had the ball in his hands no one on earth could catch him, but
it was rumoured that his defence was weak: it was always the way with
these running-track sprinters; they couldn't tackle. So the captain
had taken notice of a mere child of sixteen, called Raikes, who played
"back" for his house and could tumble anybody over.
Oxford brought down a strong team, but they only won by sixteen points
to eleven: and Raikes not only scored two excellent tries, but marked
with unerring certainty the notable Rhodes scholar who had made history
in South African Rugby. It was on the lips of all that Spots was in
the soup or the apple-cart (the popularity of the rival metaphors was
evenly balanced), and sporting members of Raikes' house were laying ten
to one that their hero would be 'capped' within a month. Spots had
watched the match dismally from the touch-line and he did not take it
at all well. When he came back to Berney's his angry soul cried out
for tea: and he found that all his cups were dirty. It was Pearson's
duty to clean the cups, and Pearson was in 'sicker' with influenza.
Martin had been told to do Pearson's work for the next few days, but he
had not realised what Pearson really did and he had forgotten about the
cups. Moreover, after watching the match, he had gone off to the
tuck-shop to eat ham and chocolate: so Leopard shouted for him in vain,
and then, spurning the proffered aid of sycophantic aliens, he
furiously washed his own cups and made his own tea. An angry man does
not lightly reject an excuse for wrath, and Spots thoroughly enjoyed
the nursing of his grievance.
On his way back from the tuck-shop Martin borrowed a copy of Keats from
the school library: then he settled down at his desk in the workroom
and began to look through the Odes to see if there were any words that
he could not pronounce. The meeting of the poetry circle was
formidably near and the old fear of being shown up was vigorously
attacking him.
Suddenly Caruth came up and said: "Spots wants you."
So he put away the book and went up to the study. He saw at once that
Spots was in the blackest of moods.
"Why the blazes didn't you wash the cups?" he said. "I told you to do
Pearson's work."
Martin trembled. "I forgot," he said. "I couldn't think of all the
things Pearson did."
"I should have thought that the washing of cups might have struck you
as a fairly obvious thing to do."
"Yes; I'm sorry."
"The fact of the matter is, you're getting a bit above yourself. Just
because you're clever you think you're everyone. Now you're too good
to wash cups."
"It wasn't that really, Leopard. I forgot."
"Well you damned well mustn't forget. You're too good to keep awake.
That's just as bad. Now get out, you little beast, and come to me
after prayers."
Martin went back to his Keats in misery. He could guess what was in
store for him, but he could not be certain, because Spots might have
recovered from his wrath by the appointed time and then he might treat
the matter as a joke. But if Spots didn't recover ... well, then he
would be swiped. Martin had never been caned at his private school and
this would be his first experience; he wondered how much it would hurt.
Then fear came surging over him, not the dread of anything definite,
but the hideous fear of the unknown. He was not so much afraid that he
would be hurt as that he would show that he had been hurt: that was the
deadly, the unpardonable, sin. He wished to heaven he had been swiped
before so that he might know his own capacity for endurance. Keats
became intolerable. House tea was a long-drawn agony. Discussion
centred on the match and the brilliant play of Raikes.
"What did old Spots want?" asked Caruth. "He seemed to be in the deuce
of a hair."
"Only about cleaning cups," said Martin gloomily.
"Thank the Lord I'm not a study-slut. Was he very ratty?"
"Oh, not very. Flannery, you hog, pass the bread."
The conversation had at any cost to be changed, and Martin was pleased
when the general attention was directed to the colossal hoggishness of
Flannery, who was mixing jam, sardines, and potted meat.
As time went on the agony of suspense grew like an avalanche, carrying
all before it. Martin did practically no work during prep. Impossible
to linger over algebra or the Bacchae when Spots and his cups obsessed
the mind. It was not the injustice of being victimised for a slip of
the memory when Pearson was in sicker, but the possibility of being
shown up as a coward that tortured him most. He knew that other boys
were swiped with some frequency and managed to pretend that they did
not mind. But it might turn out that he was not so tough as other
boys. Besides Spots had the wrist of a racket player and was renowned
for his powers of castigation. And then there was the poetry circle.
If the worst happened, he would have to cut that and explain
afterwards. What on earth could he say? The thought was too horrid
for consideration.
After prep and supper Mr Berney used to read prayers, while the boys
knelt down and thought about any odd subject that came to mind. They
were not, as a house, particularly irreligious, but it is astonishingly
easy to acquire the habit of saying 'Amen' at the right place and
repeating the Lord's Prayer without being aware of your actions. But
to-night Martin was conscious of all that was said and did not open his
lips. As he gazed in silence at the backs of the wooden benches he
began to feel physically sick.
After prayers the house dispersed to talk, or finish work, or go to
bed. Martin hurried to Leopard's study. There he waited for five
age-long minutes: he felt that a hundred swipings would be better than
this delay. The study seemed a vast blur of photographs, all dim and
misty except one: that was a large picture of Kiddie, the equestrienne,
who beamed on him from close at hand, gripping her riding-switch.
Kiddie became the only object in the room. The smile and the switch
fascinated him. They were symbolic, they were abominable. At this
same Kiddie he had often gazed in rapturous worship, wondering whether
Leopard was the more blessed for knowing her or she for knowing him.
God, how he loathed her now.
At last Leopard arrived. The clouds had not lifted. He had just
overheard Moore remarking to a friend that, as a three-quarter, Raikes
was worth a dozen of Spots.
"Oh, you," he said quietly. "Just go to the prefects' common-room."
Martin turned and went out. His fate was settled. He felt, as he
walked down the long passage listening to the tread of Leopard behind
him, as though all his internal organs were falling into his feet.
When they reached the common-room Leopard turned up the light and
locked the door. Then he took a cane from a cupboard in the corner and
made Martin bend over with his head under the table. Leopard had
suffered during the evening, for the almost certain loss of a rugger
cap on which he had counted was a terrible blow to his pride and his
ambitions. He was angry, desperately angry, and his only desire was to
express his anger in action. The fact that he was fond of Martin only
added piquancy to the situation. The maximum punishment that a house
prefect could inflict was eight strokes. He did not stop short of his
maximum.
After the first three strokes Martin felt as though nothing could
prevent him crying out: then a blessed numbness seemed to come over him
and he remained silent and motionless. Afterwards he had to climb on
to the table and put out the light. Then he went upstairs to his
cubicle: he was not in the mood for poetry. On such occasions rumour
has swift wings, and when he reached the dormitory the news had
magically been spread abroad.
Voices cried: "How many?"
"Eight."
"Did it hurt?"
"No, not much." He lied, for he had learned the tradition.
There were murmurs of: "Bad luck," "Old Spots is the limit," "Just
because he got the chuck for not tackling."
And then Neave remarked in the midst of a silence: "If we get nailed
funking a collar we get swiped. But if Spots gets nailed, then he
swipes someone else. That's justice."
The expressions of genuine sympathy were very comforting to Martin.
Though now the numbness was wearing off and the reality of his pain
came home to him, he was happier than he had been for days. He had
opened another door: he was getting on with his task of finding things
out. Not only was the cruel suspense finished for ever, but he had
learned his own capacities: he could stick it like the others. And to
have the regard, the compassion, of one so great as Neave! He had
suffered, he still suffered, but who would not suffer to become a
martyr? He began to realise, as he pulled the bed-clothes over him,
that Spots had not been the minister of a fortune sheerly malignant.
IV
In the morning Martin was stiff and sore and began his toilet by
examining himself in a looking-glass: when he discovered the havoc that
had been wrought he felt very proud of himself and knew that this
appearance in the changing-room before football on Monday need cause
him no distress: those who wanted to see the damage would have
something to look at. The discomfort which he experienced during the
day was quite outweighed by his satisfaction at his achievement and
fortitude: that he was the first of the new boys to be swiped rendered
him in their eyes a distinctly important person. Even Caruth, who
always patronised Martin, began to climb down.
The Berneys had midday dinner with the house, and Martin succeeded in
catching Mrs Berney as she left the dining-hall.
"I'm very sorry I couldn't come last night," he said, blushing.
"So am I. You must come next Saturday. What kept you?"
"Oh--er--I had to see one of the prefects," he answered with hesitation.
Mrs Berney, knowing that 'after prayers' was the hour of justice, could
guess from the boy's manner what had occurred.
"That was a pity," she said kindly. And Martin knew that she knew. He
felt prouder and more heroic than ever. Then she added: "Come in after
prayers to-morrow night. There won't be anyone there."
"Oh, thank you very much," he said in ecstasy. He had become in a
moment the slave and worshipper of Mrs Berney. Afterwards Caruth asked
him the subject of his conversation with Mrs B., and he answered: "Oh,
nothing." On Monday night he went to the drawing-room and read the
odes with which the circle had dealt on Saturday. Mrs Berney gave him
cocoa and cake and was entirely charming. As he left her he even
thanked heaven for old Spots.
Leopard, on the other hand, was extremely angry with himself. He
realised on the following day that he had behaved like a brute: under
normal circumstances he would have ragged Martin and told him not to do
it again. At the most a mild four would have been considered ample.
But eight! It was undeniably excessive. If it had only been someone
else it wouldn't have mattered so much (for abstract justice made no
great appeal to Spots), but there was that kid slinking about his study
and cleaning everything that he could lay hold of with maddening
assiduity. Not for a moment could he forget his iniquity. One thing,
however, was certain. It would be quite inconsistent with the dignity
of a blood to say anything about what had occurred. So Martin noticed
several changes in Spots' demeanour. He was more silent and did not
rag him as before: nor did he follow his custom of bringing the Greek
prose to Martin on Tuesdays and Fridays. Nobly he toiled at it alone
and was roundly abused in form on the following days. But the memory
of youth is short and soon they drifted back into the old friendly
relations. Martin, however, took good care not to be guilty of further
slips, for though he was glad now that he had been swiped, he did not
in the least wish it to happen again.
The term ran smoothly on. Caruth was adopted, to his infinite joy, by
Cullen and Neave and the youthful nuts, while Martin drifted into more
soulful society. He was even taken up in a kindly way by the poet of
Borrowdale, who lent him an anthology and used to hold forth to him
about men and letters. Martin was very much impressed and could not
decide what to think when Spots said the poet was a bilger. To Martin
the voice of Spots was still the voice of a god. Later on he heard the
poet call Spots 'a piffling Philistine,' but he did not know what it
meant and was ashamed to ask. Life began to expand in many directions
and new doors pressed themselves on his attention with haunting
urgency. On the whole Martin was enjoying his first term.
And so he settled down gladly to the routine. School life is liable to
a clearly marked dichotomy; there is a world of games and a world of
work. For Martin both had their pleasure, both their monotony.
Football, for instance, distinctly afforded moments. There were
seventy minutes of consummate joy while the school, released from the
round of "league" games, watched the match with their greatest rival,
Ashminster. Martin never forgot that struggle. It was the first
school match which he had been able to see, and he had not yet escaped
from the age of worship, the age in which every blood is a true
Olympian and reveals the deity as he walks. It was tremendous to watch
Moore battling in the line-out, or Llewelyn heaving an enemy to the
ground, or Raikes, capped now and the undisputed successor to Spots'
position on the left wing, go plunging along the touch-line with that
long and powerful stride. Martin could even forgive him for ousting
Spots when he saw him pick up an opponent by the knees and pitch him a
full three yards into touch.
For sixty minutes Martin stood wedged in a mass of shoving, bawling
humanity. And he had bawled, bawled till his voice and breath were
gone and he saw that he would need all his strength to avoid being
barged out of his position in the front row, a treasured post won by a
tedious wait. And now the long-drawn roar of 'Schoo-ool' went up
almost in despair. Ashminster were leading by six points to three and
Elfrey, with only ten minutes more, were being penned in their own
twenty-five. Never had their prospects looked more gloomy: the
forwards were losing the ball in the scrummage time after time and only
the perfect tackling of the backs kept down the score. Suddenly Ross,
on the right wing, intercepted a fumbled pass and was off. Someone
shouted: "Kick, man, kick." But this was no moment for safety play,
and Ross went on. Not till he was close to the fullback did he kick,
and then it was no feeble punt into touch that he made, but a great
swinging kick across field. For a moment there was a silence. Then a
great roar went up, the greatest roar since the beginning of the match.
Raikes, on the left wing, had foreseen the move, and following up with
the speed of the wind had magnificently caught the ball and was making
for the enemy's undefended line. It was the kind of movement that
comes crashing into the mind of the spectator years later on without
cause or suggestion just because it is unique.
But he was not over the line yet. Carter, the Ashminster centre, who
had captained his school for three years and played for the Harlequins
in the holidays, was in desperate pursuit. It was a race from the
half-way line and Raikes had five yards' start. Martin, crushed
against the ropes, hoarse and gasping, discerned with horror the deadly
speed of Carter. It was growing dark and a November mist was creeping
over the great field: impossible to trace that relentless pursuit: one
could only wait and listen. A roar went up. Raikes had been collared.
The teams gathered round the fallen figures and the referee. At last
they parted. Ashminster remained on their line and Armstrong, the
Elfrey scrum-half, was bringing out the ball. Raikes had fallen over
the line in a central position. The school gave vent to a shout that
stirred Mr Foskett to quote Homer on the wounded Ares. Llewelyn of
course took the kick. A safe thing, one said. But now, incredibly, he
failed. The ball trickled feebly along the ground and a vague moan
passed down the ranks.
Six all and five minutes to go. Play settled down near half-way. Both
teams were fighting like devils: and still there were found men to go
down to the rushes. Then the Ashminster back miskicked in an effort to
find touch. Llewelyn had made a mark. It was far off, but he was
going to have a shot at goal. As the teams separated and Llewelyn
balanced the ball in the half-back's hands, there was silence. Only
here and there a muttered voice would be heard as someone strove to
relieve the strain by objurgation.
"Callingham, you blighter, don't barge," or: "After you with my feet,
Ginger," or: "Hack that stinker Murray, he's oiled up two places."
Then, as Llewelyn took his run and the enemy charged, there was no
sound. The ball went soaring up. He had done it? The mist was
ubiquitously damned. Then the touch-judges behind the goals raised
their flags, a signal for the greatest roar of all. The match was
over, gloriously over. It only remained to charge headlong to the
tuck-shop and fight the whole game over again with ham and eggs or the
succulent cho-hone.
These were moments.
Football too brought other, more directly personal, moments. There was
the occasion when Moore and Spots came down to watch the juniors of
Berney's and Martin scored a try beneath their awful gaze. Surely it
was the very essence of triumph to see the enemy scowling on their
goal-line while Berney's sauntered away with the ball, and to know that
he and he alone was responsible for this cleavage of the hosts. Martin
walked with all the tremendous humility of glowing pride. It was the
first try he had ever scored, and Moore and Spots had seen it.
That evening Moore approached him after prayers.
"Hullo, Leigh," he said. "You scored this afternoon, didn't you?"
"Yes," said Martin, making a desperate effort to conceal his
satisfaction.
"Well," answered Moore deliberately, "you hadn't any business to.
You're a forward and it isn't your job to cut the scrum and lurk about
for the ball. They were pushing us and it was a mere fluke that they
kicked too hard. Anyhow the half could have scored: it was only a
matter of going two or three yards. You ought to have been in the
middle, shoving like hell. See?"
"Yes."
"Well, don't lurk any more, or there'll be trouble. It isn't a
forward's business to score tries. Anyone can be a 'winger': it takes
a man to shove."
Moore was one of the old school of forwards. He believed in foot-work
and read _The Morning Post_.
"So don't let me catch you loafing outside the scrum again," he
concluded. "There's quite enough chaps doing that already." And he
strolled away.