We left our hero, a short time back, busily engaged on his dinner
commons, and resolved forthwith to make great friends with Hardy.
It never occurred to him that there could be the slightest
difficulty in carrying out this resolve. After such a passage as
they two had had together that afternoon, he felt that the usual
outworks of acquaintanceship had been cleared at a bound, and
looked upon Hardy already as an old friend to whom he could talk
out his mind as freely as he had been used to do to his old tutor
at school, or to Arthur. Moreover, as there were already several
things in his head which he was anxious to ventilate, he was all
the more pleased that chance had thrown him across a man of so
much older standing than himself, and one to whom he
instinctively felt that he could look up.
Accordingly, after grace had been said, and he saw that Hardy had
not finished his dinner, but sat down again when the fellows had
left the hall, he strolled out, meaning to wait for his victim
outside, and seize upon him then and there; so he stopped on the
steps outside the hall-door, and to pass the time, joined himself
to one or two other men with whom he had a speaking acquaintance,
who were also hanging about. While they were talking, Hardy came
out of the hall, and Tom turned and stepped forward, meaning to
speak to him. To his utter discomfiture, Hardy walked quickly
away, looking straight before him, and without showing, by look
or gesture, that he was conscious of our hero's existence, or had
ever seen him before in his life.
Tom was so taken aback that he made no effort to follow. He just
glanced at his companions to see whether they had noticed the
occurrence, and was glad to see that they had not (being deep in
the discussion of the merits of a new hunter of Simmons's, which
one of them had been riding); so he walked away by himself to
consider what it could mean. But the more he puzzled about it,
the less could he understand it. Surely, he thought, Hardy must
have seen me; and yet, if he had, why did he not recognize me? My
cap and gown can't be such a disguise as all that. And yet common
decency must have led him to ask whether I was any the worse for
my ducking, if he knew me.
He scouted the notion, which suggested itself once or twice, that
Hardy meant to cut him; and so, not being able to come to any
reasonable conclusion, suddenly bethought him that he was asked
to a wine-party; and putting his speculations aside for a moment,
with the full intention nevertheless of clearing up the mystery
as soon as possible, he betook himself to the rooms of his
entertainer.
They were fair-sized rooms in the second quadrangle, furnished
plainly but well, so far as Tom could judge, but, as they were
now laid out for the wine-party, they had lost all individual
character for the time. Everyone of us, I suppose, is fond of
studying the rooms, chambers, dens in short, of whatever sort
they may be, of our friends and acquaintances--at least, I knew
that I myself like to see what sort of a chair a man sits in,
where he puts it, what books lie or stand on the shelves nearest
his hand, what the objects are which he keeps most familiarly
before him, in that particular nook of the earth's surface in
which he is most at home, where he pulls off his coat, collar,
and boots, and gets into an old easy shooting-jacket, and his
broadest slippers. Fine houses and fine rooms have little
attraction for most men, and those who have the finest
drawing-rooms are probably the most bored by them; but the den of
the man you like, or are disposed to like, has the strongest and
strangest attraction for you. However, an Oxford undergraduate's
room, set out for a wine-party, can tell you nothing. All the
characteristics are shoved away into the background, and there is
nothing to be seen but a long mahogany set out with bottles,
glasses, and dessert. In the present instance the preparations
for festivity were pretty much what they ought to be: good sound
port and sherry, biscuits, and a plate or two of nuts and dried
fruits. The host, who sat at the head of the board, was one of
the main-stays of the College boat-club. He was treasurer of the
club, and also a kind of a boating nurse, who looked-up and
trained the young oars, and in this capacity had been in command
of the freshmen's four-oar, in which Tom had been learning his
rudiments. He was a heavy, burly man, naturally awkward in his
movements, but gifted with a steady sort of dogged enthusiasm,
and by dint of hard and constant training, had made himself into
a most useful oar, fit for any place in the middle of the boat.
In the two years of his residence, he had pulled down to Sandford
every day except Sundays, and much farther whenever he could get
anybody to accompany him. He was the most good natured man in the
world, very badly dressed, very short sighted, and called
everybody "old fellow." His name was simple Smith, generally
known as Diogenes Smith, from an eccentric habit which he had of
making an easy chair of his hip bath. Malicious acquaintance
declared that when Smith first came up, and, having paid the
valuation for the furniture in his rooms, came to inspect the
same, the tub in question had been left by chance in the
sitting-room, and that Smith, not having the faintest idea of its
proper use, had by the exercise of his natural reason come to the
conclusion that it could only be meant for a man to sit in, and
so had kept it in his sitting-room, and had taken to it as an
arm-chair. This I have reason to believe was a libel. Certain it
is, however, that in his first term he was discovered sitting
solemnly in the tub, by his fire-side, with his spectacles on,
playing the flute--the only other recreation besides boating in
which he indulged; and no amount of quizzing could get him out of
the habit. When alone, or with only one or two friends in his
room, he still occupied the tub; and declared that it was the
most perfect of seats hitherto invented, and, above all, adapted
for the recreation of a boating man, to whom cushioned seats
should be an abomination. He was naturally a very hospitable man,
and on this night was particularly anxious to make his rooms
pleasant to all comers, as it was a sort of opening for the
boating season. This wine of his was a business matter, in fact,
to which Diogenes had invited officially, as treasurer of the
boat-club, every man who had ever shown the least tendency to
pulling,--many with whom he had scarcely a nodding acquaintance.
For Miller, the coxswain, had come up at last. He had taken his
B.A. degree in the Michaelmas term, and had been very near
starting for a tour in the East. Upon turning the matter over in
his mind, however, Miller had come to the conclusion that
Palestine, and Egypt, and Greece could not run away, but that,
unless he was there to keep matters going, the St. Ambrose boat
would lose the best chance it was ever likely to have of getting
to the head of the river. So he had patriotically resolved to
reside till June, read divinity, and coach the racing crew; and
had written to Diogenes to call together the whole boating
interest of the College, that they might set to work at once in
good earnest. Tom, and the three or four other freshmen present,
were duly presented to Miller as they came in, who looked them
over as the colonel of a crack regiment might look over horses at
Horncastle-fair, with a single eye to their bone and muscle, and
how much work might be got out of them. They then gathered
towards the lower end of the long table, and surveyed the
celebrities at the upper end with much respect. Miller, the
coxswain, sat on the host's right hand,--a slight, resolute,
fiery little man, with curly black hair. He was peculiarly
qualified by nature for the task which he had set himself; and it
takes no mean qualities to keep a boat's crew well together and
in order. Perhaps he erred a little on the side of
over-strictness and severity; and he certainly would have been
more popular had his manners been a thought more courteous; but
the men who rebelled most against his tyranny grumblingly
confessed that he was a first-rate coxswain.
A very different man was the captain of the boat, who sat
opposite to Miller; altogether, a noble specimen of a very noble
type of our countrymen. Tall and strong of body; courageous and
even-tempered; tolerant of all men; sparing of speech, but ready
in action; a thoroughly well balanced, modest, quiet Englishman;
one of those who do a good stroke of the work of the country
without getting much credit for it, or even becoming aware of the
fact; for the last thing such men understand is how to blow their
own trumpets. He was perhaps too easy for the captain of St.
Ambrose boat-club; at any rate, Miller was always telling him so.
But, if he was not strict enough with others, he never spared
himself, and was as good as three men in the boat at a pinch.
But if I venture on more introductions, my readers will get
bewildered; so I must close the list, much as I should like to
make them known to "fortis Gyas fortisque Cloanthus," who sat
round the chiefs, laughing and consulting, and speculating on the
chances of the coming races. No, stay, there is one other man
they must make room for. Here he comes, rather late, in a very
glossy hat, the only man in the room not in cap and gown. He
walks up and takes his place by the side of the host as a matter
of course; a handsome, pale man, with a dark, quick eye,
conscious that he draws attention wherever he goes, and
apparently of the opinion that it is right.
"Who is that who has just come in in beaver?" said Tom, touching
the next man to him.
"Oh, don't you know? that's Blake; he's the most wonderful fellow
in Oxford," answered his neighbor.
"How do you mean?" said Tom.
"Why, he can do everything better than almost anybody, and
without any trouble at all. Miller was obliged to have him in the
boat last year, though he never trained a bit. Then he's in the
eleven, and is a wonderful rider, and tennis-player, and shot."
"Ay, and he's so awfully clever with it all," joined in the man
on the other side. "He'll be a safe first, though I don't believe
he reads more than you or I. He can write songs, too, as fast as
you can talk nearly, and sings them wonderfully."
"Is he of our College, then?"
"Yes, of course, or he couldn't have been in our boat last year."
"But I don't think I ever saw him in chapel or hall"
"No, I daresay not. He hardly ever goes to either, and yet he
manages never to get hauled up much, no one knows how. He never
gets up now till the afternoon, and sits up nearly all night
playing cards with the fastest fellows, or going round singing
glees at three or four in the morning."
Tom sipped his port and looked with great interest at the
admirable Crichton of St. Ambrose's; and, after watching him a
few moments said in a low voice to his neighbor,
"How wretched he looks! I never saw a sadder face."
Poor Blake! one can't help calling him "poor," although he
himself would have winced at it more than any name you could have
called him. You might have admired, feared, or wondered at him,
and he would have been pleased; the object of his life was to
raise such feelings in his neighbors; but pity was the last which
he would like to excite.
He was indeed a wonderfully gifted fellow, full of all sorts of
energy and talent, and power and tenderness; and yet, as his face
told only too truly to anyone who watched him when he was
exerting himself in society, one of the most wretched men in the
College. He had a passion for success--for beating everybody else
in whatever he took in hand, and that, too, without seeming to
make any great effort himself. The doing a thing well and
thoroughly gave him no satisfaction unless he could feel that he
was doing it better and more easily than A, B, or C, and they
felt and acknowledged this. He had had full swing of success for
two years, and now the Nemesis was coming.
For, although not an extravagant man, many of the pursuits in
which he has eclipsed all rivals were far beyond the means of any
but a rich one, and Blake was not rich. He had a fair allowance,
but by the end of his first year was considerably in debt, and,
at the time we are speaking of, the whole pack of Oxford
tradesmen into whose books he had got (having smelt out the
leaness of his expectations), were upon him, besieging him for
payment. This miserable and constant annoyance was wearing his
soul out. This was the reason why his oak was sported, and he was
never seen till the afternoons, and turned night into day. He was
too proud to come to an understanding with his persecutors, even
had it been possible; and now, at his sorest need, his whole
scheme of life was failing him; his love of success was turning
into ashes in his mouth; he felt much more disgust than pleasure
at his triumphs over other men, and yet the habit of striving for
successes, notwithstanding its irksomeness, was too strong to be
resisted.
Poor Blake! he was living on from hand to mouth, flashing out in
his old brilliancy and power, and forcing himself to take the
lead in whatever company he might be; but utterly lonely and
depressed when by himself--reading feverishly in secret, in a
desperate effort to retrieve all by high honors and a fellowship.
As Tom said to his neighbor, there was no sadder face than his to
be seen in Oxford.
And yet at this very wine party he was the life of everything, as
he sat up there between Diogenes--whom he kept in a constant sort
of mild epileptic fit, from laughter, and wine going the wrong
way (for whenever Diogenes raised his glass Blake shot him with
some joke)--and the Captain who watched him with the most
undisguised admiration. A singular contrast, the two men! Miller,
though Blake was the torment of his life, relaxed after the first
quarter of all hour; and our hero, by the same time, gave himself
credit for being a much greater ass than he was, for having ever
thought Blake's face a sad one.
When the room was quite full, and enough wine had been drunk to
open the hearts of the guests, Diogenes rose on a signal from
Miller, and opened the budget. The financial statement was a
satisfactory one; the club was almost free of debt; and,
comparing their position with that of other colleges, Diogenes
advised that they might fairly burden themselves a little more,
and then, if they would stand a whip of ten shillings a man, they
might have a new boat, which he believed they all would agree had
become necessary. Miller supported the new boat in a pungent
little speech; and the Captain, when appealed to, nodded and said
he thought they must have one. So the small supplies and the
large addition to the club debt was voted unanimously, and the
Captain, Miller, and Blake, who had many notions as to the
flooring, lines, and keel of a racing boat, were appointed to
order and superintend the building.
Soon afterwards, coffee came in and cigars were lighted; a large
section of the party went off to play pool, others to stroll
about the streets, others to whist; a few, let us hope, to their
own rooms to read; but these latter were a sadly small minority
even in the quietest of St. Ambrose parties.
Tom, who was fascinated by the heroes at the head of the table,
sat steadily on, sidling up towards them as the intermediate
places became vacant, and at last attained the next chair but one
to the Captain, where for the time he sat in perfect bliss. Blake
and Miller were telling boating stories of the Henley and Thames
regattas, the latter of which had been lately started with great
_eclat_; and from these great yearly events, and the deeds of
prowess done thereat, the talk came gradually round to the next
races.
"Now, Captain," said Miller, suddenly, "have you thought yet what
new men we are to try in the crew this year?"
"No, 'pon my honor I haven't," said the Captain, "I'm reading,
and have no time to spare. Besides, after all, there's lots of
time to think about it. Here we're only half through Lent term,
and the races don't begin till the end of Easter term."
"It won't do," said Miller, "we must get the crew together this
term."
"Well, you and Smith put your heads together and manage it," said
the Captain. "I will go down any day, and as often as you like,
at two o'clock."
"Let's see," said Miller to Smith, "how many of the old crew have
we left?"
"Five, counting Blake," answered Diogenes.
"Counting me! well, that's cool," laughed Blake; "you old tub
haunting flute-player, why am I not to be counted?"
"You never will train, you see," said Diogenes.
"Smith is quite right," said Miller; "there's no counting on you,
Blake. Now, be a good fellow, and promise to be regular this
year."
"I'll promise to do my work in a race, which is more than some of
your best-trained men will do," said Blake, rather piqued.
"Well you know what I think on the subject," said Miller; "but
who have we got for the other three places?"
"There's Drysdale would do," said Diogenes; "I hear he was a
capital oar at Eton; and so, though I don't know him, I managed
to get him once down last term. He would do famously for No.2, or
No.3 if he would pull."
"Do you think he will, Blake? You know him, I suppose," said
Miller.
"Yes, I know him well enough," said Blake; and, shrugging his
shoulders, added, "I don't think you'll get him to train much."
"Well, we must try," said Miller. "Now, who else is there?"
Smith went through four or five names, at each of which Miller
shook his head.
"Any promising freshmen?" said he at last.
"None better than Brown here," said Smith. "I think he'll do well
if he will only work, and stand being coached."
"Have you ever pulled much?" said Miller.
"No," said Tom, "never till this last month--since I've been up
here."
"All the better," said Miller; "now, Captain, you hear; we may
probably have to go in with three new hands; they must get into
your stroke this term, or we shall be nowhere."
"Very well," said the Captain; "I'll give from two till five any
days you like."
"And now let's go and have one pool," said Blake, getting up.
"Come, Captain, just one little pool after all this business."
Diogenes insisted on staying to play his flute; Miller was
engaged; but the Captain, with a little coaxing, was led away by
Blake, and good-naturedly asked Tom to accompany them, when he
saw that he was looking as if he would like it. So the three went
off to the billiard-rooms; Tom in such spirits at the chance of
being tried in the crew, that he hardly noticed the exceedingly
bad exchange which he had involuntarily made of his new cap and
gown for a third-year cap with the board broken into several
pieces, and a fusty old gown which had been about college
probably for ten generations. Under-graduate morality in the
matter of caps and gowns seems to be founded on the celebrated
maxim, "_Propriete c'est le vol_."
They found the St. Ambrose pool-room full of the fast set; and
Tom enjoyed his game much, though his three lives were soon
disposed of. The Captain and Blake were the last lives on the
board, and divided the pool at Blake's suggestion. He had
scarcely nerve for playing out a single handed match with such an
iron-nerved, steady piece of humanity as the Captain, though he
was the more brilliant player of the two. The party then broke
up, and Tom returned to his rooms; and, when he was by himself
again, his thoughts recurred to Hardy. How odd, he thought, that
they never mentioned him for the boat! Could he have done
anything to be ashamed of? How was it that nobody seemed to know
him, and he to know nobody.
Most readers, I doubt not, will think our hero very green for
being puzzled at so simple a matter; and, no doubt, the steps in
the social scale in England are very clearly marked out, and we
all come to the appreciation of the gradations sooner or later.
But our hero's previous education must be taken into
consideration. He had not been instructed at home to worship mere
conventional distinctions of rank or wealth, and had gone to a
school which was not frequented by persons of rank, and where no
one knew whether a boy was heir to a principality, or would have
to fight his own way in the world. So he was rather taken by
surprise at what he found to be the state of things at St.
Ambrose's and didn't easily realize it.