It was not long before Tom had effected his object in part. That
is to say, he had caught Hardy several times in the Quadrangle
coming out of Lecture Hall, or Chapel, and had fastened himself
upon him; often walking with him even up to the door of his
rooms. But there matters ended. Hardy was very civil and
gentlemanly; he even seemed pleased with the volunteered
companionship; but there was undoubtedly a coolness about him
which Tom could not make out. But, as he only liked Hardy more,
the more he saw of him, he very soon made up his mind to break
ground himself, and to make a dash at any rate for something more
than a mere speaking acquaintance.
One evening he had as usual walked from Hall with Hardy up to his
door. They stopped a moment talking, and then Hardy, half-opening
the door, said, "Well, goodnight; perhaps we shall meet on the
river to-morrow," and was going in, when Tom, looking him in the
face, blurted out, "I say, Hardy, I wish you'd let me come in and
sit with you a bit."
"I never ask a man of our college into my rooms," answered the
other, "but come in by all means if you like;" and so they
entered.
The room was the worst, both in situation and furniture, which
Tom had yet seen. It was on the ground floor, with only one
window, which looked out into a back yard, where were the offices
of the college. All day, and up to nine o'clock at night, the
yard and offices were filled with scouts; boys cleaning boots and
knives; bed-makers emptying slops and tattling scandal; scullions
peeling potatoes and listening; and the butchers' and
green-grocers' men who supply the college, and loitering about to
gossip and get a taste of the college ale before going about
their business. The room was large, but low and close, and the
floor uneven. The furniture did not add to the cheerfulness of
the apartment. It consisted of one large table in the middle,
covered with an old chequered table-cloth, and an Oxford table
near the window, on which lay half-a-dozen books with writing
materials. A couple of plain Windsor chairs occupied the two
sides of the fireplace, and half-a-dozen common wooden chairs
stood against the opposite wall, three on each side of a
pretty-well-filled book-case; while an old rickety sofa, covered
with soiled chintz, leaned against the wall which fronted the
window, as if to rest its lame leg. The carpet and rug were
dingy, and decidedly the worse for wear; and the college had
evidently neglected to paper the room or whitewash the ceiling
for several generations. On the mantle-piece reposed a few long
clay pipes, and a brown earthenware receptacle for tobacco,
together with a japanned tin case, shaped like a figure of eight,
the use of which puzzled Tom exceedingly. One modestly framed
drawing of a 10-gun brig hung above, and at the side of the
fireplace a sword and belt. All this Tom had time to remark by
the light of the fire, which was burning brightly, while his host
produced a couple of brass candlesticks from his cupboard and
lighted up, and drew the curtain before his window. Then Tom
instinctively left off taking his notes, for fear of hurting the
other's feelings (just as he would have gone on doing, and making
remarks on everything, had the rooms been models of taste and
comfort), and throwing his cap and gown on the sofa, sat down on
one of the Windsor chairs.
"What a jolly chair," said he; "where do you get them? I should
like to buy one."
"Yes, they're comfortable enough," said Hardy, "but the reason I
have them is, that they're the cheapest armchair one can get. I
like an arm-chair, and can't afford to have any other than
these."
Tom dropped the subject of the chairs at once, following his
instinct again, which, sad to say, was already teaching him that
poverty is a disgrace to a Briton, and that, until you know a man
thoroughly, you must always seem to assume that he is the owner
of unlimited ready money. Somehow or another, he began to feel
embarrassed, and couldn't think of anything to say, as his host
took down the pipes and tobacco from the mantle-piece, and placed
them on the table. However, anything was better than silence, so
he began again.
"Very good-sized rooms yours seem," said he, taking up a pipe
mechanically.
"Big enough, for the matter of that," answered the other, "but
very dark and noisy in the day-time."
"So I should think," said Tom; "do you know, I'd sooner, now,
have my freshman's rooms up in the garrets. I wonder you don't
change."
"I get these for nothing," said his host, putting his long clay
to the candle, and puffing out volumes of smoke. Tom felt more
and more unequal to the situation, and filled his pipe in
silence. The first whiff made him cough as he wasn't used to the
fragrant weed in this shape.
"I'm afraid you don't smoke tobacco," said his host from behind
his own cloud; "shall I go out and fetch you a cigar? I don't
smoke them myself; I can't afford it."
"No, thank you," said Tom blushing for shame as if he had come
there only to insult his host, and wishing himself heartily out
of it, "I've got my case here; and the fact is I will smoke a
cigar if you'll allow me, for I'm not up to pipes yet. I wish
you'd take some," he went on, emptying his cigars on to the
table.
"Thank'ee," replied his host, "I prefer a pipe. And now what will
you have to drink? I don't keep wine but I can get a bottle of
anything you like from the common room. That's one of _our_
privileges,"--he gave a grim chuckle as he emphasised the word
"our".
"Who on earth are _we_?" thought Tom "servitors I suppose," for
he knew already that undergraduates in general could not get wine
from the college cellars.
"I don't care a straw about wine," said he, feeling very hot
about the ears; "a glass of beer, or anything you have here--or
tea."
"Well, I can give you a pretty good glass of whiskey," said his
host, going to the cupboard, and producing a black bottle, two
tumblers of different sizes, some little wooden toddy ladles, and
sugar in an old cracked glass.
Tom vowed that, if there was one thing in the world he liked more
than another, it was whiskey; and began measuring out the liquor
carefully into his tumbler, and rolling it round between his eyes
and the candle and smelling it, to show what a treat it was to
him; while his host put the kettle on the fire, to ascertain that
it had quit boiling, and then, as it spluttered and fizzed,
filled up the two tumblers, and restored it to its place on the
hob.
Tom swallowed some of the mixture, which nearly made him cough
again--for, though it was very good, it was also very potent.
However, by an effort he managed to swallow his cough; he would
about as soon have lost a little finger as let it out. Then, to
his great relief, his host took the pipe from his lips, and
inquired, "How do you like Oxford?"
"I hardly know yet," said Tom; "the first few days I was
delighted with going about and seeing the buildings, and finding
out who had lived in each of the old colleges, and pottering
about in the Bodleian, and fancying I should like to be a great
scholar. Then I met several old school fellows going about, who
are up at other colleges, and went to their rooms and talked over
old times. But none of my very intimate friends are up yet, and
unless you care very much about a man already, you don't seem
likely to get intimate with him up here, unless he is at your own
college."
He paused, as if expecting an answer.
"I daresay not," said Hardy, "but I never was at a public school,
unluckily, and so am no judge."
"Well, then, as to the college life," went on Tom, "it's all very
well as far as it goes. There's plenty of liberty and good food.
And the men seem nice fellows--many of them, at least, so far as
I can judge. But I can't say that I like it as much as I liked
our school life."
"I don't understand," said Hardy. "Why not?"
"Oh! I hardly know," said Tom laughing; "I don't seem as if I had
anything to do here; that's one reason, I think. And then, you
see, at Rugby I was rather a great man. There one had a share in
the ruling of 300 boys, and a good deal of responsibility; but
here one has only just to take care of oneself, and keep out of
scrapes; and that's what I never could do. What do you think a
fellow ought to do, now, up here?"
"Oh I don't see much difficulty in that," said his host, smiling;
"get up your lectures well, to begin with."
"But my lectures are a farce," said Tom; "I've done all the books
over and over again. They don't take me an hour a day to get up."
"Well, then, set to work reading something regularly--reading for
your degree, for instance."
"Oh, hang it! I can't look so far forward as that; I shan't be
going up for three years."
"You can't begin too early. You might go and talk to your
college-tutor about it."
"So I did," said Tom; "at least I meant to do it. For he asked me
and two other freshmen to breakfast the other morning, and I was
going to open out to him; but when I got there I was quite shut
up. He never looked one of us in the face, and talked in set
sentences, and was cold, and formal, and condescending. The only
bit of advice he gave us was to have nothing to do with
boating--just the one thing which I feel a real interest in. I
couldn't get out a word of what I wanted to say."
"It is unlucky, certainly, that our present tutors take so little
interest in anything which the men care about. But it is more
from shyness than anything else, that manner which you noticed.
You may be sure that he was more wretched and embarrassed than
any of you."
"Well, but now I should really like to know what you did
yourself," said Tom; "you are the only man of much older standing
than myself whom I know at all yet--I mean I don't know anybody
else well enough to talk about this sort of thing to them. What
did you do, now, besides learning to pull, in your first year?"
"I had learnt to pull before I came up here," said Hardy.
"I really hardly remember what I did besides read. You see, I
came up with a definite purpose of reading. My father was very
anxious that I should become a good scholar. Then my position in
the college and my poverty naturally kept me out of the many
things which other men do."
Tom flushed again at the ugly word, but not so much as at first.
Hardy couldn't mind the subject, or he would never be forcing it
up at every turn, he thought.
"You wouldn't think it," he began again, harping on the same
string, "but I can hardly tell you how I miss the sort of
responsibility I was talking to you about. I have no doubt I
shall get the vacuum filled up before long, but for the life of
me I can't see how yet."
"You will be a very lucky fellow if you don't find it quite as
much as you can do to keep yourself in order up here. It is about
the toughest part of a man's life, I do believe, the time he has
spent here. My university life has been so different altogether
from what yours will be, that my experience isn't likely to
benefit you."
"I wish you would try me, though," said Tom; "you don't know what
a teachable sort of a fellow I am, if any body will take me the
right way. You taught me to scull, you know; or at least put me
in a way to learn. But sculling, and rowing, and cricket, and all
the rest of it, with such reading as I am likely to do, won't be
enough. I feel sure of that already.
"I don't think it will," said Hardy. "No amount of physical or
mental work will fill the vacuum you were talking of just now. It
is the empty house swept and garnished which the boy might have
had glimpses of, but the man finds yawning within him, which must
be filled somehow. It's a pretty good three years' work to learn
how to keep the devils out of it, more or less; by the time you
take your degree. At least I have found it so."
Hardy rose and took a turn or two up and down his room. He was
astonished at finding himself talking so unreservedly to one of
whom he knew so little, and half-wished the words recalled. He
lived much alone, and thought himself morbid and too
self-conscious; why should he be filling a youngster's head with
puzzles? How did he know that they were thinking of the same
thing?
But the spoken word cannot be recalled; it must go on its way for
good or evil; and this one set the hearer staring into the ashes,
and putting many things together in his head.
It was some minutes before he broke silence, but at last he
gathered up his thoughts, and said, "Well, I hope I sha'n't shirk
when the time comes. You don't think a fellow need shut himself
up, though? I'm sure I shouldn't be any the better for that."
"No, I don't think you would," said Hardy.
"Because, you see," Tom went on, waxing bolder and more
confidential, "If I were to take to moping by myself, I shouldn't
read as you or any sensible fellow would do; I know that well
enough. I should just begin, sitting with my legs upon the
mantel-piece, and looking into my own inside. I see you are
laughing, but you know what mean, don't you now?"
"Yes; staring into the vacuum you were talking of just now; it
all comes back to that," said Hardy.
"Well, perhaps it does," said Tom; "and I don't believe it does a
fellow a bit of good to be thinking about himself and his own
doings."
"Only he can't help himself," said Hardy. "Let him throw himself
as he will into all that is going on up here, after all he must
be alone for a great part of his time--all night at any rate--and
when he gets his oak sported, it's all up with him. He must be
looking more or less into his own inside, as you call it."
"Then I hope he won't find it as ugly a business as I do. If he
does, I'm sure he can't be worse employed."
"I don't know that," said Hardy; "he can't learn anything worth
learning in any other way."
"Oh, I like that!" said Tom; "it's worth learning how to play
tennis, and how to speak the truth. You can't learn either by
thinking of yourself ever so much."
"You must know the truth before you can speak it," said Hardy.
"So you always do in plenty of time."
"How?" said Hardy.
"Oh, I don't know," said Tom; "by a sort of instinct I suppose. I
never in my life felt any doubt about what I _ought_ to say or
do; did you?"
"Well, yours is a good, comfortable, working belief at any rate,"
said Hardy, smiling; "and I should advise you to hold on to it as
long as you can."
"But you don't think I can very long, eh?"
"No: but men are very different. There's no saying. If you were
going to get out of the self-dissecting business altogether
though, why should you have brought the subject up at all
to-night? It looks awkward for you, doesn't it?"
Tom began to feel rather forlorn at this suggestion, and probably
betrayed it in his face, for Hardy changed the subject suddenly.
"How do you get on in the boat? I saw you going down to-day, and
thought the time much better."
Tom felt greatly relieved, as he was beginning to find himself in
rather deep water; so he rushed into boating with great zest, and
the two chatted on very pleasantly on that and other matters.
The college clock struck during a pause in their talk, and Tom
looked at his watch.
"Eight o'clock I declare," he said; "why I must have been here
more than two hours. I'm afraid, now, you have been wanting to
work, and I have kept you from it with my talk."
"No, it's Saturday night. Besides, I don't get much society that
I care about, and so I enjoy it all the more. Won't you stop and
have some tea?"
Tom gladly consented, and his host produced a somewhat
dilapidated set of crockery, and proceeded to brew the drink
least appreciated at St. Ambrose's. Tom watched him in silence,
much excercised in his mind as to what manner of man he had
fallen upon; very much astonished at himself for having opened
out so freely, and feeling a desire to know more about Hardy, not
unmixed with a sort of nervousness as to how he was to accomplish
it.
When Hardy sat down again and began pouring out the tea,
curiosity overcame, and he opened with--
"So you read nights, after Hall?
"Yes, for two or three hours; longer, when I am in a good humor."
"What, all by yourself?"
"Generally; but once or twice a week Grey comes in to compare
notes. Do you know him?"
"No, at least he hasn't called on me, I have just spoken to him."
"He is a quiet fellow, and I daresay doesn't call on any man
unless he knew something of him before."
"Don't you?"
"Never," said Hardy, shortly; and added after a short pause,
"very few men would thank me if I did; most would think it
impertinent, and I'm too proud to risk that."
Tom was on the point of asking why; but the uncomfortable feeling
which he had nearly lost came back on him.
"I suppose one very soon gets tired of the wine and supper party
life, though I own I find it pleasant enough now."
"I have never been tired," said Hardy; "servitors are not
troubled with that sort of a thing. If they were I wouldn't go
unless I could return them, and that I can't afford."
"There he goes again," thought Tom; "why will he be throwing that
old story in my face over and over again? He can't think I care
about his poverty; I won't change the subject this time, at any
rate." And so he said:
"You don't mean to say it makes any real difference to a man in
society up here, whether he is poor or rich; I mean, of course,
if he is a gentleman and a good fellow?"
"Yes, it does--the very greatest possible. But don't take my word
for it. Keep your eyes open and judge for yourself; I daresay I'm
prejudiced on the subject."
"Well, I shan't believe it if I can help it," said Tom; "you
know, you said just now that you never called on any one. Perhaps
you don't give men a fair chance. They might be glad to know you
if you would let them, and may think it's your fault that they
don't."
"Very possible," said Hardy; "I tell you not to take my word for
it."
"It upsets all one's ideas so," went on Tom; "why Oxford ought to
be the place in England where money should count for nothing.
Surely, now, such a man as Jervis, our captain, has more
influence than all the rich men in the college put together, and
is more looked up to?"
"He's one of a thousand," said Hardy; "handsome, strong,
good-tempered, clever, and up to everything. Besides, he isn't a
poor man; and mind, I don't say that if he were he wouldn't be
where he is. I am speaking of the rule, and not of the
exceptions."
Here Hardy's scout came in to say that the Dean wanted to speak
to him. So he put on his cap and gown, and Tom rose also.
"Well, I'm sorry to turn you out," said Hardy; "and I'm afraid
I've been very surly and made you very uncomfortable. You won't
come back again in a hurry."
"Indeed I will though, if you will let me," said Tom; "I have
enjoyed my evening immensely."
"Then come whenever you like," said Hardy.
"But I am afraid of interfering with your reading," said Tom.
"Oh, you needn't mind that, I have plenty of time on my hands;
besides, one can't read all night, and from eight till ten you'll
find me generally idle."
"Then you'll see me often enough. But promise, now, to turn me
out whenever I am in the way."
"Very well," said Hardy, laughing; and so they parted for the
time.
Some twenty minutes afterwards Hardy returned to his room after
his interview with the Dean, who merely wanted to speak to him
about some matter of college business.
He flung his cap and gown on the sofa, and began to walk up and
down his room, at first hurriedly, but soon with his usual
regular tramp. However expressive a man's face may be, and
however well you may know it, it is simply nonsense to say that
you can tell what he is thinking about by looking at it, as many
of us are apt to boast. Still more absurd would it be to expect
readers to know what Hardy is thinking about, when they have
never had the advantage of seeing his face even in a photograph.
Wherefore, it would seem that the author is bound on such
occasions to put his readers on equal vantage ground with
himself, and not only tell what a man does, but, so far as may
be, what he is thinking about also.
His first thought, then, was one of pleasure at having been
sought by one who seemed to be just the sort of friend he would
like to have. He contrasted our hero with the few men with whom
he had generally lived, and for some of whom he had a high
esteem--whose only idea of exercise was a two hour constitutional
walk in the afternoons, and whose life was chiefly spent over
books and behind sported oaks--and felt that this was more of a
man after his own heart. Then came doubts whether his new friend
would draw back when he had been up a little longer, and knew
more of the place. At any rate he had said and done nothing to
tempt him; "if he pushes the acquaintance--and I think he
will--it will be because he likes me for myself. And I can do him
good too, I feel sure," he went on, as he ran over rapidly his
own life for the last three years. "Perhaps he won't flounder
into all the sloughs which I have had to drag through; he will
get too much of the healthy, active life up here for that, which
I have never had; but some of them he must get into. All the
companionship of boating and cricketing, and wine-parties, and
supper parties, and all the reading in the world won't keep him
from many a long hour of mawkishness, and discontent, and
emptiness of heart; he feels that already himself. Am I sure of
that, though? I may be only reading myself into him. At any rate,
why should I have helped to trouble him before the time? Was that
a friend's part? Well, he _must_ face it, and the sooner the
better perhaps. At any rate it is done. But what a blessed thing
if one can only help a youngster like this to fight his own way
through the cold clammy atmosphere which is always hanging over
him, ready to settle down on him--can help to keep some living
faith in him, that the world, Oxford and all, isn't a respectable
piece of machinery set going some centuries back! Ah! It's an
awful business, that temptation to believe, or think you believe,
in a dead God. It has nearly broken my back a score of times.
What are all the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the
devil to this? It includes them all. Well, I believe I can help
him, and, please God, I will, if he will only let me; and the
very sight of him does me good; so I won't believe we went down
the lasher together for nothing."
And so at last Hardy finished his walk, took down a volume of Don
Quixote from his shelves, and sat down for an hour's enjoyment
before turning in.