Chapter VI: Part 6

I have three in one of my sets where I'm supposed to have twenty-six. I've spent every spare moment in my rooms writing to Ruth, reading and trying my hand at poetry. Thank Heaven, Tony is still immune. He waits for me every night after chapel and we stagger across the snow-bound square with the wind blowing the filthy stuff into our eyes and down our necks and almost into our skins. One misses games in a place like this. I hate letting a day go by without taking violent exercise. I suppose if I were in the City I should be content with Saturday afternoons, but as a schoolmaster I feel that I can't teach and keep healthy unless I need a hot bath in the afternoon. The cold bath in the morning makes me yell with agony these days, but I always keep it up. I suppose it is good for me. At any rate it is refreshing.

Masefield had a new poem in the February number of the _English Review_ called "The Widow in the Bye-Street." All my boys immediately proceeded to copy it. He is certainly virile and unlike anybody else. He makes an irresistible appeal to youth. Of course the outspokenness of his diction accounts for this, at least partially.

Of late I have been sleeping rottenly. I always like to keep my blind up, so that I can hear the waves more clearly and see the sea from my bed. I notice that when the moon is up I get appalling nightmares and wake to find it full on my face. I wonder if I am liable to moonstroke!

We have cleared the snow off some of the ponds and had some really good skating. The most ridiculous rules have been made about it, because two boys were once drowned, a hundred or so years ago. Each House has to take a ladder and a rope with it, and not more than twenty boys are allowed on the same pond at the same time. Considering that none of the ponds is more than two feet deep or ten yards across, such precautions seem rather unnecessary, but nothing can be done at Radchester without rules being framed by the dozen to meet all contingencies. Curiously enough, a tragedy _has_ occurred. The head waiter in Common Room has drowned himself. We spent half of one bitter moonless night searching for his body. He leaves a widow and six children. I wonder why he did it. Was the conversation of the masters altogether too deadly for him? Was he underpaid? or was it just the depressing conditions? I never saw a place which so invited suicidal thoughts. The gloom of this coast at this time of the year is indescribable. All the bungalows down the beach are deserted and so are the little tea-houses which look so jolly in the summer-time. The Head Master has played a low-down, dirty trick on a man called Turner, who only joined us last term. He was quite young, brilliantly clever, popular and successful with the boys: he had to rent a cottage about a quarter of a mile away because he was married and had one baby. His wife was pretty and did a good deal to make the place habitable. One remembered sometimes even the way to take one's hat off. Well, he has had to go. His sin was--being married. The Head Master told him that he had come under false pretences, that the school could not afford to keep men who did not "live in," and that a wife caused a man to neglect his work.

_March 23, 1912_

During the last month or so I have been seized with a panic lest I should die of appendicitis or some such quick and hidden complaint. I can't sleep at all and I lie awake with a curious numb sort of pain and think of death. I am all right in the daytime for the most part. At any rate I am playing hockey and footer with all my old vigour and I never feel bad in form. It's just at night; unfortunately it's every night that I get seized with a real horror lest I should die uncared for, unhonoured and unwept. I should have liked a little taste of love and laughter, of civilized comfort--I should have liked to have written some sort of book which would have helped mankind along the rough road of life. I should like to have had a wife, an heir ... but as it is Tony must be my heir. I have transmitted to him my passionate love of literature, my keenness for beauty, my longing for a revolution in educational practice and theory.

I have worked off my spleen on a long centenary paper on Dickens for the _Radcastrian_, which will excite and annoy the lovers of that novelist a good deal.

I made all the boys in my form write centenary appreciations of Dickens, too. I got some queer stuff. He is not half as well known as he ought to be in spite of his great name. But I do wish he had resisted his tendency to caricature.

There have been the usual rows. By far the most disconcerting was the expulsion of Mather, who was a school prefect and a scholar of Magdalen, for stealing. It seems impossible to believe. It appears that he was in a House where most of the boys have far too much pocket-money: the very fags own to having "fivers." Poor old Mather was one of eight sons of a penniless country parson: he never had a sou and consequently starved when all the rest of the House were revelling in delicacies.

More masters have been poisoning the boys' minds against me. Tony's House-master has been lecturing him about my pernicious influence. I wish I knew what was behind this dark conspiracy. I wish they would give me some facts to go on, and say that just here or just there I was doing harm, but all their accusations are nebulous. Whenever I go up to a man's rooms and beard him in his den, he nearly always denies that he ever said any of the things which were reported of him. It's very difficult to know what to do.

I've discovered another wheeze which I use to get original work out of my form. I give out a list of forty or fifty words, ostensibly for spelling, and by the side of these they write a list of synonyms, and then during their next prep. they weave a story round the words I have given them. I have had wonderful results from this simple device. Incidentally the boys love doing it. It stimulates them, especially when they have to read their own efforts aloud.

Now that the sports are looming ahead, I get up in the very early mornings and take people for training walks. In the afternoon I run with them across country or round the track. Before I came no one worried much about the sports. I have really got them keen this year, much to Hallows' indignation, because as games master he is responsible for the sports, and he thinks I'm taking too much upon myself in training them daily for weeks before the events.

About a dozen of us, Tony and other boys in this House, go off every Sunday to a nook we've found by an inland stream. We call it a training walk: it pans out at twelve miles. By so doing we get right outside the country we know and really begin to get a glimmering of beauty on these glorious warm spring days. It's impossible to imagine now that we were ever snow-bound. It is warm and sunny every day; so much so that "Rugger," and hockey seem indescribably silly games for this time of year. It feels "crickety" weather. I've been writing articles on Hymns and Cross-Country Running for the London Press and had both accepted, which is a bit of luck. Things are looking up. All the same it's a nerve-racking process, waiting to hear one's fate by every post. Editors are as stubborn as mules and without any sense of humanity.

We have had one great excitement lately. A schooner ran ashore just close to my bedroom window and we had to rush out in the middle of the night and rescue people. Poor devils, they were awfully cold and miserable by the time we got them to bed in the sanatorium, but luckily there were no lives lost, and most of the cargo has been salvaged.

Life at the end of the Easter term is fairly brisk. It's impossible to get hold of boys to do anything in the way of extra work owing to the innumerable House competitions. There is the Junior and Senior Hockey, the Singing Competition, the Boxing, the Gym., the Corps and Certificate "A," the Sports, and Heaven knows what besides--and every man on the staff thinks that his pet job is the only one that matters. The only thing about which we are all agreed is that school work does not matter. No one thinks of that. All the same I think these contests are good things, particularly in the Corps, though I object to the extraordinary number of prizes and pots that are lavished upon individual winners. There's a huge element of selfishness inspired by the very things which we hold to eradicate it. I took two days off by going down to Queen's Club to see the Oxford and Cambridge Sports. It was a rare treat to meet all one's best friends of the Oxford days and watch other people in the last stages of nervous funk as we were so few years ago. I went to the dinner afterwards: I wonder whether one will ever grow out of these orgies. They are very life and blood to me now at any rate. I expect our older guests get a trifle tired with the exuberance of our spirits before the end. It was very tame to have to come back to Radchester and the school sports after that grand struggle at Queen's Club.

_April 13, 1912_

Here I am back again in my beloved Bath.

The term ended well. Heatherington's won the sports and I was the recipient of a tremendous ovation at the House Supper. I don't think I ever felt so proud before. At the end of term I went down to Hampton Court with Tony until Good Friday, when I went on to see Ruth: we have spent all the rest of the time together.

It was at the Easter Ball that I saw a face which I shall never forget. I was ragging about with Ruth in the vestibule when I saw a girl at the far end of the room talking to young Conyngham, one of the "nuts" of Bath, whom I cordially dislike. They seemed very pleased with one another. I don't know what came over me but Walter Savage Landor's phrase came into my mind, "By Jove, I'm going to marry that girl," and before I knew what I was doing I had left Ruth and raced across to Conyngham and asked him to introduce me to his partner. He was really bored. She was not pleased. Apparently he realized that I meant to stay there till he did introduce me and so he gruffly mumbled, "Oh! This is Mr. Traherne--Miss Tetley," and walked away about two yards. "Don't go away, Philip," she said, in a voice that thrilled me to hear.

"May I----?" I began.

"I'm afraid I've only got number 17 left."

"May I have that--and any extras?"

"If you like--I'm afraid I didn't hear your name."

"Traherne. Patrick Traherne--let me write it for you."

I did and received instant dismissal. Not a promising start, but I was pleased just to get so much out of her. All the evening, as I was gallivanting round with Ruth, I kept on looking at her, but she had no eyes for me. I asked Ruth about her, but she was not interested.

"Which girl? Oh, that one. I don't know her except by sight. Her name's Elspeth Tetley. Rather ugly, don't you think? Her name I mean. No: she's a pretty enough little thing in herself. She seems very fond of Mr. Conyngham."

Yes, she did--confound her. Incidentally, she cut my dance and there were no extras, so I did not see her again that night. I wasn't going to be defeated so easily, so I bowed to her when I passed her in the streets, but she never even saw me. I don't quite know what it is about her that so attracts me; she looks very quiet, she is amazingly sure of herself, extraordinarily pretty, with any amount of humour and energy I should think. I am still speaking without the book, for I know nothing about her, whatever, except that I love the look of her.

Ruth and I have spent all the holidays so far watching "Rugger" matches and picnicking and motoring and dancing. I have had Petre Mais down to stay with me. By a strange chance he knows the Tetleys: he thinks Elspeth, as he calls her (he has known her from childhood), the most adorable girl he has ever met. I have tried to get him to bring her along to see me, but something has always cropped up at the last moment to prevent our meeting.

_May 3, 1912_

I spent the whole of the Easter holidays in Bath, mainly in the company of Ruth. It was good to have Mais with me: we used to sit up to all hours arguing about education: we appear to be both of us bitten with the craze of reform, though we don't agree on points of detail. He is a curious mixture of the very grave and sedate and the irresponsibly gay. He gets on extraordinarily well with my father. While I am disporting myself in company with Ruth, he takes the Gov'nor for long walks and argues about Christian dogma and ethics. I am afraid that Ruth interferes with my reading and writing. Mais seems to get through a great deal and always "twits" me with being a lady-killer: he never seems to want the companionship of the other sex. There is Elspeth Tetley, with whom he might spend days--she is obviously very fond of him--and instead of going about with her he gives her up to Conyngham and buries himself in the Church Institute or the Bath and County Club, getting up notes for some article or book that he is at work upon. He is never happy unless he is working. As he very truly says, "his work is his mistress and he never wants a better." All the same a man needs some relaxation. I find mine in the company of Ruth, who grows more alluring with every passing day. She has taken me to Bradford-on-Avon, to Englishcombe, by motor to Badminton and over Salisbury Plain. I have been to three point-to-point meetings and at each of them caught a fleeting glance of Elspeth Tetley. She was always surrounded by young men, so I couldn't speak to her. I love these country meetings more almost than any other form of sport. The hazardous steeplechases fill one with excitement: many men were riding whom I knew at Oxford, but they all appeared to belong to sets of the most exclusive kind. There is always a plentiful sprinkling of dukes and duchesses at these shows, as well as all the farmers in the country and the riff-raff of the town. The procession of bicycles and governess-cars and dog-carts and motors and pedestrians miles out in the country is a fine sight. I should like to have enough money to be able to go in for steeplechasing: it must be one of the finest sensations in the world to feel yourself rushing through the air, jumping these brooks and thickset hedges, always risking your neck, while all the youth and beauty of the country watch you, heart in mouth lest you should take a toss, transported beyond belief when you ride past the post a winner. Elspeth Tetley somehow fits a point-to-point meeting exactly. Some girls look the most preposterous idiots all togged up in the serviceable tweeds and brogues that girls wear for these shows, but she looks just as divine at a race meeting as she does in a ballroom. I hope to Heaven I get the chance of meeting her again some day.

_June 10, 1912_

I hated leaving Bath more than ever this time, partly because it meant leaving Elspeth in the clutches of young Conyngham, partly because of the summer weather and the flowers and the comfort of the south, partly because of parting with Ruth, but mainly because of the horrid contrast. Who, for instance, in Common Room ever rides to hounds, or cares about point-to-point meetings? Not one of my colleagues ever goes near a dance if he can get out of it. I wonder how they all spend their holidays. As a consequence of my depression it took me longer than usual to settle down this term. I had a bad fit of restlessness, a feeling that I ought to be out in the world, risking something, trying to make money out of rubber in the Malay, or jute in India, experiencing the ups and downs of life in America, Spain, China, Russia, anywhere where men really lived. There is no denying that we do tend to stagnate here. This incessant round of cricket, bathing, maths., English, prep., chapel, and roll isn't fit work for an able-bodied man of active brain and ambition. The ideal schoolmaster has to put away ambition from the start. He can never set the Thames on fire or cause his name to ring out through the ages: it is enough for him if a score of men go through life blessing him for what he taught them, but a boy's memory is very short: he soon forgets his masters when he gets out into the real world and little wonder. I've been going into Scarborough lately and trying to find an interest in watching the trippers, but I hate the north-country people now. Bath has spoilt my taste for them for ever. I hate their raucous laughter, their dirty teeth, their loud ingurgitations over their food, their louder clothes and ghastly sense of independence, though as a Socialist I ought, I suppose, to be thankful for the last.

I have had an offer to sub-edit a rather pleasant monthly called the _Scrutinator_. I nearly accepted it. I don't know what held me back unless it was Tony. I hate the thought of life without him, though of course he will leave just as other good fellows have left and I shall have to find some new friend and confidant.

We have had a wedding here, an unheard-of thing at Radchester. The Bursar is leaving, and so has decided to do what he wouldn't be allowed to do if he remained and that is to take a wife.

We had a really gay time for two days. The bridesmaids had the time of their lives. I wonder that the Head didn't put up a list of rules about them but it was all over before he really discovered anything about it. It was a sight for the gods to see members of Common Room raking up old frock-coats and top hats and white waistcoats for the occasion. The ceremony made me very jealous and I went back to my rooms feeling terribly lonely. Sometimes it seems to me that a man is only half a man until he marries. It would be splendid to have some one to turn to in every mood, some one who would sympathize and always be there ready to console, comfort, and share your joys and griefs. Ah! But who is that some one to be, that perhaps not impossible She?

_July 29, 1912_

This has been a wonderful summer term from the point of view of weather. All our school matches came off, all our field-days passed without a hitch. The summer term makes an enormous difference to life here. Then the sea at last seems to take on some sort of colour, the country seems less drab, people are more cheerful and human: the long evenings on the shore are a pure joy--and then of course there are the early morning bathes, the lazy afternoons watching the cricket, or reading or trying to concoct an article. Every one seems to be in the best of health, there are fewer rows, and we are less antagonistic in Common Room.

We have started an illegitimate "rag" called the _Radchester Ram_, which gives me unalloyed pleasure. We got tired of the everlasting succession of accounts of matches in the _Radcastrian_, and so we have collected all the really original literary stuff we could get and now we bring this new periodical out once a month. There is nothing offensive in it, as there so often is in magazines of this sort. It is simply a medley of verse and sketches, short stories and articles of general interest. On our first number we made about a sovereign profit. It gives many of us something to think about and encourages boys to write. We pay for all the contributions we use.

We have had two wonderful addresses given us here, one on Speech Day by Lord Dunnithorne, in which he implored the boys to keep up their ardour and energy not only in games, but in every side of life, in keeping an eye while still at school on public affairs, and developing a sense of proportion as to the relative values of the spiritual and the material, the other by a Fellow of All Souls from the pulpit on the hypocrisy that is so rampant in Public Schools. He asked us to think for ourselves, to set ourselves against any tradition, however strong, when and if we felt clear that it was against the principles of Christ and Liberty. He dwelt not on the greatness of the Public Schools, but their failure to produce the big men of the day. He brought out name after name of men who are now leading the world in politics, in science, in religion, in every department of life who owed nothing to the Public Schools. He accounted for this by telling us that we always tried to level up the many and so levelled down the few who really mattered, that our general level was far too low and meant a crushing of that Divine spark which alone could help us to do our duty. It was like a breath of inspiration from another world to hear this fine exponent of the best Oxford spirit trying to rouse us to a sense of our shortcomings. The Head was furious about the sermon, as were quite half the members of Common Room. I made it the text of pretty well all my discourses for the rest of term. Most of the boys of course didn't know what he was driving at; those who did were divided into two great camps: the upholders of tradition and those who agreed with him. I am afraid we who agreed with him were in a minority. Montague and Jimmy Haye refused to speak to me for weeks. Poor devils. Probably before very long they will come to understand what the preacher meant and metaphorically sit in sackcloth and ashes because they heeded not his warning. How the old men hate individuality: they fear it as Shakespeare feared and hated the mob.

Individuality, like originality, is dangerous to custom: when people begin to think for themselves there is usually trouble somewhere, but unless people learn to think for themselves they will surround themselves with unimaginable horrors. How often in the train does one come across half-educated louts gesticulating and laying down the law on every conceivable point, their arguments, theories and principles all emanating from the halfpenny press. More harm has been done to the cause of progress and good sense in this country by cheap journalism than by any other agency. It is not drink, but the gutter press that gnaws at the very vitals of the commonwealth. It is an appalling thing to think that as a nation we prefer to take all our theories and principles at second hand from the sayings of unscrupulous ink-slingers of Grub Street who have never done an honest day's work in their lives, but have just earned their daily bread by obeying the dictates of some foul capitalist who thinks of nothing but filling his own pockets. Politics may be dirty, but there is nothing quite so foul in this country as journalism. Unless we can make boys rise above the pinchbeck claptrap of the cheaper writers we fail entirely to educate them. To pin one's faith to anything but one's own intellect is to fail to make anything of life. I've tried every means in my power of late to rouse my boys to take an interest in their work, to show them the continuity of history, the reason why we read good literature, the reason for exercising the faculties: we must send them out into the world with the critical spirit fully developed, not ready to be gulled by every shibboleth of party politics or mad cry in the market-place of people with axes to grind. We want them to mould other people's opinions, not to take everything ready made--as a sort of reach-me-down suit that they can wear without question. I want them to probe all difficulties and not to rest until they have planted the new Jerusalem in this green and pleasant land of England.

Of all missionary work, this is the most important, to get people to think for themselves, not to have minds like the rows of suburban villas in which they live, each one an exact replica of its neighbour's; dull, correct, unambitious, cramped and futile, but to launch out in experiments, to probe for some underlying purpose in life, to keep on searching for some Holy Grail, to work for the amelioration of mankind and the progress of humanity, not to sit down quietly under abuses but sword in hand to set out to destroy the powers of evil. One gets easily worked up to preach the gospel of the nobility of work to boys: the hard part of the task is to rouse them from the appalling apathy and listlessness which characterize them. They are used to being shouted at and preached to--they don't take the trouble to listen to one quarter of what one says. They can understand punishment, but they have very little use for a mere appeal to their better nature, their reason or their emotion.

Every night at 6.30 I have a voluntary class for Shakespeare lovers. We run through play after play, and those who come on the whole gain a great deal. The difficulty is to get them to come. The great majority of them prefer to go over to the gym. or to laze about in their studies. They don't realize at all that I have to eat my dinner in five instead of thirty minutes in order to give them this time. They look on me as a sort of Shakespeare fanatic and come only when there is nothing else to do. They have no idea that Shakespeare has something very definite to say to them, some principle of life to disclose for their benefit, if only they will do their part. They all think that there is some royal road to learning by which all virtue can be achieved without ardour, energy or suffering. If they could only hear the complaints of Old Boys who come back and discuss over the fireside their wasted opportunities it would do them a world of good. I try every means I can think of to interest my forms. I lecture on a century of English literature and get each boy to select a subject and make it his own by reading up and writing a paper on his favourite author in that century. These papers are read aloud before the rest of the form, who comment favourably or adversely, and debates are held to try the opinion of the House on the different verdicts formed by each member of the class.

I find my system of entertaining boys to tea a very expensive one. I gave a large party to my form _en bloc_ at the end of term: it cost me £2 10s. I shouldn't mind if I were earning a living wage, but £40 a year out of my £150 is docked for a pension scheme in which I take no interest, and Oxford bills still come in and I can never meet them. The holidays, too, eat such a hole into one's salary. I am always "broke" and always in debt. I wish I could learn to save. Some men seem to have put by quite a lot for the inevitable rainy day. I have had one good excursion lately. Our team won the Rapid Firing Competition at Bisley and I was sent down with the team to claim the cast of the Winged Victory which it is our good fortune to have won. I have never seen a more motley crew than the different competitors who went up for prizes.

Tony has got into the Shooting VIII, so I had him with me during this tour, which gave me tremendous joy. I managed to read Edith Wharton's wonderful romance of "Ethan Frome" in the train on the way down and "The Innocence of Father Brown" coming back. I have read the latter book to my form since. They simply gloat over it. It makes admirable material for reproduction: another good idea is to read half of one of the stories and make them finish it in their own words--a sort of Edwin Drood idea. Thank God this term is over: the tiredness of my brain can be guessed by the virulent language of my reports. I had to write several of them over again because the Head objected to my candour.

XI

_August 12, 1912_

Camp at Tidworth was a splendid holiday. Of course the Plain is not so exciting as Aldershot: there are no baths and no towns to visit, but I like the bare wildness of it all, the undulating hills, the wide views on every side, the clumps of trees, the gorse and the bracken. They didn't work us very hard this year, owing to the fact that there had been some row about overdoing it at Aldershot last August. That didn't worry me. I don't come to camp to work. I come to mix with as many boys as possible, to get to know their little ways--I come to join in the "rags" at "sing-song," to see what sort of material the other schools produce, to laugh at the amazing scenes in the officers' mess, to get back some of the sleep I seem to have lost at school, to learn a little military work, to live an open-air rough-and-tumble life for a few days, and in short to enjoy myself. I had to leave early this year in order to take my M.A. It was the first time I had been back to Oxford since I came down. Of all pointless things in life the taking of an M.A. seems about the most prominent. Why should I be supposed to be a more responsible creature because I pay a few more guineas into the already overfull University chest for the privilege of exchanging my rabbit's-fur hood for a red and black silk one? Anyway I followed the convention and felt inordinately important and wise for about two hours! Oxford in the Long Vac. might please Charles Lamb but I hurried away as soon as I could. I just glanced at a few shops, reminded some long-suffering tradesmen that I was still alive and then caught a train for Minehead, where Tony met me fresh from camp. He had never been in Devon before and I had invited him down in order that he should join me in the walk which I cannot repeat too often. We went to Cloutsham Ball to see a meet of the Devon and Somerset staghounds, and had the luck to see a kill at Porlock Weir: we slept two nights at the Ship Inn and talked to Carruthers Gould and several other celebrities we met there; then we tramped over the Deer Forest to Badgeworthy Water, in which I fell and had to waste an afternoon in a croftsman's cottage while my flannels were dried.

We slept that night at the Valley of Rocks Hotel at Lynton. I've never seen so many foreigners in Devon. Somehow I resent the presence of these strangers in my native land: I feel that I want to shut the gates and only permit such as can prove themselves worthy to gain access to the Garden of Eden. It is dreadful to hear polyglot noises at breakfast and condescending praises of Watersmeet and Woody Bay, Parracombe and Combe Martin from Germans. Luckily very few of these visitors go far afield. Most of them only come to eat and drink and lounge in the gardens and sleep. They don't really penetrate Devon at all: the secret of her charm still remains with her own children, and with those to whom her children divulge it. Tony was in rhapsodies over the cliff walk to Ilfracombe and delighted my aunts by praising all the scenery and giving detailed reasons for his appreciation.

_September 20, 1912_

Tony only stayed in Ilfracombe for a week, but we made the most of our time. He got on famously with my grandfather and kept him thoroughly amused. We bathed twice a day and went to all the shows we could find, coons and concerts and plays in the Alexandra Hall. After he had gone I was left alone with my aunts and grandfather. I used to read Seton Merriman aloud to them at nights. My grandfather spends most of his time attempting to solve puzzles in _John Bull_, _Tit-Bits_, _Answers_, and so on. A strange craze to occupy a man of eighty. He is usually to be found at the County Club, of which he is the leading spirit.

My aunts and I go round district-visiting, picnicking at Woolacombe and Lee, getting up amusements for Bible Classes and Sunday School scholars, and calling on all the residents. Tiring of having no active occupation I started coaching an Anglo-Indian boy who was staying at Combe Martin, which I found interesting work. He was a delightful fellow, typical of all that is best in the Charterhouse type. I felt that I was paying my way by working with him, and thoroughly enjoyed it.

In my spare time, spurred on by my grandfather's efforts, I started going in for the weekly _Westminster_ competitions, without meeting with any success. My main enjoyment was watching the Cardiff and Swansea trippers coming off the channel steamers and exploring the delights of Ilfracombe. It is for these people that the shops spread out their garish wares of cheap meretricious novels, vulgar post cards, hideous china and other mementoes. I ate pounds and pounds of cream and was growing fat and lazy, when I suddenly found myself called away to Chesterfield to coach a boy for the London Matriculation at the rate of ten guineas for ten days. The contrast was too awful.

Chesterfield is one of the grimiest and most hideous of towns on the borders of Derbyshire and Yorkshire. My pupil was a slack, good-for-nothing, over-affluent, overgrown youth who had to pass in English, knowing none. His father, who was a colliery owner, happened also to be a Director of Education for the county, and was anxious to know what education really meant.

He had read Huxley, Spencer and Darwin, and no one else. I asked him to come along and join his son and the three of us went through the history of English literature from Shakespeare to the present day. The father was really interested, the son frankly bored. In mathematics the boy knew far more than I did, but he could not frame an English sentence for any money. Neither could he see the use of poetry, drama, novel or essay.

I was taken to the Corporation Baths, I was motored all over the place, I encountered some of the rudest people I have ever met in my life, and I was thoroughly miserable for ten whole days in a house which "stank" of money and where everything was uncomfortable and wrong. Work was the only relief. The abjectness of the shops and the people's faces threatened to drive me mad, so great was the contrast between Chesterfield and my Devon home. How any one could live for choice in an ugly misbegotten place like this I can't think. It seemed to me to invite crime or at least criminal thoughts. The meals were one long unendurable agony: high tea of pine-apple, blancmange and tinned salmon at 5.45, 7.30 or 8.45, according as "the master" returned from work. I went hungry most days. After a day I found myself studying this new type closely: the father collects the most evil oil-paintings and the most exquisite old oak furniture. They have a pigsty in the front garden, which occupies their spare hours. The old man is deeply religious, very methodical, Liberal in politics, very quiet, very anxious not to spend money, as honest as the day, fond of power and passionately devoted to his son. He keeps a journal containing a list of all the books he reads and his opinions of them.

I went into barracks at Exeter for a few days before returning to Ilfracombe, to keep my hand in, but I was chafing all the time to get back to the sea and freedom. The convention of mess is only less nauseating than that of Common Room.

For the last fortnight of the holidays I went up home to stay with my people and had to submit to being shown to people as a sort of prize pig. A round of tea-fights and bridge-drives, walks and sleep. I don't seem to be able to get going with any original writing. I wonder why in the world they give us such long holidays. In eight weeks one ought to be able to achieve something, write a novel or at any rate perform something useful. Instead of which we travel up and down the country and waste the precious hours--I hate not being actively occupied every hour of every day--life is damned dull that way. There must be thousands of men who would give anything to get as much holiday as I do, whereas I chafe and long to be back at work again weeks before the time comes to return. It's pleasant to get a chance of seeing my father and mother, though they are never very communicative. My father is out visiting in the parish all and every day, and only gets back late at night, and my mother is usually very busy in the house or shopping. I accompany them in their walks as a general rule, but they are not interested in talk about Radchester--they like to discuss books, but my mother reads little but theological and philosophical treatises. My father lives for humour: he is amazingly witty in himself (his letters are a treasure-house of shrewd and excruciatingly funny character-sketches of his parishioners) and he is passionately fond of wit in others. I wish I inherited some of this gift. I find that I am too deadly serious. I get too excited over my schemes to reform mankind. He is too kindly and tolerant, too good-natured and easy-going to try to shock people out of their indifference. My mother looks on my educational ideals as a sort of mania out of which I shall grow when I come to years of discretion: she thinks all education nonsense and a mistake.

I find that I become pretty well the ideal lotus-eater at home. I sleep from 10 P.M. to 9 in the morning and then read whatever I can lay my hands on if it is wet, or go out in the parish if it is fine. If I write, which is seldom, I rarely give up more than a couple of hours a day to it. I ought to imitate A. C. Benson and write two or three hours regularly daily, year in, year out--but I never do anything regularly.

If I were ever to write a novel I should finish it in a fortnight or three weeks. I can't bear to have anything hanging over my head. I am always afraid lest I should die in the middle and then find all the good work go for nothing. I wish I could cultivate the calm patience of these men, who work steadily for fifty years to produce some little thesis. Would I had the calm assurance of Lord Acton or Lord Morley.

If I could only cultivate a sense of arrangement. Here am I a strenuous and not altogether unsuccessful teacher of English, and I can't even string paragraphs together properly. That's why I like writing up my diary. I don't have to worry about arrangement. I can just write down things as they occur to me, matters of infinite moment cheek by jowl with ephemeral topics of the hour. I have been reading Montaigne's "Essays" of late and derived considerable comfort therefrom. I always carry a book about in my pocket wherever I go, one of the "World's Classics" for preference: it effectually prevents me from getting peevish if I have to wait for a train or in a shop to be attended to.

These holidays I have read very thoroughly John Stuart Mill "On Liberty" and Hobbes's "Leviathan" in this way. Oh for a lucid pen like Mill's or an orderly mind like Hobbes'. Such books are best read quietly and in small quantities at a time. When I read a novel I tear the heart out of it, just as Doctor Johnson did. There are very few novels I can't get through in a day. I usually sit up to finish them if I can't manage it otherwise. My mother says that I can't possibly remember what I read and that it's pure waste of time to read in this way, but I think I generally manage to squeeze the best out of a book in this way.

Anyway I was born to hurry: I think it's a vice, but impetuosity and turbulence are two characteristics that I must have been endowed with by my fairy godmother.

It is this same idiosyncrasy which prevents me from being a good letter-writer. I write to dozens and dozens of boys and friends like Ruth, but I never express myself adequately, simply because I don't take enough trouble.

If genius really means the taking of infinite pains I must be the least of a genius that ever lived, for I only write when it is easy to me, and on subjects that don't require that I should refer to handbooks all the time. On the other hand, Samuel Butler has some comforting light to shed on that topic.

_October 5, 1912_

Eight weeks is too long a holiday. One gets out of touch with all things pertaining to discipline and rules. As time goes on one begins to chafe less at what seem ridiculous restrictions; they become part of the day's work, just as I suppose if I were in the Army the red tape of the orderly room would not worry me after a year or two.

I have just had young Pollock staying with me. He is now a gunner of two years' standing. It seems only yesterday I was training him for Woolwich. He can't understand why I stay in so heathen an atmosphere as a school. The rules he simply ignores. I find him smoking on his way across the square to breakfast, turning on my gramophone while the boys are at work, sitting in my window-seat in full gaze of the school, glass in hand, drinking whisky. He has no sort of respect for my seniors, but swears genially in Common Room, seizes the best chairs, takes up the whole of the fireplace and the only copy of the _Times_, while Hallows and Co. gnash their teeth, purple with rage in the background. The best of it is that he is quite unaware that he is giving offence. He is extraordinarily genial, if somewhat condescending in his manner towards them. It is a pure joy to watch him with them: he so exactly represents the world's attitude towards the whole race of ushers. "They are poor, ignorant, down-at-heel devils, but it's as well to be kind to them." That is the sort of feeling that Pollock has, I know: you can see it in his every action. I suppose the difference between Common Room and a gunner mess is fairly wide.

I have just been reading F. R. G. Duckworth's "Leaves from a Pedagogue's Sketch-Book." I wish I had his gift for writing. I could a tale unfold of life at a Public School which would dispel a few hundred of the fatuous superstitions that have grown, I know not how, round our ancient homes of learning. But if I did even so much as reveal this diary I should be out of a job in a week.

We are in the middle of one of the more delectable sorts of row. A few days ago a field-day was fixed against Blowborough, but it had to be scratched owing to disease on their part. A House match was hastily substituted and duly posted at 12.45 on the day. One of the Houses refused to turn out because they were not given longer warning. Hallows is in a fine state of frenzy. What will happen to the captain of the offending House I can't think. Games "bloods" do occasionally get obstreperous, but do not often care to risk Hallows' wrath. I shall be interested to see the _dénouement_.

I have been into Scarborough with Pollock to see _Passers-By_ and _Hindle Wakes_. Houghton's play seems to me to be epoch-making. Quite apart from its merits as a play the subject was (to me) so novel. It expresses so much of the new spirit, the spirit that refuses to be limited by the narrow conventions of its fathers and carves out a new line for itself regardless of public opinion. It seems to me that Fanny Hawthorn was quite justified in refusing to marry the man she went off with. He was just an amusement, an adventure. Two wrongs can never make a right. She wanted a week-end of liberty, excitement--call it what you will, and took it, ready to pay her part of the damage.... The evil certainly does not lie in her refusal to marry the man, but, if there is any (which I take leave to doubt), in going off with him in the first place. There are people who have to learn what life means by getting burnt: she was lucky enough only to get singed and not ruined for life. Her sort does not go on the streets. She probably settled down to married life with a man after her own heart very soon. But does the quiet humdrum pleasure of safe marriage ever give the golden ecstatic moments that come from dangerous romantic passionate episodes of a day? The audience made me acutely sick. They shivered with delight at the "daring" of it--though what there is "daring" in it I don't know. It is more like a sermon than a play.

We are acting _The Great Adventure_ at Radchester: just half a dozen of us in Common Room suddenly hit upon the idea. We have the new Bursar for stage manager, a fellow called Harding. He has been all sorts of things, including music-hall proprietor, actor and stage manager of a suburban theatre. He does not find it easy to fall into line with our rigid conventions. Outwardly he conforms rather well, being a born actor, but he manages to live two quite distinct lives, one which pleases the heart of the Head Master, energetic at his work, asking no questions and simply doing his duty, the other, lighthearted and gay away in the town where he spends a great deal of his time. In conjunction with one of the music masters he is writing a musical comedy: they practise scenes every night. It is most ludicrously silly, but certainly not worse than 90 per cent. of the musical comedies I have seen. Harding has a distinct turn for witty lyrical writing, built on a lifelong devotion to W. S. Gilbert.

The "club" has improved since I first joined it: we all now try to improvise something to earn our cake and whisky. Harding writes songs, Benson puts them to music, Jimson and I dance or tell stories, some one plays a banjo or a violin, and we rouse the night air with a catch. I don't altogether like even all the members of the club, but when I get very lonely or depressed in my own rooms I go there, in order to forget myself awhile. I don't seem able to make any close friend on the staff. There is no one there, for instance, who matters to me half so much as Tony, and at times I doubt whether I ought to take up so much of his attention. After all, a boy at school comes to play and work among his equals, not to mix with grown-ups. Tony has too many advanced ideas, owing, I suppose, to the books I lend him and the talks we have so frequently together. I must try to deny myself the pleasure of his society more than I do. Of late I have been extraordinarily pleased at some of the work which several boys have shown up. Really quite a number of the short stories and verses I get are worthy of publication in some magazines. I try to encourage boys to submit their best stuff after I have sub-edited it to various editors with whom I have dealings. Tony has already had one poem accepted by the _Monthly Magazine_.

I find that the average boy drinks in Swinburne, Morris and Henley with extraordinary relish when he won't look at Keats and Shelley. The first business is to get him really interested in anything: the decadent phase will soon pass. I tried "The Dynasts" on them and failed miserably. The really good stuff is utterly beyond them--perhaps they'll remember later on and come back to it with proper understanding. I must share my own great joys and discoveries in literature: I can't keep a really fine thing like "The Dynasts" to myself. Common Room won't listen: they think I'm crazy on the moderns for whom they have no use--not that they read the ancients, but they do allow them a place in education. The moderns they abuse as mere wasters of time. I have been trying for various Head Masterships and been offered that of Chipping Campden. I was particularly tempted to accept it at first, because of the beauty of the place. Mais, Stapleton, and I used to walk out there from Oxford on Sundays: it is one of the most perfect mediæval towns I know, but it is probably too remote from the bustle of life for a man like myself. Anyway I refused it.

_December 20, 1912_

We have had some good sermons this term from visitors. One man on the Beauty of Holiness tried to make us see what there was of beauty in even this arid wilderness: he succeeded rather well--but then, of course, he doesn't have to live here. He vainly imagines that we consider the sea to be the real sea instead of a waste of grey water, ugly and cruel. Then we had a most famous man, who tried to make all the school go and confess their vices to him: his mistake was to imagine that there was but one vice and that one practised by 90 per cent. of the school. You can't do much with a man who has got a bee in his bonnet to that extent. Although he was sincere and obviously affected many of the boys, he rather irritated me. I wish I could settle in my mind what is the sort of sermon boys ought to have. The one we had last term on keeping the Divine spark alive was certainly the best I have ever heard, but that may be because I agreed with every word about the necessity of cultivating individuality and imagination. In some ways it would be good for us to hear more about Church doctrine: we are really rather vague about our beliefs.