Part 13 (1/2)
Perhaps the best of all this cla.s.s is _The Bending of a Twig_, by Mr.
Desmond c.o.ke--an absolutely faithful picture, drawn with unerring instinct and refres.h.i.+ng humour. In fact it is so much the real thing that at times it is a trifle monotonous, just because school life at times is a trifle monotonous. But those who know what schoolboys are cannot fail to appreciate the intrinsic merits of this book. It gently derides the stagey incidents and emotional heroics of the old style of school story. Here a small boy comes to Shrewsbury primed with the lore of _Eric_ and _Tom Brown_ and _The Hill_, fully expecting to be tossed in a blanket or roasted on sight. But nothing happens: he is merely ignored. He has laboriously committed to memory a quant.i.ty of Harrow slang from _The Hill_: he finds this is meaningless at Shrewsbury. He cannot understand the situation: he has to unlearn all his lessons in sophistication. The whole thing is admirably done.
The story strikes a deeper note towards the end. Here we are given a very vivid study of the same boy, now head of his House, struggling between his sense of duty and the fear of unpopularity. Shall he tackle the disturbing element boldly, invoking if necessary the a.s.sistance of the Housemaster, or let things slide for the sake of peace? Many a tragedy of the Prefect's Room has hinged upon that struggle; and although Mr. c.o.ke's solution of the problem is not heroic, it is probably all the more true to life. Altogether a fine book, but from its very nature a book for boys rather than grown-ups.
Coming to the type of school-story at present in vogue, we have _The Hill_, deservedly ranking as first-cla.s.s. But _The Hill_ is essentially a book for Harrovians; and the more likely a book is to appeal to members of one particular school, the less likely it is to appeal to members of any other school. (In this respect we may note that _Tom Brown_ forms an exception. But then _Tom Brown_ is an exceptional book.) If _The Hill_ had been written as a ”general” school story, with the ident.i.ty of Harrow veiled, however thinly, under a fict.i.tious name, its glamour and romance, together with its enthusiasm for all that is straight and strong and of old standing and of good report, would have made it a cla.s.sic among school fiction. But non-Harrovians--and there are a considerable number of them--decline with natural insularity to follow Mr. Vach.e.l.l to his topmost heights. They are conscious of a clannish, slightly patronising air about _The Hill_, which is notably absent in other stories which tell the tale of a particular school. The reader is treated to pedantic little footnotes, and given a good deal of information which is either gratuitous or uninteresting. He is made to understand that he is on The Hill but not of it. He recognises frankly enough the greatness of Harrow tradition and the glory of Harrow history, but he rightly reserves his enthusiasm over such things for his own school; and there are moments when he feels inclined to bawl out to the author that he envies Harrow nothing--except perhaps _Forty Years On_.
In other words, _The Hill_, owing to the insistent fas.h.i.+on in which it puts Harrow first and general schoolboy nature second, must be regarded more as a glorified prospectus than as a representative novel of English school life.
But _The Hill_ stands high. It cannot be hid. It is supersentimental at times, but then so are schoolboys. And the characters are clean-cut and finely finished. Scaife is a memorable figure; so is Warde. John Verney, like most virtuous persons, is a bit of a bore at times; but the Caterpillar, with his drawling little epigrams, and their inevitable tag--”Not my own; my Governor's!”--is a joy for ever. Lastly, the description of the Eton and Harrow Match at Lord's takes unquestionable rank as one of the few things in this world which will never be better done.
Two other books may be mentioned here, as ill.u.s.trating the tendency, already mentioned, of modern school-novelists to s.h.i.+ft the limelight from the boy to the master. The first is Mr. Hugh Walpole's _Mr. Perrin and Mr. Traill_. A young man lacking means, and possessing only a moderate degree, who feels inclined, as many do, to drift into schoolmastering as a _pis aller_, should read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest this book. It draws a pitiless picture of Common Room life in a third-rate public school--the monotony; the discomfort; the mutual antagonism and jealousy of a body of men herded together year after year, condemned to celibacy by want of means, and deprived of all prospect of advancement or change of scene. It hammers in the undeniable truth that in the great majority of cases a schoolmaster's market value depreciates steadily from the date of his first appointment. _Mr. Perrin and Mr. Traill_ is a very able book, but should not be read by schoolmasters while recovering, let us say, from influenza.
If the reader desires a further picture of the amenities of the Common Room, viewed from a less oblique angle, he can confidently be recommended to turn to _The Lanchester Tradition_, by Mr. G. F. Bradby.
_The Lanchester Tradition_ is a comparatively short story, but it is all pure gold. It is written with knowledge, insight, and above all with an appreciation of that broad tolerant humorous outlook on life which alone can lubricate the soul-grinding wheels of routine. In _Mr. Perrin and Mr. Traill_ we have a young, able, and merciless critic exposing some of the weaknesses of the public-school system. In _The Lanchester Tradition_ we have a seasoned and experienced representative of that system demonstrating that real character can always rise superior to circ.u.mstance, and that for all its creaking machinery and accompanying friction the pedagogue's existence can be a very tolerable and at times a very uplifting one. It is the old struggle between theory and practice. _Solvitur ambulando._
There are many other school stories of recent date, of which no mention has been made in this survey; but our excursions seem to have covered a fairly representative field. What is the prevailing characteristic of the new, as compared with the old? It appears to be a very insistent and rather discordant note of realism--the sort of realism which leaves nothing unphotographed. Romance and sentiment are swept aside: they might fog the negative. Our rising generation are not permitted to see visions or dream dreams. And there is a tendency--mercifully absent in most of the books which we have described--to discuss matters which are better not discussed, at any rate in a work of fiction. There is a great vogue in these introspective days for outspokenness upon intimate matters. We are told that such matter should not be excluded from the text, because it is ”true to life.” So are the police reports in the Sunday newspapers; but we do not present files of these delectable journals to our sons and daughters--let us not forget the daughters: the sons go to school, but the daughters can only sit at home and read schoolboy stories--as Christmas presents.
There is another marked characteristic of modern school fiction--its intense topicality. The slang, the allusions, the incidents--they are all _dernier cri_. But the more up-to-date a thing may be, whether it be a popular catchphrase or a whole book, the more ephemeral is its existence. A book of this kind reproduces the spirit of the moment, often with surprising fidelity; but after all it is only the spirit of the moment. Its very applicability to the moment unfits it for any other position. Books, speeches, and jokes--very few of these breathe the spirit not only of the moment but of all time. When they do, we call them Cla.s.sics. _Tom Brown_ is a Cla.s.sic, and probably _Stalky_ too. They are built of material which is imperishable, because it is quarried from the bed-rock of human nature, which never varies, though architectural fas.h.i.+ons come and go.
CHAPTER SEVEN
”MY PEOPLE”
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SCHOOLGIRL'S DREAM]
I
Under this comprenhensive t.i.tle the schoolboy groups the whole of his relatives, of both s.e.xes.
”Are your people coming for Speech Day?” inquires Master Smith of Master Brown.
”Yes, worse luck!”
”It is a bore,” agrees Smith. ”I wanted you to come and sit with me.”
”Sorry!” says Brown, and the matter ends. It never occurs to Brown to invite Smith to join the family party. Such a proceeding would be unheard of. A schoolboy with his ”people” in tow neither expects nor desires the society of his friends. His father may be genial, his mother charming, his sister pretty; but in the jaundiced eyes of their youthful host they are nothing more or less than a gang of lepers--to be segregated from all communication with the outer world; to be conveyed from one point to another as stealthily as possible; and above all to be kept out of the way of masters.
Later in life, say at the University, this diffidence disappears. A pretty sister becomes an a.s.set; a pearl of price; a bait for luncheon parties and a trap for theatre-tickets. Even a father, provided he does not wear a made-up tie or take off his hat to the Dons, is tolerated.
But at school--never! Why?
The reason is that it is almost impossible to give one's ”people” their heads when on a visit to School without opening the way for breaches of etiquette and social outrages of the most deplorable kind. Left to themselves, fathers are addicted to entering into conversation with casual masters--especially masters who in the eyes of a boy are too magnificent to be approached or too despicable to be noticed. Mothers have been known to make unsolicited overtures to some School potentate--yea, even the Captain of the Eleven--because he happens to have curly hair or be wearing a pretty blazer. Sisters are capable of extending what the Lower School terms ”the R.S.V.P. eye” to the meanest and most insignificant f.a.g. These solecisms shame Master Brown to his very soul. Consequently he keeps his relatives in relentlessly close order, herding them across the quadrangle under a running fire of admonition and reproof.
”Yes, Dad, that's the Head. Look the other way, or he'll notice you....
For goodness sake, Mum, don't stop and talk to _this_ fellow: he's in the Boat. _Who is that dear little boy with brown eyes?_ Great Scott, how should I know all the rotten little ticks in the Lower School?... Sis, what on earth did you go smiling and grinning at that chap for? He is a master. _He took his hat off?_ Well, you must have begun it, that's all! Think what an outsider he must consider you!...
_What, Mum? Who are these two nice-looking boys sitting on that bench?_ Not so loud! They're the Captain of the Eleven and the Secretary. _Will I ask them to tea to amuse Dolly?_ Certainly, if you don't mind my leaving the School for good to-morrow morning!... This is the cricket-ground. No, you can't go and sit in the shade under those trees: it is fearful side to go there. Stay about here. If you see any people you know, from Town or anywhere, you can talk to them; but whatever you do, don't go making up to chaps. I'll find young Griffin for you if you like. He'll be pretty sick; but he knows you in the holidays, so I suppose he has got to go through it. Sit here. Perhaps you had better not speak to _anybody_ while I'm away, whether you know them or not.
Sis, remember about not making eyes at fellows. They don't like that sort of thing from young girls: they're different from your pals in Hyde Park; so hold yourself in. I'll be back in a minute.”