Such, Such Were The Joys - George Orwell
I
Soon after I arrived at St Cyprian's (not immediately,
but after a week or two, just when I seemed to be settling into the routine of
school life) I began wetting my bed. I was now aged eight, so that this was a
reversion to a habit which I must have grown out of at least four years earlier.
Nowadays, I believe, bed-wetting in such circumstances is taken for granted. It
is normal reaction in children who have been removed from their homes to a
strange place. In those days, however, it was looked on as a disgusting crime
which the child committed on purpose and for which the proper cure was a
beating. For my part I did not need to be told it was a crime. Night after night
I prayed, with a fervour never previously attained in my prayers, ‘Please God,
do not let me wet my bed! Oh, please God, do not let me wet my bed!’, but it
made remarkably little difference. Some nights the thing happened, others not.
There was no volition about it, no consciousness. You did not properly speaking
do the deed: you merely woke up in the morning and found that the sheets
were wringing wet.
After the second of third offence I was warned that I should be beaten next
time, but I received the warning in a curiously roundabout way. One afternoon,
as we were filing out from tea, Mrs Wilkes the Headmaster's wife, was sitting at
the head of one of the tables, chatting with a lady of whom I knew nothing,
except that she was on an afternoon's visit to the school. She was an
intimidating, masculine-looking person wearing a riding-habit, or something that
I took to be a riding-habit. I was just leaving the room when Mrs Wilkes called
me back, as though to introduce me to the visitor.
Mrs Wilkes was nicknamed Flip, and I shall call her by that name, for I
seldom think of her by any other. (Officially, however, she was addressed as
Mum, probably a corruption of the ‘Ma'am’ used by public schoolboys to their
housemasters' wives.) She was a stocky square-built woman with hard red cheeks,
a flat top to her head, prominent brows and deep-set, suspicious eyes. Although
a great deal of the time she was full of false heartiness, jollying one along
with mannish slang (‘Buck up, old chap!’ and so forth), and even using
one's Christian name, her eyes never lost their anxious, accusing look. It was
very difficult to look her in the face without feeling guilty, even at moments
when one was not guilty of anything in particular.
‘Here is a little boy,’ said Flip, indicating me to the strange
lady, ‘who wets his bed every night. Do you know what I am going to do if you
wet your bed again?’ she added, turning to me, ‘I am going to get the Sixth Form
to beat you’.
The strange lady put on an air of being inexpressibly shocked, and exclaimed
‘I-should-think-so!’ And here there occurred one of those wild, almost
lunatic misunderstandings which are part of the daily experience of childhood.
The Sixth Form was a group of older boys who were selected as having ‘character’
and were empowered to beat smaller boys. I had not yet learned of their
existence, and I mis-heard the phrase ‘the Sixth Form’ as ‘Mrs Form’. I took it
as referring to the strange lady — I thought, that is, that her name was Mrs
Form. It was an improbable name, but a child has no judgement in such matters. I
imagined, therefore, that it was she who was to be deputed to beat me. It
did not strike me as strange that this job should be turned over to a casual
visitor in no way connected with the school. I merely assumed the ‘Mrs Form’ was
a stern disciplinarian who enjoyed beating people (somehow her appearance seemed
to bear this out) and I had an immediate terrifying vision of her arriving for
the occasion in full riding kit and armed with a hunting-whip. To this day I can
feel myself almost swooning with shame as I stood, a very small, round-faced boy
in short corduroy knickers, before the two women. I could not speak. I felt that
I should die if ‘Mrs Form’ were to beat me. But my dominant feeling was not fear
or even resentment: it was simply shame because one more person, and that a
woman, had been told of my disgusting offence.
A little later, I forget how, I learned that it was not after all ‘Mrs Form’
who would do the beating. I cannot remember whether it was that very night that
I wetted my bed again, but at any rate I did wet it again quite soon. Oh, the
despair, the feeling of cruel injustice, after all my prayers and resolutions,
at once again waking between the clammy sheets! There was no chance of hiding
what I had done. The grim statuesque matron, Margaret by name, arrived in the
dormitory specially to inspect my bed. She pulled back the clothes, then drew
herself up, and the dreaded words seemed to come rolling out of her like a peal
of thunder:
‘REPORT YOURSELF to the Headmaster
after breakfast!’
I put REPORT YOURSELF in capitals because that was
how it appeared in my mind. I do not know how many times I heard that phrase
during my early years at St Cyprian's. It was only very rarely that it did not
mean a beating. The words always had a portentous sound in my ears, like muffled
drums or the words of the death sentence.
When I arrived to report myself, Flip was doing something or other at he the
long shiny table in the ante-room to the study. Her uneasy eyes searched me as I
went past. Sambo was a round-shouldered, curiously oafish-looking man, not large
but shambling in gait, with a chubby face which was like that of an overgrown
baby, and which was capable of good humour. He knew, of course, why I had been
sent to him, and had already taken a bone-handled riding-crop out of the
cupboard, but it was part of the punishment of reporting yourself that you had
to proclaim your offence with your own lips. When I had said my say, he read me
a short but pompous lecture, then seized me by the scruff of the neck, twisted
me over and began beating me with the riding-crop. He had a habit of continuing
his lecture while he flogged you, and I remember the words ‘you dir-ty lit-tle
boy’ keeping time with the blows. The beating did not hurt (perhaps, as it was
the first time, he was not hitting me very hard), and I walked out feeling very
much better. The fact that the beating had not hurt was a sort of victory and
partially wiped out the shame of the bed-wetting. I was even incautious enough
to wear a grin on my face. Some small boys were hanging about in the passage
outside the door of the ante-room.
‘D'you get the cane?’
‘It didn't hurt.’ I said proudly.
Flip had heard everything. Instantly her voice came screaming after me:
‘Come here! Come here this instant! What was that you said?’
‘I said it didn't hurt,’ I faltered out.
‘How dare you say a thing like that? Do you think that is a
proper thing to say? Go in and REPORT YOURSELF
AGAIN!’
This time Sambo laid on in real earnest. He continued for a length of time
that frightened and astonished me — about five minutes, it seemed — ending up by
breaking the riding-crop. The bone handle went flying across the room.
‘Look what you've made me do!’ he said furiously, holding the
broken crop.
I had fallen into a chair, weakly snivelling. I remember that this was the
only time throughout my boyhood when a beating actually reduced me to tears, and
curiously enough I was not even now crying because of the pain. The second
beating had not hurt very much either. Fright and shame seemed to have
anaesthetized me. I was crying partly because I felt that this was expected of
me, partly from genuine repentance, but partly also because of a deeper grief
which is peculiar to childhood and not easy to convey: a sense of desolate
loneliness and helplessness, of being locked up not only in a hostile world but
in a world of good and evil where the rules were such that it was actually not
possible for me to keep them.
I knew the bed-wetting was (a) wicked and (b) outside my control. The second
fact I was personally aware of, and the first I did not question. It was
possible, therefore, to commit a sin without knowing that you committed it,
without wanting to commit it, and without being able to avoid it. Sin was not
necessarily something that you did: it might be something that happened to you.
I do not want to claim that this idea flashed into my mind as a complete novelty
at this very moment, under the blows of Sambo's cane: I must have had glimpses
of it even before I left home, for my early childhood had not been altogether
happy. But at any rate this was the great, abiding lesson of my boyhood: that I
was in a world where it was not possible for me to be good. And the
double beating was a turning-point, for it brought home to me for the first time
the harshness of the environment into which I had been flung. Life was more
terrible, and I was more wicked, than I had imagined. At any rate, as I sat
snivelling on the edge of a chair in Sambo's study, with not even the
self-possession to stand up while he stormed at me, I had a conviction of sin
and folly and weakness, such as I do not remember to have felt before.
In general, one's memories of any period must necessarily weaken as one moves
away from it. One is constantly learning new facts, and old ones have to drop
out to make way for them. At twenty I could have written the history of my
schooldays with an accuracy which would be quite impossible now. But it can also
happen that one's memories grow sharper after a long lapse of time, because one
is looking at the past with fresh eyes and can isolate and, as it were, notice
facts which previously existed undifferentiated among a mass of others. Here are
two things which in a sense I remembered, but which did not strike me as strange
or interesting until quite recently. One is that the second beating seemed to me
a just and reasonable punishment. To get one beating, and then to get another
and far fiercer one on top of it, for being so unwise as to show that the first
had not hurt — that was quite natural. The gods are jealous, and when you have
good fortune you should conceal it. The other is that I accepted the broken
riding-crop as my own crime. I can still recall my feeling as I saw the handle
lying on the carpet — the feeling of having done an ill-bred clumsy thing, and
ruined an expensive object. I had broken it: so Sambo told me, and so I
believed. This acceptance of guilt lay unnoticed in my memory for twenty or
thirty years.
So much for the episode of the bed-wetting. But there is one more thing to be
remarked. This is that I did not wet my bed again — at least, I did wet it once
again, and received another beating, after which the trouble stopped. So perhaps
this barbarous remedy does work, though at a heavy price, I have no doubt.
II
St Cyprian's was an expensive and snobbish school which
was in process of becoming more snobbish, and, I imagine, more expensive. The
public school with which it had special connexions was Harrow, but during my
time an increasing proportion of the boys went on to Eton. Most of them were the
children of rich parents, but on the whole they were the un-aristocratic rich,
the sort of people who live in huge shrubberied houses in Bournemouth or
Richmond, and who have cars and butlers but not country estates. There were a
few exotics among them — some South American boys, sons of Argentine beef
barons, one or two Russians, and even a Siamese prince, or someone who was
described as a prince.
Sambo had two great ambitions. One was to attract titled boys to the school,
and the other was to train up pupils to win scholarships at public schools,
above all at Eton. He did, towards the end of my time, succeed in getting hold
of two boys with real English titles. One of them, I remember, was a wretched
drivelling little creature, almost an albino, peering upwards out of weak eyes,
with a long nose at the end of which a dewdrop always seemed to be trembling.
Sambo always gave these boys their titles when mentioning them to a third
person, and for their first few days he actually addressed them to their faces
as ‘Lord So-and-so.’ Needless to say he found ways of drawing attention to them
when any visitor was being shown round the school. Once, I remember, the little
fair-haired boy had a choking fit at dinner, and a stream of snot ran out of his
nose on to his plate in a way horrible to see. Any lesser person would have been
called a dirty little beast and ordered out of the room instantly: but Sambo and
Flip laughed it off in a ‘boys will be boys' spirit.
All the very rich boys were more or less undisguisedly favoured. The school
still had a faint suggestion of the Victorian ‘private academy’ with its
‘parlour boarders’, and when I later read about that kind of school in Thackeray
I immediately saw the resemblance. The rich boys had milk and biscuits in the
middle of the morning, they were given riding lessons once or twice a week, Flip
mothered them and called them by their Christian names, and above all they were
never caned. Apart from the South Americans, whose parents were safely distant,
I doubt whether Sambo ever caned any boy whose father's income was much above
£2,000 a year. But he was sometimes willing to sacrifice financial profit to
scholastic prestige. Occasionally, by special arrangement, he would take at
greatly reduced fees some boy who seemed likely to win scholarships and thus
bring credit on the school. It was on these terms that I was at St Cyprian's
myself: otherwise my parents could not have afforded to send me to so expensive
a school.
I did not at first understand that I was being taken at reduced fees; it was
only when I was about eleven that Flip and Sambo began throwing the fact in my
teeth. For my first two or three years I went through the ordinary educational
mill: then, soon after I had stated Greek (one started Latin at eight, Greek at
ten), I moved into the scholarship class, which was taught, so far as classics
went, largely by Sambo himself. Over a period of two or three years the
scholarship boys were crammed with learning as cynically as a goose is crammed
for Christmas. And with what learning! This business of making a gifted boy's
career depend on a competitive examination, taken when he is only twelve or
thirteen is an evil thing at best, but there do appear to be preparatory schools
which send scholars to Eton, Winchester, etc. without teaching them to see
everything in terms of marks. At St Cyprian's the whole process was frankly a
preparation for a sort of confidence trick. Your job was to learn exactly those
things that would give an examiner the impression that you knew more than you
did know, and as far as possible to avoid burdening your brain with anything
else. Subjects which lacked examination-value, such as geography, were almost
completely neglected, mathematics was also neglected if you were a ‘classical’,
science was not taught in any form — indeed it was so despised that even an
interest in natural history was discouraged — and even the books you were
encouraged to read in your spare time were chosen with one eye on the ‘English
paper’. Latin and Greek, the main scholarship subjects, were what counted, but
even these were deliberately taught in a flashy, unsound way. We never, for
example, read right through even a single book of a Greek or Latin author: we
merely read short passages which were picked out because they were the kind of
thing likely to be set as an ‘unseen translation’. During the last year or so
before we went up for our scholarships, most of our time was spent in simply
working our way through the scholarship papers of previous years. Sambo had
sheaves of these in his possession, from every one of the major public schools.
But the greatest outrage of all was the teaching of history.
There was in those days a piece of nonsense called the Harrow History Prize,
an annual competition for which many preparatory schools entered. It was a
tradition for St Cyprian's to win it every year, as well we might, for we had
mugged up every paper that had been set since the competition started, and the
supply of possible questions was not inexhaustible. They were the kind of stupid
question that is answered by rapping out a name of quotation. Who plundered the
Begams? Who was beheaded in an open boat? Who caught the Whigs bathing and ran
away with their clothes? Almost all our historical teaching ran on this level.
History was a series of unrelated, unintelligible but — in some way that was
never explained to us — important facts with resounding phrases tied to them.
Disraeli brought peace with honour. Clive was astonished at his moderation. Pitt
called in the New World to redress the balance of the Old. And the dates, and
the mnemonic devices. (Did you know, for example, that the initial letters of ‘A
black Negress was my aunt: there's her house behind the barn’ are also the
initial letters of the battles in the Wars of the Roses?) Flip, who ‘took’ the
higher forms in history, revelled in this kind of thing. I recall positive
orgies of dates, with the keener boys leaping up and down in their places in
their eagerness to shout out the right answers, and at the same time not feeling
the faintest interest in the meaning of the mysterious events they were
naming.
‘1587’
‘Massacre of St Bartholomew!’
‘1707?’
‘Death of Aurangzeeb!’
‘1713?’
‘Treaty of Utrecht!’
‘1773?’
‘Boston Tea Party!’
‘1520?’
‘Oo, Mum, please, Mum—’
‘Please, Mum, please Mum! Let me tell him, Mum!’
‘Well! 1520?’
‘Field of the Cloth of Gold!’
And so on.
But history and such secondary subjects were not bad fun. It was in
‘classics’ that the real strain came. Looking back, I realize that I then worked
harder than I have ever done since, and yet at the time it never seemed possible
to made quite the effort that was demanded of one. We would sit round the long
shiny table, made of some very pale-coloured hard wood, with Sambo goading,
threatening, exhorting, sometimes joking, very occasionally praising, but always
prodding, prodding away at one's mind to keep it up to the right pitch of
concentration, as one keeps a sleepy person awake by sticking pins in him.
‘Go on, you little slacker! Go on, you idle, worthless little
boy! The whole trouble with you is that you're bone and horn idle. You eat too
much, that's why. You wolf down enormous meals, and then when you come here
you're half asleep. Go on, now, put your back into it. You're not
thinking. Your brain doesn't sweat.’
He would tap away at one's skull with his silver pencil, which, in my memory,
seems to have been about the size of a banana, and which certainly was heavy
enough to raise a bump: or he would pull the short hairs round one's ears, or,
occasionally, reach out under the table and kick one's shin. On some days
nothing seemed to go right, and then it would be ‘ All right, then, I know what
you want. You've been asking for it the whole morning. Come along, you useless
little slacker. Come into the study.’ And then whack, whack, whack, and back one
would come, red-wealed and smarting — in later years Sambo had abandoned his
riding-crop in favour of a thin rattan cane which hurt very much more — to
settle down to work again. This did not happen very often, but I do remember,
more than once, being led out of the room in the middle of a Latin sentence,
receiving a beating and then going straight ahead with the same sentence, just
like that. It is a mistake to think such methods do not work. They work very
well for their special purpose. Indeed, I doubt whether classical education ever
has been or can be successfully carried on without corporal punishment. The boys
themselves believed in its efficacy. There was a boy named Beacham, with no
brains to speak of, but evidently in acute need of a scholarship. Sambo was
flogging him towards the goal as one might do with a foundered horse. He went up
for a scholarship at Uppingham, came back with a consciousness of having done
badly, and a day or two later received a severe beating for idleness. ‘I wish
I'd had that caning before I went up for the exam,’ he said sadly — a remark
which I felt to be contemptible, but which I perfectly well understood.
The boys of the scholarship class were not all treated alike. If a boy were
the son of rich parents to whom the saving of fees was not all-important, Sambo
would goad him along in a comparatively fatherly way, with jokes and digs in the
ribs and perhaps an occasional tap with the pencil, but no hair-pulling and no
caning. It was the poor but ‘clever’ boys who suffered. Our brains were a
gold-mine in which he had sunk money, and the dividends must be squeezed out of
us. Long before I had grasped the nature of my financial relationship with
Sambo, I had been made to understand that I was not on the same footing as most
of the other boys. In effect there were three castes in the school. There was
the minority with an aristocratic or millionaire background, there were the
children of the ordinary suburban rich, who made up the bulk of the school, and
there were a few underlings like myself, the sons of clergyman, Indian civil
servants, struggling widows and the like. These poorer ones were discouraged
from going in for ‘extras’ such as shooting and carpentry, and were humiliated
over clothes and petty possessions. I never, for instance, succeeded in getting
a cricket bat of my own, because ‘Your parents wouldn't be able to afford it’.
This phrase pursued me throughout my schooldays. At St Cyprian's we were not
allowed to keep the money we brought back with us, but had to ‘give it in’ on
the first day of term, and then from time to time were allowed to spend it under
supervision. I and similarly-placed boys were always choked off from buying
expensive toys like model aeroplanes, even if the necessary money stood to our
credit. Flip, in particular, seemed to aim consciously at inculcating a humble
outlook in the poorer boys. ‘Do you think that's the sort of thing a boy like
you should buy?’ I remember her saying to somebody — and she said this in front
of the whole school: ‘You know you're not going to grow up with money, don't
you? Your people aren't rich. You must learn to be sensible. Don't get above
yourself!’ There was also the weekly pocket-money, which we took out in sweets,
dispensed by Flip from a large table. The millionaires had a sixpence a week,
but the normal sum was threepence. I and one or two others were only allowed
twopence. My parents had not given instructions to this effect, and the saving
of a penny a week could not conceivably have made any difference to them: it was
a mark of status. Worse yet was the detail of the birthday cakes. It was usual
for each boy, on his birthday, to have a large iced cake with candles, which was
shared out at tea between the whole school. It was provided as a matter of
routine and went on his parents’ bill. I never had such a cake, though my
parents would have paid for it readily enough. Year after year, never daring to
ask, I would miserably hope that his year a cake would appear. Once or twice I
even rashly pretended to my companions that this time I was going to have
a cake. Then came tea-time, and no cake, which did not make me more popular.
Very early it was impressed upon me that I had no chance of a decent future
unless I won a scholarship at a public school. Either I won my scholarship, or I
must leave school at fourteen and become, in Sambo's favourite phrase ‘a little
office boy at forty pounds a year’. In my circumstances it was natural that I
should believe this. Indeed, it was universally taken for granted at St
Cyprian's that unless you went to a ‘good’ public school (and only about fifteen
schools came under this heading) you were ruined for life. It is not easy to
convey to a grown-up person the sense of strain, of nerving oneself for some
terrible, all-deciding combat, as the date of the examination crept nearer —
eleven years old, twelve years old, then thirteen, the fatal year itself! Over a
period of about two years, I do not think there was ever a day when ‘the exam’,
as I called it, was quite out of my waking thoughts. In my prayers it figured
invariably: and whenever I got the bigger portion of a wishbone, or picked up a
horseshoe, or bowed seven times to the new moon, or succeeded in passing through
a wishing-gate without touching the sides, then the wish I earned by doing so
went on ‘the exam’ as a matter of course. And yet curiously enough I was also
tormented by an almost irresistible impulse not to work. There were days
when my heart sickened at the labours ahead of me, and I stood stupid as an
animal before the most elementary difficulties. In the holidays, also, I could
not work. Some of the scholarship bonus received extra tuition from a certain Mr
Batchelor, a likeable, very hairy man who wore shaggy suits and lived in a
typical bachelor's ‘den’ — book-lined wall, over-whelming stench of tobacco —
somewhere in the town. During the holidays Mr Batchelor used to send us extracts
from a wad of work once a week. Somehow I could not do it. The empty paper and
the black Latin dictionary lying on the table, the consciousness of a plain duty
shirked, poisoned my leisure, but somehow I could not start, and by the end of
the holidays I would only have sent Mr Batchelor fifty or a hundred lines.
Undoubtedly part of the reason was that Sambo and his cane were far away. But in
term-time, also, I would go through periods of idleness and stupidity when I
would sink deeper and deeper into disgrace and even achieve a sort of feeble,
snivelling defiance, fully conscious of my guilt and yet unable or unwilling — I
could not be sure which — to do any better. Then Sambo or Flip would send for
me, and this time it would not even be a caning.
Flip would search me with her baleful eyes. (What colour were those eyes, I
wonder? I remember them as green, but actually no human being has green eyes.
Perhaps they were hazel.) She would start off in her peculiar, wheedling,
bullying style, which never failed to get right through one's guard and score a
hit on one's better nature.
‘I don't think it's awfully decent of you to behave like this,
is it? Do you think it's quite playing the game by your mother and father to go
on idling your time away, week after week, month after month? Do you want
to throw all your chances away? You know your people aren't rich, don't you? You
know they can't afford the same things as other boys’ parents. How are they to
send you to a public school if you don't win a scholarship? I know how proud
your mother is of you. Do you want to let her down?’
‘I don't think he wants to go to a public school any longer,’
Sambo would say, addressing himself to Flip with a pretence that I was not
there. ‘I think he's given up that idea. He wants to be a little boy at forty
pounds a year.’
The horrible sensation of tears — a swelling in the breast, a tickling behind
the nose — would already have assailed me. Flip would bring out her ace of
trumps:
‘And do you think it's quite fair to us, the way you're
behaving? After all we've done for you? You do know what we've done for
you, don't you?’ Her eyes would pierce deep into me, and though she never said
it straight out, I did know. ‘We've had you here all these years — we even had
you here for a week in the holidays so that Mr Batchelor could coach you. We
don't want to have to send you away, you know, but we can't keep a boy
here just to eat up our food, term after term. I don't think it's very
straight, the way you're behaving. Do you?’
I never had any answer except a miserable ‘No, Mum,’ or ‘Yes, Mum,’ as the
case might be. Evidently it was not straight, the way I was behaving. And
at some point or other the unwanted tear would always force its way out of the
corner of my eye, roll down my nose and splash.
Flip never said in plain words that I was a non-paying pupil, no doubt
because vague phrases like ‘all we've done for you’ had a deeper emotional
appeal. Sambo, who did not aspire to be loved by his pupils, put it more
brutally, though, as was usual with him in pompous language. ‘You are living on
my bounty’ was his favourite phrase in this context. At least once I listened to
these words between blows of the cane. I must say that these scenes were not
frequent, and except on one occasion they did not take place in the presence of
other boys. In public I was reminded that I was poor and that my parents
‘wouldn't be able to afford’ this or that, but I was not actually reminded of my
dependent position. It was a final unanswerable argument, to be brought forth
like an instrument of torture when my work became exceptionally bad.
To grasp the effect of this kind of thing on a child of ten or twelve, one
has to remember that the child has little sense of proportion or probability. A
child may be a mass of egoism and rebelliousness, but it as no accumulated
experience to give it confidence in its own judgements. On the whole it will
accept what it is told, and it will believe in the most fantastic way in the
knowledge and powers of the adults surrounding it. Here is an example.
I have said that at St Cyprian's we were not allowed to keep our own money.
However, it was possible to hold back a shilling or two, and sometimes I used
furtively to buy sweets which I kept hidden in the loose ivy on the
playing-field wall. One day when I had been sent on an errand I went into a
sweet-shop a mile or more from the school and bought some chocolates. As I came
out of the shop I saw on the opposite pavement a small sharp-faced man who
seemed to be staring very hard at my school cap. Instantly a horrible fear went
through me. There could be no doubt as to who the man was. He was a spy placed
there by Sambo! I turned away unconcernedly, and then, as though my legs were
doing it of their own accord, broke into a clumsy run. But when I got round the
next corner I forced myself to walk again, for to run was a sign of guilt, and
obviously there would be other spies posted here and there about the town. All
that day and the next I waited for the summons to the study, and was surprised
when it did not come. It did not seem to me strange that the headmaster of a
private school should dispose of an army of informers, and I did not even
imagine that would have to pay them. I assumed that any adult, inside the school
or outside, would collaborate voluntarily in preventing us from breaking the
rules. Sambo was all-powerful; it was natural that his agent should be
everywhere. When this episode happened I do not think I can have been less than
twelve years old.
I hated Sambo and Flip, with a sort of shamefaced, remorseful hatred, but it
did not occur to me to doubt their judgement. When they told me that I must
either win a public-school scholarship or become an office boy at fourteen, I
believed that those were the unavoidable alternatives before me. And above all,
I believed Sambo and Flip when they told me they were my benefactors. I see now,
of course, that from Sambo's point of view I was a good speculation. He sank
money in me, and he looked to get it back in the form of prestige. If I had
‘gone off; as promising boys sometimes do, I imagine that would have got rid of
me swiftly. As it was I won him scholarships when the time came, and no doubt he
made full use of them in his prospectuses. But it is difficult for a child to
realize that a school is primarily a commercial venture. A child believes that
the school exists to educate and that the school-master disciplines him either
for his own good, or from a love of bullying. Flip and Sambo had chosen to
befriend me, and their friendship included canings, reproaches and humiliations,
which were good for me and saved me from an office stool. That was their
version, and I believed in it. It was therefore clear that I owed them a vast
debt of gratitude. But I was not grateful, as I very well knew. On the
contrary, I hated both of them. I could not control my subjective feelings, and
I could not conceal them from myself. But it is wicked, is it not, to hate your
benefactors? So I was taught, and so I believed. A child accepts the codes of
behaviour that are presented to it, even when it breaks them. From the age of
eight or even earlier, the consciousness of sin was never far away from me. If I
contrived to seem callous and defiant, it was only a thin cover over a mass of
shame and dismay. All through my boyhood I had a profound conviction that I was
no good, that was wasting my time, wrecking my talents, behaving with monstrous
folly and wickedness and ingratitude — and all this, it seemed, was in
escapable, because I lived among laws which were absolute, like the law of
gravity, but which it was not possible for me to keep.
III
No one can look back on his schooldays and say with truth
that they were altogether unhappy.
I have good memories of St Cyprian's, among a horde of bad ones. Sometimes on
summer afternoons there were wonderful expeditions across the Downs to a village
called Birling Gap, or to Beachy Head, where one bathed dangerously among the
boulders and came home covered with cuts. And there were still more wonderful
mid-summer evenings when, as a special treat, we were not driven off to bed as
usual but allowed to wander about the grounds in the long twilight, ending up
with a plunge into the swimming bathe at about nine o'clock. There was the joy
of waking early on summer mornings and getting in an hour's undisturbed reading
(Ian Hay, Thackeray, Kipling and H. G. Wells were the favourite authors of my
boyhood) in the sunlit, sleeping dormitory. There was also cricket, which I was
no good at but with which I conducted a sort of hopeless love affair up to the
age of about eighteen. And there was the pleasure of keeping caterpillars — the
silky green and purple puss-moth, the ghostly green poplar-hawk, the
privet-hawk, large as one's third finger, specimens of which could be illicitly
purchased for sixpence at a shop in the town — and, when one could escape long
enough from the master who was ‘taking the walk’, there was the excitement of
dredging the dew-ponds on the Downs for enormous newts with orange-coloured
bellies. This business of being out for a walk, coming across something of
fascinating interest and then being dragged away from it by a yell from the
master, like a dog jerked onwards by the leash, is an important feature of
school life, and helps to build up the conviction, so strong in many children,
that the things you most want to do are always unattainable.
Very occasionally, perhaps once during each summer, it was possible to escape
altogether from the barrack-like atmosphere of school, when Brown, the second
master, was permitted to take one or two boys for an afternoon of butterfly
hunting on a common a few miles away. Brown was a man with white hair and a red
face like a strawberry, who was good at natural history, making models and
plaster casts, operating magic lanterns, and things of that kind. He and Mr
Batchelor were the only adults in any way connected with the school whom I did
not either dislike or fear. Once he took me into his room and showed me in
confidence a plated, pearl-handled revolver — his ‘six-shooter’, he called it —
which he kept in a box under his bed, and oh, the joy of those occasional
expeditions! The ride of two or three miles on a lonely little branch line, the
afternoon of charging to and fro with large green nets, the beauty of the
enormous dragonflies which hovered over the tops of the grasses, the sinister
killing-bottle with its sickly smell, and then tea in the parlour of a pub with
large slices of pale-coloured cake! The essence of it was in the railway
journey, which seemed to put magic distances between yourself and school.
Flip, characteristically, disapproved of these expeditions, though not
actually forbidding them. ‘And have you been catching little
butterflies?’ she would say with a vicious sneer when one got back, making
her voice as babyish as possible. From her point of view, natural history
(‘bug-hunting’ she would probably have called it) was a babyish pursuit which a
boy should be laughed out of as early as possible. Moreover it was somehow
faintly plebeian, it was traditionally associated with boys who wore spectacles
and were no good at games, it did not help you to pass exams, and above all it
smelt of science and therefore seemed to menace classical education. It needed a
considerable moral effort to accept Brown's invitation. How I dreaded that sneer
of little butterflies! Brown, however, who had been at the school since
its early days, had built up a certain independence for himself: he seemed to
handle Sambo, and ignored Flip a good deal. If it ever happened that both of
them were away, Brown acted as deputy headmaster, and on those occasions instead
of reading the appointed lesson for the day at morning chapel, he would read us
stories from the Apocrypha.
Most of the good memories of my childhood, and up to the age of about twenty,
are in some way connected with animals. So far as St Cyprian's goes, it also
seems, when I look back, that all my good memories are of summer. In winter your
nose ran continually, your fingers were too numb to button your shirt (this was
an especial misery on Sundays, when we wore Eton collars), there was the daily
nightmare of football — the cold, the mud, the hideous greasy ball that came
whizzing at one's face, the gouging knees and trampling boots of the bigger
boys. Part of the trouble was that in winter, after about the age of ten, I was
seldom in good health, at any rate during term-time. I had defective bronchial
tubes and a lesion in one lung which was not discovered till many years later.
Hence I not only had a chronic cough, but running was a torment to me. In those
days however, ‘wheeziness’, or ‘chestiness’, as it was called, was either
diagnosis imagination or was looked on as essentially a moral disorder, caused
by overeating. ‘You wheeze like a concertina,’ Sambo would say disapprovingly as
he stood behind my chair; ‘You're perpetually stuffing yourself with food,
that's why.’ My cough was referred to as a ‘stomach cough’, which made it sound
both disgusting and reprehensible. The cure for it was hard running, which, if
you kept it up long enough, ultimately ‘cleared your chest’.
It is curious, the degree — I will not say of actual hardship, but of squalor
and neglect — that was taken for granted in upper-class schools of the period.
Almost as in the days of Thackeray, it seemed natural that a little boy of eight
or ten should be a miserable, sotty-nosed creature, his face almost permanently
dirty, his hands chapped, his nails bitten, his handkerchief a sodden horror,
his bottom frequently blue with bruises. It was partly the prospect of actual
physical discomfort that made the thought of going back to school lie in one's
breast like a lump of lead during the last few days of the holidays. A
characteristic memory of St Cyprian's is the astonishing hardness of one's bed
on the first night of term. Since this was an expensive school, I took a social
step upwards by attending it, and yet the standard of comfort was in every way
far lower than in my own home, or, indeed, than it would have been in a
prosperous working-class home. One only had a hot bath once a week, for
instance. The food was not only bad, it was also insufficient. Never before or
since have I seen butter of jam scraped on bread so thinly. I so not think I can
be imagining the fact that we were underfed, when I remember the lengths we
would go in order to steal food. On a number of occasions I remember creeping
down at two or three o'clock in the morning through what seemed like miles of
pitch-dark stairways and passages — barefooted, stopping to listen after each
step, paralysed with about equal fear of Sambo, ghosts and burglars — to steal
stale bread from the pantry. The assistant masters had their meals with us, but
they had somewhat better food, and if one got half a chance it was usual to
steal left-over scraps of bacon rind or fried potato when their plates were
removed.
As usual, I did not see the sound commercial reason for this underfeeding On
the whole I accepted Sambo's view that a boy's appetite is a sort of morbid
growth which should be kept in check as much as possible. A maxim often repeated
to us at St Cprian's was that it is healthy to get up from a meal feeling as
hungry as when you sat down. Only a generation earlier than this it had been
common for school dinners to start off with a slab of unsweetened suet pudding,
which, it was frankly said, ‘broke the boys appetites.’ But the underfeeding was
probably less flagrant at preparatory schools, where a boy was wholly dependent
on the official diet, than at public schools, where he was allowed — indeed,
expected — to buy extra food for himself. At some schools, he would literally
not have had enough to eat unless he had bought regular supplies of eggs,
sausages, sardines, etc.; and his parents had to allow him money for this
purpose. At Eton, for instance, at any rate in College, a boy was given no solid
meal after mid-day dinner. For his afternoon tea he was given a miserable supper
of soup or fried fish, or more often bread and cheese, with water to drink.
Sambo went down to see his eldest son at Eton and came back in snobbish
ecstasies over the luxury in which the boys lived. ‘They give them fried fish
for supper!’ he exclaimed, beaming all over his chubby face. ‘There's no school
like it in the world.’ Fried fish! The habitual supper of the poorest of the
working class! At very cheap boarding schools it was no doubt worse. A very
early memory to mine is of seeing the boarders at a grammar school — the sons,
probably, of farmers and shopkeepers — being fed on boiled lights.
Whoever writes about his childhood must beware of exaggeration and self-pity.
I do not claim that I was a martyr or that St Cyprian's was a sort of Dotheboys
Hall. But I should be falsifying my own memories if I did not record that they
are largely memories of disgust. The over crowded, underfed underwashed life
that we led was disgusting, as I recall it. If I shut my eyes and say ‘school’,
it is of course the physical surroundings that first come back to me: the flat
playing field with its cricket pavilion and the little shed by the rifle range,
the draughty dormitories, the dusty splintery passages, the square of asphalt in
front of the gymnasium, the raw-looking pinewood chaplet at the back. And at
almost every point some filthy detail obtrudes itself. For example, there were
the pewter bowls out of which we had our porridge. They had overhanging rims,
and under the rimes there were accumulations of sour porridge, which could be
flaked off in ling strips. The porridge itself, too, contained more lumps, hairs
and unexplained black things than one would have thought possible, unless
someone were putting them there on purpose. It was never safe to start on that
porridge without investigating it first. And there was the slimy water of the
plunge bath — it was twelve or fifteen feet long, the whole school was supposed
to go into it every morning, and I doubt whether the water was changed at all
frequently — and the always-damp towels with their cheesy smell: and, on
occasional visits in the winter, the murky sea-water of the local Baths, which
came straight in from the beach and on which I once saw floating a human turd.
And the sweaty smell of the changing-room with its greasy basins, and, giving on
this, the row of filthy, dilapidated lavatories, which had no fastenings of any
kind on the doors, so that whenever you were sitting there someone was sure to
come crashing in. It is not easy for me to think of my schooldays without
seeming to breathe in a whiff of something cold and evil-smelling — a sort of
compound of sweaty stockings, dirty towels, faecal smells blowing along
corridors, forks with old food between the prongs, neck-of-mutton stew, and the
banging doors of the lavatories and the echoing chamber-pots in the
dormitories.
It is true that I am by nature not gregarious, and the W.C. and dirty
handkerchief side of life in necessarily more obtrusive when great numbers of
human beings are crushed together in a small space. It is just as bad in an
army, and worse, no doubt, in a prison. Besides, boyhood is the age of disgust.
After one has learned to differentiate, and before one has become hardened —
between seven and eighteen, say — one seems always to be walking the tight-rope
over a cesspool. Yet I do not think I exaggerate the squalor of school life,
when I remember how health and cleanliness were neglected, in spite of the
hoo-ha about fresh air and cold water and keeping in hard training. It was
common to remain constipated for days together. Indeed, one was hardly
encouraged to keep one's bowels open, since the only aperients tolerated were
castor oil or another almost equally horrible drink called liquorice powder. One
was supposed to go into the plunge bath every morning, but some boys shirked it
for days on end, simply making themselves scarce when the bell sounded, or else
slipping along the edge of the bath among the crowd, and then wetting their hair
with a little dirty water off the floor. A little boy of eight or nine will not
necessarily keep himself clean unless there is someone to see that he does it.
There was a new boy named Hazel, a pretty, mother's darling of a boy, who came a
little while before I left. The first thing I noticed about him was the
beautiful pearly whiteness of his teeth. By the end of that term his teeth were
an extraordinary shade of green. During all that time, apparently, no one had
taken sufficient interest in him to see that he brushed them.
But of course the differences between home and school were more than
physical. That bump on the hard mattress, on the first night of term, used to
give me a feeling of abrupt awakening, a feeling of: ‘This is reality, this is
what you are up against.’ Your home might be far from perfect, but at least it
was a place ruled by love rather than by fear, where you did not have to be
perpetually on your guard against the people surrounding you. At eight years old
you were suddenly taken out of this warm nest and flung into a world of force
and fraud and secrecy, like a gold-fish into a tank full of pike. Against no
matter what degree of bullying you had no redress. You could only have defended
yourself by sneaking, which, except in a few rigidly defined circumstances, was
the unforgivable sin. To write home and ask your parent to take you away would
have been even less thinkable, since to do so would have been to admit yourself
unhappy and unpopular, which a boy will never do. Boys are Erewhonians: they
think that misfortune is disgraceful and must be concealed to all cost. It might
perhaps have been considered permissible to complain to your parents about bad
food, or an unjustified caning, or some other ill-treatment inflicted by masters
and not by boys. The fact that Sambo never beat the richer boys suggests that
such complaints were made occasionally. But in my own peculiar circumstances I
could never have asked my parents to intervene on my behalf. Even before I
understood about the reduced fees, I grasped that they were in some way under an
obligation to Sambo, and therefore could not protect me against him. I have
mentioned already that throughout my time at St Cyprian's I never had a cricket
bat of my own. I had been told this was because ‘your parents couldn't afford
it’. One day in the holidays, by some casual remark, it came out that they had
provided ten shillings to buy me one: yet no cricket bat appeared. I did not
protest to my parents, let alone raise the subject with Sambo. How could I? I
was dependent on him, and the ten shillings was merely a fragment of what I owed
him. I realize now, of course, that it is immensely unlikely that Sambo had
simply stuck to the money. No doubt the matter had slipped his memory. But the
point is that I assumed that he had stuck to it, and that he had a right to do
so if he chose.
How difficult it is for a child to have any real independence of attitude
could be seen in our behaviour towards Flip. I think it would be true to say
that every boy in the school hated and feared her. Yet we all fawned on her in
the most abject way, and the top layer of our feelings towards her was a sort of
guilt-stricken loyalty. Flip, although the discipline of the school depended
more on her than on Sambo, hardly pretended to dispense strict justice. She was
frankly capricious. An act which might get you a caning one day might next day
be laughed off as a boyish prank, or even commended because it ‘showed you had
guts’. There were days when everyone cowered before those deep-set, accusing
eyes, and there were days when she was like a flirtatious queen surrounded by
courtier-lovers, laughing and joking, scattering largesse, or the promise of
largesse (‘And if you win the Harrow History Prize I'll give you a new case for
your camera!’), and occasionally even packing three or four favoured boys into
her Ford car and carrying them off to a teashop in town, where they were allowed
to buy coffee and cakes. Flip was inextricably mixed up in my mind with Queen
Elizabeth, whose relations with Leicester and Essex and Raleigh were
intelligible to me from a very early age. A word we all constantly used in
speaking of Flip was ‘favour’. ‘I'm in good favour;’ we would say, or ‘I'm in
bad favour.’ Except for the handful of wealthy or titled boys, no one was
permanently in good favour, but on the other hand even the outcasts had patches
of it from time to time. Thus, although my memories of Flip are mostly hostile,
I also remember considerable periods when I basked under her smiles, when she
called me ‘old chap’ and used my Christian name, and allowed me to frequent her
private library, where I first made acquaintance with Vanity Fair. The
high-water mark of good favour was to be invited to serve at table on Sunday
nights when Flip and Sambo had guests to dinner. In clearing away, of course,
one had a chance to finish off the scraps, but one also got a servile pleasure
from standing behind the seated guests and darting deferentially forward when
something was wanted. Whenever one had the chance to suck up, one did suck up,
and at the first smile one's hatred turned into a sort of cringing love. I was
always tremendously proud when I succeeded in making Flip laugh. I have even, at
her command, written vers d'occasion, comic verses to celebrate memorable
events in the life of the school.
I am anxious to make it clear that I was not a rebel, except by force of
circumstances. I accepted the codes that I found in being. Once, towards the end
of my time, I even sneaked to Brown about a suspected case of homosexuality. I
did not know very well what homosexuality was, but I knew that it happened and
was bad, and that this was one of the contexts in which it was proper to sneak.
Brown told me I was ‘a good fellow’, which make me feel horribly ashamed. Before
Flip one seemed as helpless as a snake before the snake-charmer. She had a
hardly-varying vocabulary of praise and abuse, a whole series of set phrased,
each of which promptly called forth the appropriate response. There was
‘Buck up, old chap!’, which inspired one to paroxysms of energy; there
was ‘Don't be such a fool!’ (or, ‘It's pathetic, isn't it?’),
which made one feel a born idiot; and there was ‘It isn't very straight of you,
is it?’, which always brought one to the brink of tears. And yet all the while,
at the middle of one's heart, there seemed to stand an incorruptible inner self
who knew that whatever one did — whether one laughed or snivelled or went into
frenzies of gratitude for small favours — one's only true feeling was
hatred.
IV
I had learned early in my career that one can do wrong
against one's will, and before long I also learned that one can do wrong without
ever discovering what one has done or why it was wrong. There were sins that
were too subtle to be explained, and there were others that were too terrible to
be clearly mentioned. For example, there was sex, which was always smouldering
just under the surface and which suddenly blew up into a tremendous row when I
was about twelve.
At some preparatory schools homosexuality is not a problem but I think that
St Cyprian's may have acquired a ‘bad tone’ thanks to the presence of the South
American boys, who would perhaps mature a year or two earlier than an English
boy. At that age I was not interested, so I so not actually know what went on,
but I imagine it was group masturbation. At any rate, one day the storm suddenly
burst over our heads. There were summonses, interrogations, confessions,
floggings, repentances, solemn lectures of which one understood nothing except
that some irredeemable sin known as ‘swinishness’ or ‘beastliness’ had been
committed. One of the ringleaders a boy named Horne, was flogged, according to
eye-witnesses, for a quarter of an hour continuously before being expelled. His
yells rang through the house. But we were all implicated, more or less, or felt
ourselves to be implicated. Guilt seemed to hang in the air like a pall or
smoke. A solemn, black-haired imbecile of an assistant master, who was later to
be a Member of Parliament took the older boys to a secluded room and delivered a
talk on the Temple of the Body.
‘Don't you realize what a wonderful thing your body is?’ he said
gravely. ‘You talk of your motor-car engines, your Rolls-Royces and Dainlers and
so on. Don't you understand that no engine ever made is fit to be compared with
your body? And then you go and wreck it, ruin it — for life!’
He turned his cavernous black eyes on me and added quite sadly:
‘And you, whom I'd always believed to be quite a decent person
after your fashion — you, I hear, are one of the very worst.’
A feeling of doom descended upon me. So I was guilty too. I too had done the
dreadful thing, whatever it was, that wrecked you for life, body and soul, and
ended in suicide or the lunatic asylum. Till then I had hoped that I was
innocent, and the conviction of sin which now took possession of me was perhaps
all the stronger because I did not know what I had done. I was not among those
who were interrogated and flogged, and it was not until the row was well over
that I even learned about the trivial accident that had connected my name with
it. Even then I understood nothing. It was not till about two years later that I
fully grasped what that lecture on the Temple of the Body had referred to.
At this time I was in an almost sexless state, which is normal, or at any
rate common, in boys of that age; I was therefore in the position of
simultaneously knowing and not knowing what used to be called the Facts of Life.
At five or six, like many children, I had passed though a phase of sexuality. My
friends were the plumber's children up the road, and we used sometimes to play
games of a vaguely erotic kind. One was called ‘playing at doctors’, and I
remember getting a faint but definitely pleasant thrill from holding a toy
trumpet, which was supposed to be a stethoscope, against a little girl's belly.
About the same time I fell deeply in love, a far more worshipping kind of love
than I have ever felt for anyone since, with a girl named Elsie at the convent
school which I attended. She seemed to me grown up, so I suppose she must have
been fifteen. After that, as so often happens, all sexual feelings seemed to go
out of me for many years. At twelve I knew more than I had known as a young
child, but I understood less, because I no longer knew the essential fact that
there is something pleasant in sexual activity. Between roughly seven and
fourteen, the whole subject seemed to me uninteresting and, when for some reason
I was forced to think of it, disgusting. My knowledge of the so-called Facts of
Life was derived from animals, and was therefore distorted, and in any case was
only intermittent. I knew that animals copulated and that human beings had
bodies resembling those of animals: but that human beings also copulated I only
knew as it were, reluctantly, when something, a phrase in the Bible, perhaps,
compelled me to remember it. Not having desire, I had no curiosity, and was
willing to leave many questions unanswered. Thus, I knew in principle how the
baby gets into the woman, but I did not know how it gets out again, because I
had never followed the subject up. I knew all the dirty words, and in my bad
moments I would repeat them to myself, but I did not know what the worst of them
meant, nor want to know. They were abstractly wicked, a sort of verbal charm.
While I remained in this state, it was easy for me to remain ignorant of any
sexual misdeeds that went on about me, and to be hardly wiser even when the row
broke. At most, through the veiled and terrible warnings of Flip, Sambo and all
the rest of them, I grasped that the crime of which we were all guiltily was
somehow connected with the sexual organs. I had noticed, without feeling much
interest, that one's penis sometimes stands up of its own accord (this starts
happening to a boy long before he has any conscious sexual desires), and I was
inclined to believe, or half-believe, that that must be the crime. At any
rate, it was something to do with the penis — so much I understood. Many other
boys, I have no doubt, were equally in the dark.
After the talk on the Temple of the Body (days later, it seems in retrospect:
the row seemed to continue for days), a dozen of us were seated at a long shiny
table which Sambo used for the scholarship class, under Flip's lowering eye. A
long desolate wail rang out from a room somewhere above. A very small boy named
Ronalds, aged no more than about ten, who was implicated in some way, was being
flogged, or was recovering from a flogging. At the sound, Flip's eyes searched
our faces, and settled upon me.
‘You see,’ she said.
I will not swear that she said ‘You see what you have done,’ but that was the
sense of it. We were all bowed down with shame. It was our fault. Somehow
or other we had led poor Ronalds astray: we were responsible for his
agony and his ruin. Then Flip turned upon another boy named Heath. It is thirty
years ago, and I cannot remember for certain whether she merely quoted a verse
from the Bible, or whether she actually brought out a Bible and made Heath read
it; but at any rate the text indicated was: ‘Who so shall offend one of these
little ones that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were
hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.’
That, too, was terrible. Ronalds was one of these little ones, we had
offended him; it were better that millstone were hanged about our necks and that
we were drowned in the depth of the sea.
‘Have you thought about that, Heath — have you thought what it
means?’ Flip said. And Heath broke down into snivelling tears.
Another boy, Beacham, whom I have mentioned already, was similarly
overwhelmed with shame by the accusation that he ‘had black rings round his
eyes’.
‘Have you looked in the glass lately, Beacham?’ said Flip.
‘Aren't you ashamed to go about with a face like that? Do you think everyone
doesn't know what it means when a boy has black rings round his eyes?’
Once again the load of guilt and fear seemed to settle down upon me. Had
I got black rings round my eyes? A couple of years later I realized that
these were supposed to be a symptom by which masturbators could be detected. But
already, without knowing this, I accepted the black rings as a sure sign of
depravity, some kind of depravity. And many times, even before I grasped
the supposed meaning, I have gazed anxiously into the glass, looking for the
first hint of that dreaded stigma, the confession which the secret sinner writes
upon his own face.
These terrors wore off, or became merely intermittent, without affecting what
one might call my official beliefs. It was still true about the madhouse and the
suicide's grave, but it was no longer acutely frightening. Some months later it
happened that I once again saw Horne, the ringleader who had been flogged and
expelled. Horne was one of the outcasts, the son of poor middle-class parents,
which was no doubt part of the reason why Sambo had handled him so roughly. The
term after his expulsion he went on to Eastbourne College, the small local
public school, which was hideously despised at St Cyprian's and looked on as
‘not really’ a public school at all. Only a very few boys from St Cyprian's went
there, and Sambo always spoke of them with a sort of contemptuous pity. You had
no chance if you went to a school like that: at the best your destiny would be a
clerkship. I thought of Horne as a person who at thirteen had already forfeited
all hope of any decent future. Physically, morally and socially he was finished.
Moreover I assumed that his parents had only sent him to Eastbourne College
because after his disgrace no ‘good’ school would have him.
During the following term, when we were out for a walk, we passed Horne in
the street. He looked completely normal. He was a strongly-built, rather
good-looking boy with black hair. I immediately noticed that he looked better
than when I had last seen him — his complexion, previously rather pale, was
pinker — and that he did not seem embarrassed at meeting us. Apparently he was
not ashamed either of having been expelled, or of being at Eastbourne College.
If one could gather anything form the way he looked at us as we filed past, it
was that he was glad to have escaped from St Cyprian's. But the encounter made
very little impression on me. I drew no inference from the fact that Horne,
ruined in body and soul, appeared to be happy and in good health. I still
believed in the sexual mythology that had been taught me by Sambo and Flip. The
mysterious, terrible dangers were still there. Any morning the black rings might
appear round your eyes and you would know that you too were among the lost ones.
Only it no longer seemed to matter very much. These contradictions can exist
easily in the mind of a child, because of its own vitality. It accepts — how can
it do otherwise? — the nonsense that its elders tell it, but its youthful body,
and the sweetness of the physical world, tell it another story. It was the same
with Hell, which up to the age of about fourteen I officially believed in.
Almost certainly Hell existed, and there were occasions when a vivid sermon
could scare you into fits. But somehow it never lasted. The fire that waited for
you was real fire, it would hurt in the same way as when you burnt your finger,
and for ever, but most of the time you could contemplate it without
bothering.
V
The various codes which were presented to you at St
Cyprian's — religious, moral social and intellectual — contradicted one another
if you worked out their implications. The essential conflict was between the
tradition of nineteenth-century asceticism and the actually existing luxury and
snobbery of the pre-1914 age. On the one side were low-church Bible
Christianity, sex puritanism, insistence on hard work, respect for academic
distinction, disapproval of self-indulgence: on the other, contempt for
‘braininess’, and worship of games, contempt for foreigners and the working
class, an almost neurotic dread of poverty, and, above all, the assumption not
only that money and privilege are the things that matter, but that it is better
to inherit them than to have to work for them. Broadly, you were bidden to be at
once a Christian and a social success, which is impossible. At the time I did
not perceive that the various ideals which were set before us cancelled out. I
merely saw that they were all, or nearly all, unattainable, so far as I was
concerned, since they all depended not only on what you did but on what you
were.
Very early, at the age of only ten or eleven, I reached the conclusion — no
one told me this, but on the other hand I did not simply make it up out of my
own head: somehow it was in the air I breathed — that you were no good unless
you had £100,000. I had perhaps fixed on this particular sum as a result of
reading Thackeray. The interest on £100,000 would be £4,000 a year (I was in
favour of a safe 4 per cent), and this seemed to me the minimum income that you
must possess if you were to belong to the real top crust, the people in the
country houses. But it was clear that I could never find my way into that
paradise, to which you did not really belong unless you were born into it. You
could only make money, if at all by a mysterious operation called ‘going
to the city’, and when you came out of the City, having won you £100,000, you
were fat and old. But the truly enviable thing about the top-notchers was that
they were rich while young. For people like me, the ambitious middle class, the
examination-passers, only a bleak, laborious kind of success was possible. You
clambered upwards on a ladder of scholarships into the Civil Service or the
Indian Civil Service, or possibly you became a barrister. And if at any point
you ‘slacked’ or ‘went off’ and missed one of the rungs in the ladder, you
became ‘a little office boy at forty pounds a year’. But even if you climbed to
the highest niche that was open to you, you could still only be an underling, a
hanger-on of the people who really counted.
Even if I had not learned this from Sambo and Flip, I would have learned it
from other boys. Looking back, it is astonishing how intimately, intelligently
snobbish we all were, how knowledgeable about names and addresses, how swift to
detect small differences in accents and manners and the cut of clothes. There
were some boys who seemed to drip money from their pores even in the bleak
misery of the middle of a winter term. At the beginning and end of the term,
especially, there was naïvely snobbish chatter about Switzerland, and Scotland
with its ghillies and grouse moors, and ‘my uncle's yacht’, and ‘our place in
the country’. And ‘my pony’ and ‘my pater's touring car’. There never was, I
suppose, in the history of the world a time when the sheer vulgar fatness of
wealth, without any kind of aristocratic elegance to redeem it, was so obtrusive
as in those years before 1914. It was the age when crazy millionaires in curly
top-hats and lavender waistcoats gave champagne parties in rococo house-boats on
the Thames, the age of diabolo and hobble skirts, the age of the ‘knut’ in his
grey bowler and cut-away coat, the age of The Merry Widow, Saki's novels,
Peter Pan and Where the Rainbow Ends, the age when people talked
about chocs and cigs and ripping and topping and heavenly, when they went for
divvy week-ends at Brighton and had scrumptious teas at the Troc. From the whole
decade before 1914 there seems to breathe forth a smell of the more vulgar,
un-grown-up kind of luxury, a smell of brilliantine and crème-de-menthe
and soft-centred chocolates — an atmosphere, as it were, of eating everlasting
strawberry ices on green lawns to the tune of the Eton Boating Song. The
extraordinary thing was the way in which everyone took it for granted that his
oozing, bulging wealth of the English upper and upper-middle classes would last
for ever, and was part of the order of things. After 1918 it was never quite the
same again. Snobbishness and expensive habits came back, certainly, but they
were self-conscious and on the defensive. Before the war the worship of money
was entirely unreflecting and untroubled by any pang of conscience. The goodness
of money was as unmistakable as the goodness of health or beauty, and a
glittering car, a title or a horde of servants was mixed up in people's minds
with the idea of actual moral virtue.
At St Cyprian's, in term-time, the general bareness of life enforced a
certain democracy, but any mention of the holidays, and the consequent
competitive swanking about cars and butlers and country housed, promptly called
class distinctions into being. The school was pervaded by a curious cult of
Scotland, which brought out the fundamental contradiction in our standard of
values. Flip claimed Scottish ancestry, and she favoured the Scottish boys,
encouraging them to wear kilts in their ancestral tartan instead of the school
uniform, and even christened her youngest child by a Gaelic name. Ostensibly we
were supposed to admire the Scots because they were ‘grim’ and ‘dour’ (‘stern’
was perhaps the key word), and irresistible on the field of battle. In the big
schoolroom there was a steel engraving of the charge to the Scots Greys at
Waterloo, all looking as though they enjoyed every moment of it. Our picture of
Scotland was made up of burns, braes, kilts, sporrans, claymores, bagpipes and
the like, all somehow mixed up with the invigorating effects of porridge,
Protestantism and a cold climate. But underlying this was something quite
different. The real reason for the cult of Scotland was that only very rich
people could spend their summers there. And the pretended belief in Scottish
superiority was a cover for the bad conscience of the occupying English, who had
pushed the Highland peasantry off their farms to make way for the deer forests,
and then compensated them by turning them into servants. Flip's face always
beamed with innocent snobbishness when she spoke of Scotland. Occasionally she
even attempted a trace of Scottish accent. Scotland was a private paradise which
a few initiates could talk about and make outsiders feel small.
‘You going to Scotland this hols?’
‘Rather! We go every year.’
‘My pater's got three miles of river.’
‘My pater's giving me a new gun for the twelfth. There's jolly
good black game where we go. Get out, Smith! What are listening for? You've
never been to Scotland. I bet you don't know what a blackcock looks like.’
Following on this, imitations of the cry of a blackcock, of the roaring of a
stag, of the accent of ‘our ghillies’, etc. etc.
And the questionings that new boys of doubtful social origin were sometimes
put through — questionings quite surprising in their mean-minded particularity,
when one reflects that the inquisitors were only twelve or thirteen!
‘How much a year has your pater got? What part of London do you
live in? Is that Knightsbridge or Kensington? How many bathrooms has you house
got? How many servants do your people keep? Have you got a butler? Well, then,
have you got a cook? Where do you get your clothes made? How many shows did you
go to in the hols? How much money did you bring back with you?’ etc. etc.
I have seen a little new boy, hardly older than eight, desperately lying his
way through such a catechism:
‘Have your people got a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of car?’
‘Daimler.’
‘How many horse-power?’
(Pause, and leap in the dark.) ‘Fifteen.’
‘What kind of lights?’
The little boy is bewildered.
‘What kind of lights? Electric or acetylene?’
(A longer pause, and another leap in the dark.) ‘Acetylene.’
‘Coo! He says his pater's car's got acetylene lamps. They went
out years ago. It must be as old as the hill.’
‘Rot! He's making it up. He hasn't got a car. He's just a navvy.
Your pater's a navvy.’
And so on.
By the social standards that prevailed about me, I was no good, and could not
be any good. But all the different kinds of virtue seemed to be mysteriously
interconnected and to belong to much the same people. It was not only money that
mattered: there were also strength, beauty, charm, athleticism and something
called ‘guts’ or ‘character’, which in reality meant the power to impose your
will on others. I did not possess any of these qualities. At games, for
instance, I was hopeless. I was a fairly good swimmer and not altogether
contemptible at cricket, but these had no prestige value, because boys only
attach importance to a game if it requires strength and courage. What counted
was football, at which I was a funk. I loathed the game, and since I could see
no pleasure or usefulness in it, it was very difficult for me to show courage at
it. Football, it seemed to me, is not really played for the pleasure of kicking
a ball about, but is a species of fighting. The lovers of football are large,
boisterous, nobbly boys who are good at knocking down and trampling on slightly
smaller boys. That was the pattern of school life — a continuous triumph of the
strong over the weak. Virtue consisted in winning: it consisted in being bigger,
stronger, handsomer, richer, more popular, more elegant, more unscrupulous than
other people — in dominating them, bullying them, making them suffer pain,
making them look foolish, getting the better of them in every way. Life was
hierarchical and whatever happened was right. There were the strong, who
deserved to win and always did win, and there were the weak, who deserved to
lose and always did lose, everlastingly.
I did not question the prevailing standards, because so far as I could see
there were no others. How could the rich, the strong, the elegant, the
fashionable, the powerful, be in the wrong? It was their world, and the rules
they made for it must be the right ones. And yet from a very early age I was
aware of the impossibility of any subjective conformity. Always at the
centre of my heart the inner self seemed to be awake, pointing out the
difference between the moral obligation and the psychological fact. It
was the same in all matters, worldly or other-worldly. Take religion, for
instance. You were supposed to love God, and I did not question this. Till the
age of about fourteen I believed in God, and believed that the accounts given of
him were true. But I was well aware that I did not love him. On the contrary, I
hated him, just as I hated Jesus and the Hebrew patriarchs. If I had sympathetic
feelings towards any character in the Old Testament, it was towards such people
as Cain, Jezebel, Haman, Agag, Sisera: in the New Testament my friends, if any,
were Ananias, Caiaphas, Judas and Pontius Pilate. But the whole business of
religion seemed to be strewn with psychological impossibilities. The Prayer Book
told you, for example, to love God and fear him: but how could you love someone
whom you feared? With your private affections it was the same. What you
ought to feel was usually clear enough but the appropriate emotion could
not be commanded. Obviously it was my duty to feel grateful towards Flip and
Sambo; but I was not grateful. It was equally clear that one ought to love one's
father, but I knew very well that I merely disliked my own father, whom I had
barely seen before I was eight and who appeared to me simply as a gruff-voiced
elderly man forever saying ‘Don't’. It was not that one did not want to possess
the right qualities or feel the correct emotions, but that one could not. The
good and the possible never seemed to coincide.
There was a line of verse that I came across not actually while I was at St
Cyprian's, but a year of two later, and which seemed to strike a sort of leaden
echo in my heart. It was: ‘The armies of unalterable law’. I understood to
perfection what it meant to be Lucifer, defeated and justly defeated, with no
possibility of revenge. The schoolmasters with their canes, the millionaires
with their Scottish castles, the athletes with their curly hair — these were the
armies of unalterable law. It was not easy, at that date, to realize that in
fact it was alterable. And according to that law I was damned. I had no
money, I was weak, I was ugly, I was unpopular, I had a chronic cough, I was
cowardly, I smelt. This picture, I should add, was not altogether fanciful. I
was an unattractive boy. St Cyprian's soon made me so, even if I had not been so
before. But a child's belief in its own shortcomings is not much influenced by
facts. I believed, for example, that I ‘smelt’. But this was based simply on
general probability. It was notorious that disagreeable people smelt, and
therefore presumably I did so too. Again, until after I had left school for good
I continued to believe that I was preternaturally ugly. It was what my
schoolfellows had told me, and I had no other authority to refer to. The
conviction that it was not possible for me to be a success went deep
enough to influence my actions till far into adult life. Until I was about
thirty I always planned my life on the assumption not only that any major
undertaking was bound to fail, but that I could only expect to live a few years
longer.
But this sense of guilt and inevitable failure was balanced by something
else: that is, the instinct to survive. Even a creature that is weak, ugly,
cowardly, smelly and in no way justifiable still wants to stay alive and be
happy after its own fashion. I could not invert the existing scale of values, or
turn myself into a success, but I could accept my failure and make the best of
it. I could resign myself to being what I was, and then endeavour to survive on
those terms.
To survive, or at least to preserve any kind of independence, was essentially
criminal, since it meant breaking rules which you yourself recognized. There was
a boy named Johnny Hale who for some months oppressed me horribly. He was a big,
powerful, coarsely handsome boy with a very red face and curly black hair, who
was forever twisting somebody's arm, wringing somebody's ear, flogging somebody
with a riding-crop (he was a member of the Sixth Form), or performing prodigies
of activity on the football field. Flip loved him (hence the fact he was
habitually called by his Christian name) and Sambo commended him as a boy who
‘had character’ and ‘could keep order’. He was followed about by a group of
toadies who nicknamed him Strong Man.
One day, when we were taking off our overcoats in the changing-room, Hale
picked on me for some reason. I ‘answered him back’. Whereupon he gripped my
wrist, twisted it round and bent my forearm back upon itself in a hideously
painful way. I remember his handsome, jeering red face bearing down upon mine.
He was, I think, older than I, besides being enormously stronger. As he let go
of me a terrible, wicked resolve formed itself in my heart. I would get back on
him by hitting him when he did not expect it. It was a strategic moment, for the
master who had been ‘taking’ the walk would be coming back almost immediately,
and then there could be no fight. I let perhaps a minute go by, walked up to
Hale with the most harmless air I could assume, and then, getting the weight of
my body behind it, smashed my fist into his face. He was flung backwards by the
blow, and some blood ran out of his mouth. His always sanguine face turned
almost black with rage. Then he turned away to rinse his mouth at the
wash-basins.
‘All right!’ he said to me between his teeth as the
master led us away.
For days after this he followed me about, challenging me to fight. Although
terrified out of my wits, I steadily refused to fight. I said that the blow in
the face had served him right, and there was an end of it. Curiously enough he
did not simply fall upon me there and then, which public opinion would probably
have supported him in doing. So gradually the matter tailed off, and there was
no fight.
Now, I had behaved wrongly, by my own code no less than his. To hit him
unawares was wrong. But to refuse afterwards to fight knowing that if we fought
we would beat me — that was far worse: it was cowardly. If I had refused because
I disapproved of fighting, or because I genuinely felt the matter to be closed,
it would have been all right; but I had refused merely because I was afraid.
Even my revenge was made empty by that fact. I had struck the blow in a moment
of mindless violence, deliberately not looking far ahead and merely determined
to get my own back for once and damn the consequences. I had had time to realize
that what I did was wrong, but it was the kind of crime from which you could get
some satisfaction. Now all was nullified. There had been a sort of courage in
the first act, but my subsequent cowardice had wiped it out.
The fact I hardly noticed was that though Hale formally challenged me to
fight, he did not actually attack me. Indeed, after receiving that one blow he
never oppressed me again. It was perhaps twenty years before I saw the
significance of this. At the time I could not see beyond the moral dilemma that
is presented to the weak in a world governed by the strong: Break the rules, or
perish. I did not see that in that case the weak have the right to make a
different set of rules for themselves; because, even if such an idea had
occurred to me, there was no one in my environment who could have confirmed me
in it. I lived in a world of boys, gregarious animals questioning nothing,
accepting the law of the stronger and avenging their own humiliations by passing
them down to someone smaller. My situation was that of countless other boys, and
if potentially I was more of a rebel than most, it was only because, by boyish
standards, I was a poorer specimen. But I never did rebel intellectually, only
emotionally. I had nothing to help me except my dumb selfishness, my inability —
not, indeed, to despise myself, but to dislike myself — my instinct to
survive.
It was about a year after I hit Johnny Hale in the face that I left St
Cyprian's for ever. It was the end of a winter term. With a sense of coming out
from darkness into sunlight I put on my Old Boy's tie as we dressed for the
journey. I well remember the feeling of emancipation, as though the tie had been
at once a badge of manhood and an amulet against Flip's voice and Sambo's cane.
I was escaping from bondage. It was not that I expected, or even intended, to be
any more successful at a public school than I had been at St Cyprian's. But
still, I was escaping. I knew that at a public school there would be more
privacy, more neglect, more chance to be idle and self-indulgent and degenerate.
For years I had been resolved — unconsciously at first, but consciously later on
— that when once my scholarship was won I would ‘slack off’ and cram no longer.
This resolve, by the way, was so fully carried out that between the ages of
thirteen and twenty-two or three I hardly ever did a stroke of avoidable
work.
Flip shook hands to say good-bye. She even gave me my Christian name for the
occasion. But there was a sort of patronage, almost a sneer, in her face and in
her voice. The tone in which she said good-bye was nearly the tone in which she
had been used to say little butterflies. I had won two scholarships but I
was a failure, because success was measured not by what you did but by what you
were. I was ‘not a good type of boy’ and could bring no credit on the
school. I did not possess character or courage or health or strength or money,
or even good manners, the power to look like a gentlemen.
‘Good-bye,’ Flip's parting smile seemed to say; ‘its not worth
quarrelling now. You haven't made much of a success of your time at St
Cyprian's, have you? And I don't suppose you'll get on awfully well at a public
school either. We make a mistake, really, in wasting our time and money on you.
This kind of education hasn't much to offer to a boy with your background and
your outlook. Oh, don't think we don't understand you! We know all about those
ideas you have at the back of your head, we know you disbelieve in everything
we've taught you, and we know you aren't in the least grateful for all we've
done for you. But there's no use in bringing it all up now. We aren't
responsible for you any longer, and we shan't be seeing you again. Let's just
admit that you're one of our failures and part without ill-feeling. And so,
good-bye.’
That at least was what I read into her face. And yet how happy I was, that
winter morning, as the train bore me away with the gleaming new silk tie (dark
green, pale blue and black, if I remember rightly) round my neck! The world was
opening before me, just a little, like a grey sky which exhibits a narrow crack
of blue. A public school would be better fun than St Cyprian's, but at bottom
equally alien. In a world where the prime necessities were money, titled
relatives, athleticism, tailor-made clothes, neatly-brushed hair, a charming
smile, I was no good. All I had gained was a breathing-space. A little quietude,
a little self-indulgence, a little respite from cramming — and then, ruin. What
kind of ruin I did not know: perhaps the colonies or an office stool, perhaps
prison or an early death. But first a year or two in which one could ‘slack off’
and get the benefit of one's sins, like Doctor Faustus. I believed firmly in my
evil destiny, and yet I was acutely happy. It is the advantage of being thirteen
that you can not only live in the moment, but do so with full consciousness,
foreseeing the future and yet not caring about it Next term I was going to
Wellington. I had also won a scholarship at Eton, but it was uncertain whether
there would be a vacancy, and I was going to Wellington first. At Eton you had a
room to yourself — a room which might even have a fire in it. At Wellington you
had your own cubicle, and could make yourself cocoa in the evenings. The privacy
of it, the grown-upness! And there would be libraries to hang about in, and
summer afternoons when you could shirk games and mooch about the countryside
alone, with no master driving you along. Meanwhile there were the holidays.
There was the 22 rifle that I had bought the previous holidays (the Crackshot,
it was called, costing twenty-two and sixpence), and Christmas was coming next
week. There were also the pleasures of overeating. I thought of some
particularly voluptuous cream buns which could be bought for twopence each at a
shop in our town. (This was 1916, and food-rationing had not yet started.) Even
the detail that my journey-money had been slightly miscalculated, leaving about
a shilling over — enough for an unforeseen cup of coffee and a cake or two
somewhere on the way — was enough to fill me with bliss. There was time for a
bit of happiness before the future closed in upon me. But I did know that the
future was dark. Failure, failure, failure — failure behind me, failure ahead of
me — that was by far the deepest conviction that I carried away.
VI
All this was thirty years ago and more. The question is:
Does a child at school go through the same kind of experiences nowadays?
The only honest answer, I believe, is that we do not with certainty know. Of
course it is obvious that the present-day attitude towards education is
enormously more humane and sensible than that of the past. The snobbishness that
was an integral part of my own education would be almost unthinkable today,
because the society that nourished it is dead. I recall a conversation that must
have taken place about a year before I left St Cyprian's. A Russian boy, large
and fair-haired, a year older than myself, was questioning me.
‘How much a year has your father got?’
I told him what I thought it was, adding a few hundreds to make it sound
better. The Russian boy, neat in his habits, produced a pencil and a small
note-book and made a calculation.
‘My father has over two hundred times as much money as yours,’
he announced with a sort of amused contempt.
That was in 1915. What happened to that money a couple of years later, I
wonder? And still more I wonder, do conversations of that kind happen at
preparatory schools now?
Clearly there has been a vast change of outlook, a general growth of
‘enlightenment’, even among ordinary, unthinking middle-class people. Religious
belief, for instance, has largely vanished, dragging other kinds of nonsense
after it. I imagine that very few people nowadays would tell a child that if it
masturbates it will end in the lunatic asylum. Beating, too, has become
discredited, and has even been abandoned at many schools. Nor is the
underfeeding of children looked on as a normal, almost meritorious act. No one
now would openly set out to give his pupils as little food as they could do
with, or tell them that it is healthy to get up from a meal as hungry as you sat
down. The whole status of children has improved, partly because they have grown
relatively less numerous. And the diffusion of even a little psychological
knowledge has made it harder for parents and schoolteachers to indulge their
aberrations in the name of discipline. Here is a case, not known to me
personally, but known to some one I can vouch for, and happening within my own
lifetime. A small girl, daughter of a clergyman, continued wetting her bed at an
age when she should have grown out of it. In order to punish her for this
dreadful deed, her father took her to a large garden party and there introduced
her to the whole company as a little girl who wetted her bed: and to underline
her wickedness he had previously painted her face black. I do not suggest that
Flip and Sambo would actually have done a thing like this, but I doubt whether
it would have much surprised them. After all, things do change. And yet — !
The question is not whether boys are still buckled into Eton collars on
Sunday, or told that babies are dug up under gooseberry bushes. That kind of
thing is at an end, admittedly. The real question is whether it is still normal
for a school child to live for years amid irrational terrors and lunatic
misunderstandings. And here one is up against the very great difficulty of
knowing what a child really feels and thinks. A child which appears reasonably
happy may actually be suffering horrors which it cannot or will not reveal. It
lives in a sort of alien under-water world which we can only penetrate by memory
or divination. Our chief clue is the fact that we were once children ourselves,
and many people appear to forget the atmosphere of their own childhood almost
entirely. Think for instance of the unnecessary torments that people will
inflict by sending a child back to school with clothes to the wrong pattern, and
refusing to see that this matters! Over things of this kind a child will
sometimes utter a protest, but a great deal of the time its attitude is one of
simple concealment. Not to expose your true feelings to an adult seems to be
instinctive from the age of seven or eight onwards. Even the affection that one
feels for a child, the desire to protect and cherish it, is a cause of
misunderstanding. One can love a child, perhaps, more deeply than one can love
another adult, but it is rash to assume that the child feels any love in return.
Looking back on my own childhood, after the infant years were over, I do not
believe that I ever felt love for any mature person, except my mother, and even
her I did not trust, in the sense that shyness made me conceal most of my real
feelings from her. Love, the spontaneous, unqualified emotion of love, was
something I could only feel for people who were young. Towards people who were
old — and remember that ‘old’ to a child means over thirty, or even over
twenty-five — I could feel reverence respect, admiration or compunction, but I
seemed cut off from them by a veil of fear and shyness mixed up with physical
distaste. People are too ready to forget the child's physical shrinking
from the adult. The enormous size of grown-ups, their ungainly, rigid bodies,
their coarse, wrinkled skins, their great relaxed eyelids, their yellow teeth,
and the whiffs of musty clothes and beer and sweat and tobacco that disengage
from them at every movement! Part of the reason for the ugliness of adults, in a
child's eyes, is that the child is usually looking upwards, and few faces are at
their best when seen from below. Besides, being fresh and unmarked itself, the
child has impossibly high standards in the matter of skin and teeth and
complexion. But the greatest barrier of all is the child's misconception about
age. A child can hardly envisage life beyond thirty, and in judging people's
ages it will make fantastic mistakes. It will think that a person of twenty-five
is forty, that a person of forty is sixty-five, and so on. Thus, when I fell in
love with Elsie I took her to be grown-up. I met her again, when I was thirteen
and she, I think, must have been twenty-three; she now seemed to me a
middle-aged woman, somewhat past her best. And the child thinks of growing old
as an almost obscene calamity, which for some mysterious reason will never
happen to itself. All who have passed the age of thirty are joyless grotesques,
endlessly fussing about things of no importance and staying alive without so far
as the child can see, having anything to live for. Only child life is real life.
The schoolmaster who imagines that he is loved and trusted by his boys is in
fact mimicked and laughed at behind his back. An adult who does not seem
dangerous nearly always seems ridiculous.
I base these generalizations on what I can recall of my own childhood out
look. Treacherous though memory is, it seems to me the chief means we have of
discovering how a child's mind works. Only by resurrecting our own memories can
we realize how incredibly distorted is the child's vision of the world. Consider
this, for example. How would St Cyprian's appear to me now, if I could go back,
at my present age, and see it as it was in 1915? What should I think of Sambo
and Flip, those terrible, all-powerful monsters? I should see them as a couple
of silly, shallow, ineffectual people, eagerly clambering up a social ladder
which any thinking person could see to be on the point of collapse. I would no
more be frightened of them than I would be frightened of a dormouse. Moreover,
in those days they seemed to me fantastically old, whereas — though of this I am
not certain — I imagine they must have been somewhat younger than I am now. And
how would Johnny Hale appear with his blacksmith's arms and his red, jeering
face? Merely a scruffy little boy, barely distinguishable from hundreds of other
scruffy little boys. The two sets of facts can lie side by side in my mind,
because those happen to be my own memories. But it would be very difficult for
me to see with the eyes of any other child, except by an effort of the
imagination which might lead me completely astray. The child and the adult live
in different worlds. If that is so, we cannot be certain that school, at any
rate boarding school, is not still for many children as dreadful an experience
as it used to be. Take away God, Latin, the cane, class distinctions and sexual
taboos, and the fear, the hatred, the snobbery and the misunderstanding might
still all be there. It will have been seen that my own main trouble was an utter
lack of any sense of proportion or probability. This led me to accept outrages
and believe absurdities, and to suffer torments over things which were in fact
of no importance. It is not enough to say that I was ‘silly’ and ‘ought to have
known better’. Look back into your own childhood and think of the nonsense you
used to believe and the trivialities which could make you suffer. Of course my
own case had its individual variations, but essentially it was that of countless
other boys. The weakness of the child is that it starts with a blank sheet. It
neither understands nor questions the society in which it lives, and because of
its credulity other people can work upon it, infecting it with the sense of
inferiority and the dread of offending against mysterious, terrible laws. It may
be that everything that happened to me at St Cyprian's could happen in the most
‘enlightened’ school, though perhaps in subtler forms. Of one thing, however, I
do feel fairly sure, and that is that boarding schools are worse than day
schools. A child has a better chance with the sanctuary of its home near at
hand. And I think the characteristic faults of the English upper and middle
classes may be partly due to the practice, general until recently, of sending
children away from home as young as nine, eight or even seven.
I have never been back to St Cyprian's. Reunions, old boys’ dinners and
such-like leave me something more than cold, even when my memories are friendly.
I have never even been down to Eton, where I was relatively happy, though I did
once pass through it in 1933 and noted with interest that nothing seemed to have
changed, except that the shops now sold radios. As for St Cyprian's, for years I
loathed its very name so deeply that I could not view it with enough detachment
to see the significance of the things that happened to me there. In a way it is
only within the last decade that I have really thought over my schooldays,
vividly though their memory has always haunted me. Nowadays, I believe, it would
make very little impression on me to see the place again, if it still exists. (I
remember hearing a rumour some years ago that it had been burnt down.) If I had
to pass through Eastbourn I would not make a detour to avoid the school: and if
I happened to pass the school itself I might even stop for a moment by the low
brick wall, with the steep bank running down from it, and look across the flat
playing field at the ugly building with the square of asphalt in front of it.
And if I went inside and smelt again the inky, dusty smell of the big
schoolroom, the rosiny smell of the chapel, the stagnant smell of the swimming
bath and the cold reek of the lavatories, I think I should only feel what one
invariably feels in revisiting any scene of childhood: How small everything has
grown, and how terrible is the deterioration in myself! But it is a fact that
for many years I could hardly have borne to look at it again. Except upon dire
necessity I would not have set foot in Eastbourne. I even conceived a prejudice
against Sussex, as the country that contained St Cyprian's, and as an adult I
have only once been in Sussex, on a short visit. Now, however, the place is out
of my system for good. Its magic works no longer, and I have not even enough
animosity left to make me hope that Flip and Sambo are dead or that the story of
the school being burnt down was true.
Soon after I arrived at St Cyprian's (not immediately,
but after a week or two, just when I seemed to be settling into the routine of
school life) I began wetting my bed. I was now aged eight, so that this was a
reversion to a habit which I must have grown out of at least four years earlier.
Nowadays, I believe, bed-wetting in such circumstances is taken for granted. It
is normal reaction in children who have been removed from their homes to a
strange place. In those days, however, it was looked on as a disgusting crime
which the child committed on purpose and for which the proper cure was a
beating. For my part I did not need to be told it was a crime. Night after night
I prayed, with a fervour never previously attained in my prayers, ‘Please God,
do not let me wet my bed! Oh, please God, do not let me wet my bed!’, but it
made remarkably little difference. Some nights the thing happened, others not.
There was no volition about it, no consciousness. You did not properly speaking
do the deed: you merely woke up in the morning and found that the sheets
were wringing wet.
After the second of third offence I was warned that I should be beaten next
time, but I received the warning in a curiously roundabout way. One afternoon,
as we were filing out from tea, Mrs Wilkes the Headmaster's wife, was sitting at
the head of one of the tables, chatting with a lady of whom I knew nothing,
except that she was on an afternoon's visit to the school. She was an
intimidating, masculine-looking person wearing a riding-habit, or something that
I took to be a riding-habit. I was just leaving the room when Mrs Wilkes called
me back, as though to introduce me to the visitor.
Mrs Wilkes was nicknamed Flip, and I shall call her by that name, for I
seldom think of her by any other. (Officially, however, she was addressed as
Mum, probably a corruption of the ‘Ma'am’ used by public schoolboys to their
housemasters' wives.) She was a stocky square-built woman with hard red cheeks,
a flat top to her head, prominent brows and deep-set, suspicious eyes. Although
a great deal of the time she was full of false heartiness, jollying one along
with mannish slang (‘Buck up, old chap!’ and so forth), and even using
one's Christian name, her eyes never lost their anxious, accusing look. It was
very difficult to look her in the face without feeling guilty, even at moments
when one was not guilty of anything in particular.
‘Here is a little boy,’ said Flip, indicating me to the strange
lady, ‘who wets his bed every night. Do you know what I am going to do if you
wet your bed again?’ she added, turning to me, ‘I am going to get the Sixth Form
to beat you’.
The strange lady put on an air of being inexpressibly shocked, and exclaimed
‘I-should-think-so!’ And here there occurred one of those wild, almost
lunatic misunderstandings which are part of the daily experience of childhood.
The Sixth Form was a group of older boys who were selected as having ‘character’
and were empowered to beat smaller boys. I had not yet learned of their
existence, and I mis-heard the phrase ‘the Sixth Form’ as ‘Mrs Form’. I took it
as referring to the strange lady — I thought, that is, that her name was Mrs
Form. It was an improbable name, but a child has no judgement in such matters. I
imagined, therefore, that it was she who was to be deputed to beat me. It
did not strike me as strange that this job should be turned over to a casual
visitor in no way connected with the school. I merely assumed the ‘Mrs Form’ was
a stern disciplinarian who enjoyed beating people (somehow her appearance seemed
to bear this out) and I had an immediate terrifying vision of her arriving for
the occasion in full riding kit and armed with a hunting-whip. To this day I can
feel myself almost swooning with shame as I stood, a very small, round-faced boy
in short corduroy knickers, before the two women. I could not speak. I felt that
I should die if ‘Mrs Form’ were to beat me. But my dominant feeling was not fear
or even resentment: it was simply shame because one more person, and that a
woman, had been told of my disgusting offence.
A little later, I forget how, I learned that it was not after all ‘Mrs Form’
who would do the beating. I cannot remember whether it was that very night that
I wetted my bed again, but at any rate I did wet it again quite soon. Oh, the
despair, the feeling of cruel injustice, after all my prayers and resolutions,
at once again waking between the clammy sheets! There was no chance of hiding
what I had done. The grim statuesque matron, Margaret by name, arrived in the
dormitory specially to inspect my bed. She pulled back the clothes, then drew
herself up, and the dreaded words seemed to come rolling out of her like a peal
of thunder:
‘REPORT YOURSELF to the Headmaster
after breakfast!’
I put REPORT YOURSELF in capitals because that was
how it appeared in my mind. I do not know how many times I heard that phrase
during my early years at St Cyprian's. It was only very rarely that it did not
mean a beating. The words always had a portentous sound in my ears, like muffled
drums or the words of the death sentence.
When I arrived to report myself, Flip was doing something or other at he the
long shiny table in the ante-room to the study. Her uneasy eyes searched me as I
went past. Sambo was a round-shouldered, curiously oafish-looking man, not large
but shambling in gait, with a chubby face which was like that of an overgrown
baby, and which was capable of good humour. He knew, of course, why I had been
sent to him, and had already taken a bone-handled riding-crop out of the
cupboard, but it was part of the punishment of reporting yourself that you had
to proclaim your offence with your own lips. When I had said my say, he read me
a short but pompous lecture, then seized me by the scruff of the neck, twisted
me over and began beating me with the riding-crop. He had a habit of continuing
his lecture while he flogged you, and I remember the words ‘you dir-ty lit-tle
boy’ keeping time with the blows. The beating did not hurt (perhaps, as it was
the first time, he was not hitting me very hard), and I walked out feeling very
much better. The fact that the beating had not hurt was a sort of victory and
partially wiped out the shame of the bed-wetting. I was even incautious enough
to wear a grin on my face. Some small boys were hanging about in the passage
outside the door of the ante-room.
‘D'you get the cane?’
‘It didn't hurt.’ I said proudly.
Flip had heard everything. Instantly her voice came screaming after me:
‘Come here! Come here this instant! What was that you said?’
‘I said it didn't hurt,’ I faltered out.
‘How dare you say a thing like that? Do you think that is a
proper thing to say? Go in and REPORT YOURSELF
AGAIN!’
This time Sambo laid on in real earnest. He continued for a length of time
that frightened and astonished me — about five minutes, it seemed — ending up by
breaking the riding-crop. The bone handle went flying across the room.
‘Look what you've made me do!’ he said furiously, holding the
broken crop.
I had fallen into a chair, weakly snivelling. I remember that this was the
only time throughout my boyhood when a beating actually reduced me to tears, and
curiously enough I was not even now crying because of the pain. The second
beating had not hurt very much either. Fright and shame seemed to have
anaesthetized me. I was crying partly because I felt that this was expected of
me, partly from genuine repentance, but partly also because of a deeper grief
which is peculiar to childhood and not easy to convey: a sense of desolate
loneliness and helplessness, of being locked up not only in a hostile world but
in a world of good and evil where the rules were such that it was actually not
possible for me to keep them.
I knew the bed-wetting was (a) wicked and (b) outside my control. The second
fact I was personally aware of, and the first I did not question. It was
possible, therefore, to commit a sin without knowing that you committed it,
without wanting to commit it, and without being able to avoid it. Sin was not
necessarily something that you did: it might be something that happened to you.
I do not want to claim that this idea flashed into my mind as a complete novelty
at this very moment, under the blows of Sambo's cane: I must have had glimpses
of it even before I left home, for my early childhood had not been altogether
happy. But at any rate this was the great, abiding lesson of my boyhood: that I
was in a world where it was not possible for me to be good. And the
double beating was a turning-point, for it brought home to me for the first time
the harshness of the environment into which I had been flung. Life was more
terrible, and I was more wicked, than I had imagined. At any rate, as I sat
snivelling on the edge of a chair in Sambo's study, with not even the
self-possession to stand up while he stormed at me, I had a conviction of sin
and folly and weakness, such as I do not remember to have felt before.
In general, one's memories of any period must necessarily weaken as one moves
away from it. One is constantly learning new facts, and old ones have to drop
out to make way for them. At twenty I could have written the history of my
schooldays with an accuracy which would be quite impossible now. But it can also
happen that one's memories grow sharper after a long lapse of time, because one
is looking at the past with fresh eyes and can isolate and, as it were, notice
facts which previously existed undifferentiated among a mass of others. Here are
two things which in a sense I remembered, but which did not strike me as strange
or interesting until quite recently. One is that the second beating seemed to me
a just and reasonable punishment. To get one beating, and then to get another
and far fiercer one on top of it, for being so unwise as to show that the first
had not hurt — that was quite natural. The gods are jealous, and when you have
good fortune you should conceal it. The other is that I accepted the broken
riding-crop as my own crime. I can still recall my feeling as I saw the handle
lying on the carpet — the feeling of having done an ill-bred clumsy thing, and
ruined an expensive object. I had broken it: so Sambo told me, and so I
believed. This acceptance of guilt lay unnoticed in my memory for twenty or
thirty years.
So much for the episode of the bed-wetting. But there is one more thing to be
remarked. This is that I did not wet my bed again — at least, I did wet it once
again, and received another beating, after which the trouble stopped. So perhaps
this barbarous remedy does work, though at a heavy price, I have no doubt.
II
St Cyprian's was an expensive and snobbish school which
was in process of becoming more snobbish, and, I imagine, more expensive. The
public school with which it had special connexions was Harrow, but during my
time an increasing proportion of the boys went on to Eton. Most of them were the
children of rich parents, but on the whole they were the un-aristocratic rich,
the sort of people who live in huge shrubberied houses in Bournemouth or
Richmond, and who have cars and butlers but not country estates. There were a
few exotics among them — some South American boys, sons of Argentine beef
barons, one or two Russians, and even a Siamese prince, or someone who was
described as a prince.
Sambo had two great ambitions. One was to attract titled boys to the school,
and the other was to train up pupils to win scholarships at public schools,
above all at Eton. He did, towards the end of my time, succeed in getting hold
of two boys with real English titles. One of them, I remember, was a wretched
drivelling little creature, almost an albino, peering upwards out of weak eyes,
with a long nose at the end of which a dewdrop always seemed to be trembling.
Sambo always gave these boys their titles when mentioning them to a third
person, and for their first few days he actually addressed them to their faces
as ‘Lord So-and-so.’ Needless to say he found ways of drawing attention to them
when any visitor was being shown round the school. Once, I remember, the little
fair-haired boy had a choking fit at dinner, and a stream of snot ran out of his
nose on to his plate in a way horrible to see. Any lesser person would have been
called a dirty little beast and ordered out of the room instantly: but Sambo and
Flip laughed it off in a ‘boys will be boys' spirit.
All the very rich boys were more or less undisguisedly favoured. The school
still had a faint suggestion of the Victorian ‘private academy’ with its
‘parlour boarders’, and when I later read about that kind of school in Thackeray
I immediately saw the resemblance. The rich boys had milk and biscuits in the
middle of the morning, they were given riding lessons once or twice a week, Flip
mothered them and called them by their Christian names, and above all they were
never caned. Apart from the South Americans, whose parents were safely distant,
I doubt whether Sambo ever caned any boy whose father's income was much above
£2,000 a year. But he was sometimes willing to sacrifice financial profit to
scholastic prestige. Occasionally, by special arrangement, he would take at
greatly reduced fees some boy who seemed likely to win scholarships and thus
bring credit on the school. It was on these terms that I was at St Cyprian's
myself: otherwise my parents could not have afforded to send me to so expensive
a school.
I did not at first understand that I was being taken at reduced fees; it was
only when I was about eleven that Flip and Sambo began throwing the fact in my
teeth. For my first two or three years I went through the ordinary educational
mill: then, soon after I had stated Greek (one started Latin at eight, Greek at
ten), I moved into the scholarship class, which was taught, so far as classics
went, largely by Sambo himself. Over a period of two or three years the
scholarship boys were crammed with learning as cynically as a goose is crammed
for Christmas. And with what learning! This business of making a gifted boy's
career depend on a competitive examination, taken when he is only twelve or
thirteen is an evil thing at best, but there do appear to be preparatory schools
which send scholars to Eton, Winchester, etc. without teaching them to see
everything in terms of marks. At St Cyprian's the whole process was frankly a
preparation for a sort of confidence trick. Your job was to learn exactly those
things that would give an examiner the impression that you knew more than you
did know, and as far as possible to avoid burdening your brain with anything
else. Subjects which lacked examination-value, such as geography, were almost
completely neglected, mathematics was also neglected if you were a ‘classical’,
science was not taught in any form — indeed it was so despised that even an
interest in natural history was discouraged — and even the books you were
encouraged to read in your spare time were chosen with one eye on the ‘English
paper’. Latin and Greek, the main scholarship subjects, were what counted, but
even these were deliberately taught in a flashy, unsound way. We never, for
example, read right through even a single book of a Greek or Latin author: we
merely read short passages which were picked out because they were the kind of
thing likely to be set as an ‘unseen translation’. During the last year or so
before we went up for our scholarships, most of our time was spent in simply
working our way through the scholarship papers of previous years. Sambo had
sheaves of these in his possession, from every one of the major public schools.
But the greatest outrage of all was the teaching of history.
There was in those days a piece of nonsense called the Harrow History Prize,
an annual competition for which many preparatory schools entered. It was a
tradition for St Cyprian's to win it every year, as well we might, for we had
mugged up every paper that had been set since the competition started, and the
supply of possible questions was not inexhaustible. They were the kind of stupid
question that is answered by rapping out a name of quotation. Who plundered the
Begams? Who was beheaded in an open boat? Who caught the Whigs bathing and ran
away with their clothes? Almost all our historical teaching ran on this level.
History was a series of unrelated, unintelligible but — in some way that was
never explained to us — important facts with resounding phrases tied to them.
Disraeli brought peace with honour. Clive was astonished at his moderation. Pitt
called in the New World to redress the balance of the Old. And the dates, and
the mnemonic devices. (Did you know, for example, that the initial letters of ‘A
black Negress was my aunt: there's her house behind the barn’ are also the
initial letters of the battles in the Wars of the Roses?) Flip, who ‘took’ the
higher forms in history, revelled in this kind of thing. I recall positive
orgies of dates, with the keener boys leaping up and down in their places in
their eagerness to shout out the right answers, and at the same time not feeling
the faintest interest in the meaning of the mysterious events they were
naming.
‘1587’
‘Massacre of St Bartholomew!’
‘1707?’
‘Death of Aurangzeeb!’
‘1713?’
‘Treaty of Utrecht!’
‘1773?’
‘Boston Tea Party!’
‘1520?’
‘Oo, Mum, please, Mum—’
‘Please, Mum, please Mum! Let me tell him, Mum!’
‘Well! 1520?’
‘Field of the Cloth of Gold!’
And so on.
But history and such secondary subjects were not bad fun. It was in
‘classics’ that the real strain came. Looking back, I realize that I then worked
harder than I have ever done since, and yet at the time it never seemed possible
to made quite the effort that was demanded of one. We would sit round the long
shiny table, made of some very pale-coloured hard wood, with Sambo goading,
threatening, exhorting, sometimes joking, very occasionally praising, but always
prodding, prodding away at one's mind to keep it up to the right pitch of
concentration, as one keeps a sleepy person awake by sticking pins in him.
‘Go on, you little slacker! Go on, you idle, worthless little
boy! The whole trouble with you is that you're bone and horn idle. You eat too
much, that's why. You wolf down enormous meals, and then when you come here
you're half asleep. Go on, now, put your back into it. You're not
thinking. Your brain doesn't sweat.’
He would tap away at one's skull with his silver pencil, which, in my memory,
seems to have been about the size of a banana, and which certainly was heavy
enough to raise a bump: or he would pull the short hairs round one's ears, or,
occasionally, reach out under the table and kick one's shin. On some days
nothing seemed to go right, and then it would be ‘ All right, then, I know what
you want. You've been asking for it the whole morning. Come along, you useless
little slacker. Come into the study.’ And then whack, whack, whack, and back one
would come, red-wealed and smarting — in later years Sambo had abandoned his
riding-crop in favour of a thin rattan cane which hurt very much more — to
settle down to work again. This did not happen very often, but I do remember,
more than once, being led out of the room in the middle of a Latin sentence,
receiving a beating and then going straight ahead with the same sentence, just
like that. It is a mistake to think such methods do not work. They work very
well for their special purpose. Indeed, I doubt whether classical education ever
has been or can be successfully carried on without corporal punishment. The boys
themselves believed in its efficacy. There was a boy named Beacham, with no
brains to speak of, but evidently in acute need of a scholarship. Sambo was
flogging him towards the goal as one might do with a foundered horse. He went up
for a scholarship at Uppingham, came back with a consciousness of having done
badly, and a day or two later received a severe beating for idleness. ‘I wish
I'd had that caning before I went up for the exam,’ he said sadly — a remark
which I felt to be contemptible, but which I perfectly well understood.
The boys of the scholarship class were not all treated alike. If a boy were
the son of rich parents to whom the saving of fees was not all-important, Sambo
would goad him along in a comparatively fatherly way, with jokes and digs in the
ribs and perhaps an occasional tap with the pencil, but no hair-pulling and no
caning. It was the poor but ‘clever’ boys who suffered. Our brains were a
gold-mine in which he had sunk money, and the dividends must be squeezed out of
us. Long before I had grasped the nature of my financial relationship with
Sambo, I had been made to understand that I was not on the same footing as most
of the other boys. In effect there were three castes in the school. There was
the minority with an aristocratic or millionaire background, there were the
children of the ordinary suburban rich, who made up the bulk of the school, and
there were a few underlings like myself, the sons of clergyman, Indian civil
servants, struggling widows and the like. These poorer ones were discouraged
from going in for ‘extras’ such as shooting and carpentry, and were humiliated
over clothes and petty possessions. I never, for instance, succeeded in getting
a cricket bat of my own, because ‘Your parents wouldn't be able to afford it’.
This phrase pursued me throughout my schooldays. At St Cyprian's we were not
allowed to keep the money we brought back with us, but had to ‘give it in’ on
the first day of term, and then from time to time were allowed to spend it under
supervision. I and similarly-placed boys were always choked off from buying
expensive toys like model aeroplanes, even if the necessary money stood to our
credit. Flip, in particular, seemed to aim consciously at inculcating a humble
outlook in the poorer boys. ‘Do you think that's the sort of thing a boy like
you should buy?’ I remember her saying to somebody — and she said this in front
of the whole school: ‘You know you're not going to grow up with money, don't
you? Your people aren't rich. You must learn to be sensible. Don't get above
yourself!’ There was also the weekly pocket-money, which we took out in sweets,
dispensed by Flip from a large table. The millionaires had a sixpence a week,
but the normal sum was threepence. I and one or two others were only allowed
twopence. My parents had not given instructions to this effect, and the saving
of a penny a week could not conceivably have made any difference to them: it was
a mark of status. Worse yet was the detail of the birthday cakes. It was usual
for each boy, on his birthday, to have a large iced cake with candles, which was
shared out at tea between the whole school. It was provided as a matter of
routine and went on his parents’ bill. I never had such a cake, though my
parents would have paid for it readily enough. Year after year, never daring to
ask, I would miserably hope that his year a cake would appear. Once or twice I
even rashly pretended to my companions that this time I was going to have
a cake. Then came tea-time, and no cake, which did not make me more popular.
Very early it was impressed upon me that I had no chance of a decent future
unless I won a scholarship at a public school. Either I won my scholarship, or I
must leave school at fourteen and become, in Sambo's favourite phrase ‘a little
office boy at forty pounds a year’. In my circumstances it was natural that I
should believe this. Indeed, it was universally taken for granted at St
Cyprian's that unless you went to a ‘good’ public school (and only about fifteen
schools came under this heading) you were ruined for life. It is not easy to
convey to a grown-up person the sense of strain, of nerving oneself for some
terrible, all-deciding combat, as the date of the examination crept nearer —
eleven years old, twelve years old, then thirteen, the fatal year itself! Over a
period of about two years, I do not think there was ever a day when ‘the exam’,
as I called it, was quite out of my waking thoughts. In my prayers it figured
invariably: and whenever I got the bigger portion of a wishbone, or picked up a
horseshoe, or bowed seven times to the new moon, or succeeded in passing through
a wishing-gate without touching the sides, then the wish I earned by doing so
went on ‘the exam’ as a matter of course. And yet curiously enough I was also
tormented by an almost irresistible impulse not to work. There were days
when my heart sickened at the labours ahead of me, and I stood stupid as an
animal before the most elementary difficulties. In the holidays, also, I could
not work. Some of the scholarship bonus received extra tuition from a certain Mr
Batchelor, a likeable, very hairy man who wore shaggy suits and lived in a
typical bachelor's ‘den’ — book-lined wall, over-whelming stench of tobacco —
somewhere in the town. During the holidays Mr Batchelor used to send us extracts
from a wad of work once a week. Somehow I could not do it. The empty paper and
the black Latin dictionary lying on the table, the consciousness of a plain duty
shirked, poisoned my leisure, but somehow I could not start, and by the end of
the holidays I would only have sent Mr Batchelor fifty or a hundred lines.
Undoubtedly part of the reason was that Sambo and his cane were far away. But in
term-time, also, I would go through periods of idleness and stupidity when I
would sink deeper and deeper into disgrace and even achieve a sort of feeble,
snivelling defiance, fully conscious of my guilt and yet unable or unwilling — I
could not be sure which — to do any better. Then Sambo or Flip would send for
me, and this time it would not even be a caning.
Flip would search me with her baleful eyes. (What colour were those eyes, I
wonder? I remember them as green, but actually no human being has green eyes.
Perhaps they were hazel.) She would start off in her peculiar, wheedling,
bullying style, which never failed to get right through one's guard and score a
hit on one's better nature.
‘I don't think it's awfully decent of you to behave like this,
is it? Do you think it's quite playing the game by your mother and father to go
on idling your time away, week after week, month after month? Do you want
to throw all your chances away? You know your people aren't rich, don't you? You
know they can't afford the same things as other boys’ parents. How are they to
send you to a public school if you don't win a scholarship? I know how proud
your mother is of you. Do you want to let her down?’
‘I don't think he wants to go to a public school any longer,’
Sambo would say, addressing himself to Flip with a pretence that I was not
there. ‘I think he's given up that idea. He wants to be a little boy at forty
pounds a year.’
The horrible sensation of tears — a swelling in the breast, a tickling behind
the nose — would already have assailed me. Flip would bring out her ace of
trumps:
‘And do you think it's quite fair to us, the way you're
behaving? After all we've done for you? You do know what we've done for
you, don't you?’ Her eyes would pierce deep into me, and though she never said
it straight out, I did know. ‘We've had you here all these years — we even had
you here for a week in the holidays so that Mr Batchelor could coach you. We
don't want to have to send you away, you know, but we can't keep a boy
here just to eat up our food, term after term. I don't think it's very
straight, the way you're behaving. Do you?’
I never had any answer except a miserable ‘No, Mum,’ or ‘Yes, Mum,’ as the
case might be. Evidently it was not straight, the way I was behaving. And
at some point or other the unwanted tear would always force its way out of the
corner of my eye, roll down my nose and splash.
Flip never said in plain words that I was a non-paying pupil, no doubt
because vague phrases like ‘all we've done for you’ had a deeper emotional
appeal. Sambo, who did not aspire to be loved by his pupils, put it more
brutally, though, as was usual with him in pompous language. ‘You are living on
my bounty’ was his favourite phrase in this context. At least once I listened to
these words between blows of the cane. I must say that these scenes were not
frequent, and except on one occasion they did not take place in the presence of
other boys. In public I was reminded that I was poor and that my parents
‘wouldn't be able to afford’ this or that, but I was not actually reminded of my
dependent position. It was a final unanswerable argument, to be brought forth
like an instrument of torture when my work became exceptionally bad.
To grasp the effect of this kind of thing on a child of ten or twelve, one
has to remember that the child has little sense of proportion or probability. A
child may be a mass of egoism and rebelliousness, but it as no accumulated
experience to give it confidence in its own judgements. On the whole it will
accept what it is told, and it will believe in the most fantastic way in the
knowledge and powers of the adults surrounding it. Here is an example.
I have said that at St Cyprian's we were not allowed to keep our own money.
However, it was possible to hold back a shilling or two, and sometimes I used
furtively to buy sweets which I kept hidden in the loose ivy on the
playing-field wall. One day when I had been sent on an errand I went into a
sweet-shop a mile or more from the school and bought some chocolates. As I came
out of the shop I saw on the opposite pavement a small sharp-faced man who
seemed to be staring very hard at my school cap. Instantly a horrible fear went
through me. There could be no doubt as to who the man was. He was a spy placed
there by Sambo! I turned away unconcernedly, and then, as though my legs were
doing it of their own accord, broke into a clumsy run. But when I got round the
next corner I forced myself to walk again, for to run was a sign of guilt, and
obviously there would be other spies posted here and there about the town. All
that day and the next I waited for the summons to the study, and was surprised
when it did not come. It did not seem to me strange that the headmaster of a
private school should dispose of an army of informers, and I did not even
imagine that would have to pay them. I assumed that any adult, inside the school
or outside, would collaborate voluntarily in preventing us from breaking the
rules. Sambo was all-powerful; it was natural that his agent should be
everywhere. When this episode happened I do not think I can have been less than
twelve years old.
I hated Sambo and Flip, with a sort of shamefaced, remorseful hatred, but it
did not occur to me to doubt their judgement. When they told me that I must
either win a public-school scholarship or become an office boy at fourteen, I
believed that those were the unavoidable alternatives before me. And above all,
I believed Sambo and Flip when they told me they were my benefactors. I see now,
of course, that from Sambo's point of view I was a good speculation. He sank
money in me, and he looked to get it back in the form of prestige. If I had
‘gone off; as promising boys sometimes do, I imagine that would have got rid of
me swiftly. As it was I won him scholarships when the time came, and no doubt he
made full use of them in his prospectuses. But it is difficult for a child to
realize that a school is primarily a commercial venture. A child believes that
the school exists to educate and that the school-master disciplines him either
for his own good, or from a love of bullying. Flip and Sambo had chosen to
befriend me, and their friendship included canings, reproaches and humiliations,
which were good for me and saved me from an office stool. That was their
version, and I believed in it. It was therefore clear that I owed them a vast
debt of gratitude. But I was not grateful, as I very well knew. On the
contrary, I hated both of them. I could not control my subjective feelings, and
I could not conceal them from myself. But it is wicked, is it not, to hate your
benefactors? So I was taught, and so I believed. A child accepts the codes of
behaviour that are presented to it, even when it breaks them. From the age of
eight or even earlier, the consciousness of sin was never far away from me. If I
contrived to seem callous and defiant, it was only a thin cover over a mass of
shame and dismay. All through my boyhood I had a profound conviction that I was
no good, that was wasting my time, wrecking my talents, behaving with monstrous
folly and wickedness and ingratitude — and all this, it seemed, was in
escapable, because I lived among laws which were absolute, like the law of
gravity, but which it was not possible for me to keep.
III
No one can look back on his schooldays and say with truth
that they were altogether unhappy.
I have good memories of St Cyprian's, among a horde of bad ones. Sometimes on
summer afternoons there were wonderful expeditions across the Downs to a village
called Birling Gap, or to Beachy Head, where one bathed dangerously among the
boulders and came home covered with cuts. And there were still more wonderful
mid-summer evenings when, as a special treat, we were not driven off to bed as
usual but allowed to wander about the grounds in the long twilight, ending up
with a plunge into the swimming bathe at about nine o'clock. There was the joy
of waking early on summer mornings and getting in an hour's undisturbed reading
(Ian Hay, Thackeray, Kipling and H. G. Wells were the favourite authors of my
boyhood) in the sunlit, sleeping dormitory. There was also cricket, which I was
no good at but with which I conducted a sort of hopeless love affair up to the
age of about eighteen. And there was the pleasure of keeping caterpillars — the
silky green and purple puss-moth, the ghostly green poplar-hawk, the
privet-hawk, large as one's third finger, specimens of which could be illicitly
purchased for sixpence at a shop in the town — and, when one could escape long
enough from the master who was ‘taking the walk’, there was the excitement of
dredging the dew-ponds on the Downs for enormous newts with orange-coloured
bellies. This business of being out for a walk, coming across something of
fascinating interest and then being dragged away from it by a yell from the
master, like a dog jerked onwards by the leash, is an important feature of
school life, and helps to build up the conviction, so strong in many children,
that the things you most want to do are always unattainable.
Very occasionally, perhaps once during each summer, it was possible to escape
altogether from the barrack-like atmosphere of school, when Brown, the second
master, was permitted to take one or two boys for an afternoon of butterfly
hunting on a common a few miles away. Brown was a man with white hair and a red
face like a strawberry, who was good at natural history, making models and
plaster casts, operating magic lanterns, and things of that kind. He and Mr
Batchelor were the only adults in any way connected with the school whom I did
not either dislike or fear. Once he took me into his room and showed me in
confidence a plated, pearl-handled revolver — his ‘six-shooter’, he called it —
which he kept in a box under his bed, and oh, the joy of those occasional
expeditions! The ride of two or three miles on a lonely little branch line, the
afternoon of charging to and fro with large green nets, the beauty of the
enormous dragonflies which hovered over the tops of the grasses, the sinister
killing-bottle with its sickly smell, and then tea in the parlour of a pub with
large slices of pale-coloured cake! The essence of it was in the railway
journey, which seemed to put magic distances between yourself and school.
Flip, characteristically, disapproved of these expeditions, though not
actually forbidding them. ‘And have you been catching little
butterflies?’ she would say with a vicious sneer when one got back, making
her voice as babyish as possible. From her point of view, natural history
(‘bug-hunting’ she would probably have called it) was a babyish pursuit which a
boy should be laughed out of as early as possible. Moreover it was somehow
faintly plebeian, it was traditionally associated with boys who wore spectacles
and were no good at games, it did not help you to pass exams, and above all it
smelt of science and therefore seemed to menace classical education. It needed a
considerable moral effort to accept Brown's invitation. How I dreaded that sneer
of little butterflies! Brown, however, who had been at the school since
its early days, had built up a certain independence for himself: he seemed to
handle Sambo, and ignored Flip a good deal. If it ever happened that both of
them were away, Brown acted as deputy headmaster, and on those occasions instead
of reading the appointed lesson for the day at morning chapel, he would read us
stories from the Apocrypha.
Most of the good memories of my childhood, and up to the age of about twenty,
are in some way connected with animals. So far as St Cyprian's goes, it also
seems, when I look back, that all my good memories are of summer. In winter your
nose ran continually, your fingers were too numb to button your shirt (this was
an especial misery on Sundays, when we wore Eton collars), there was the daily
nightmare of football — the cold, the mud, the hideous greasy ball that came
whizzing at one's face, the gouging knees and trampling boots of the bigger
boys. Part of the trouble was that in winter, after about the age of ten, I was
seldom in good health, at any rate during term-time. I had defective bronchial
tubes and a lesion in one lung which was not discovered till many years later.
Hence I not only had a chronic cough, but running was a torment to me. In those
days however, ‘wheeziness’, or ‘chestiness’, as it was called, was either
diagnosis imagination or was looked on as essentially a moral disorder, caused
by overeating. ‘You wheeze like a concertina,’ Sambo would say disapprovingly as
he stood behind my chair; ‘You're perpetually stuffing yourself with food,
that's why.’ My cough was referred to as a ‘stomach cough’, which made it sound
both disgusting and reprehensible. The cure for it was hard running, which, if
you kept it up long enough, ultimately ‘cleared your chest’.
It is curious, the degree — I will not say of actual hardship, but of squalor
and neglect — that was taken for granted in upper-class schools of the period.
Almost as in the days of Thackeray, it seemed natural that a little boy of eight
or ten should be a miserable, sotty-nosed creature, his face almost permanently
dirty, his hands chapped, his nails bitten, his handkerchief a sodden horror,
his bottom frequently blue with bruises. It was partly the prospect of actual
physical discomfort that made the thought of going back to school lie in one's
breast like a lump of lead during the last few days of the holidays. A
characteristic memory of St Cyprian's is the astonishing hardness of one's bed
on the first night of term. Since this was an expensive school, I took a social
step upwards by attending it, and yet the standard of comfort was in every way
far lower than in my own home, or, indeed, than it would have been in a
prosperous working-class home. One only had a hot bath once a week, for
instance. The food was not only bad, it was also insufficient. Never before or
since have I seen butter of jam scraped on bread so thinly. I so not think I can
be imagining the fact that we were underfed, when I remember the lengths we
would go in order to steal food. On a number of occasions I remember creeping
down at two or three o'clock in the morning through what seemed like miles of
pitch-dark stairways and passages — barefooted, stopping to listen after each
step, paralysed with about equal fear of Sambo, ghosts and burglars — to steal
stale bread from the pantry. The assistant masters had their meals with us, but
they had somewhat better food, and if one got half a chance it was usual to
steal left-over scraps of bacon rind or fried potato when their plates were
removed.
As usual, I did not see the sound commercial reason for this underfeeding On
the whole I accepted Sambo's view that a boy's appetite is a sort of morbid
growth which should be kept in check as much as possible. A maxim often repeated
to us at St Cprian's was that it is healthy to get up from a meal feeling as
hungry as when you sat down. Only a generation earlier than this it had been
common for school dinners to start off with a slab of unsweetened suet pudding,
which, it was frankly said, ‘broke the boys appetites.’ But the underfeeding was
probably less flagrant at preparatory schools, where a boy was wholly dependent
on the official diet, than at public schools, where he was allowed — indeed,
expected — to buy extra food for himself. At some schools, he would literally
not have had enough to eat unless he had bought regular supplies of eggs,
sausages, sardines, etc.; and his parents had to allow him money for this
purpose. At Eton, for instance, at any rate in College, a boy was given no solid
meal after mid-day dinner. For his afternoon tea he was given a miserable supper
of soup or fried fish, or more often bread and cheese, with water to drink.
Sambo went down to see his eldest son at Eton and came back in snobbish
ecstasies over the luxury in which the boys lived. ‘They give them fried fish
for supper!’ he exclaimed, beaming all over his chubby face. ‘There's no school
like it in the world.’ Fried fish! The habitual supper of the poorest of the
working class! At very cheap boarding schools it was no doubt worse. A very
early memory to mine is of seeing the boarders at a grammar school — the sons,
probably, of farmers and shopkeepers — being fed on boiled lights.
Whoever writes about his childhood must beware of exaggeration and self-pity.
I do not claim that I was a martyr or that St Cyprian's was a sort of Dotheboys
Hall. But I should be falsifying my own memories if I did not record that they
are largely memories of disgust. The over crowded, underfed underwashed life
that we led was disgusting, as I recall it. If I shut my eyes and say ‘school’,
it is of course the physical surroundings that first come back to me: the flat
playing field with its cricket pavilion and the little shed by the rifle range,
the draughty dormitories, the dusty splintery passages, the square of asphalt in
front of the gymnasium, the raw-looking pinewood chaplet at the back. And at
almost every point some filthy detail obtrudes itself. For example, there were
the pewter bowls out of which we had our porridge. They had overhanging rims,
and under the rimes there were accumulations of sour porridge, which could be
flaked off in ling strips. The porridge itself, too, contained more lumps, hairs
and unexplained black things than one would have thought possible, unless
someone were putting them there on purpose. It was never safe to start on that
porridge without investigating it first. And there was the slimy water of the
plunge bath — it was twelve or fifteen feet long, the whole school was supposed
to go into it every morning, and I doubt whether the water was changed at all
frequently — and the always-damp towels with their cheesy smell: and, on
occasional visits in the winter, the murky sea-water of the local Baths, which
came straight in from the beach and on which I once saw floating a human turd.
And the sweaty smell of the changing-room with its greasy basins, and, giving on
this, the row of filthy, dilapidated lavatories, which had no fastenings of any
kind on the doors, so that whenever you were sitting there someone was sure to
come crashing in. It is not easy for me to think of my schooldays without
seeming to breathe in a whiff of something cold and evil-smelling — a sort of
compound of sweaty stockings, dirty towels, faecal smells blowing along
corridors, forks with old food between the prongs, neck-of-mutton stew, and the
banging doors of the lavatories and the echoing chamber-pots in the
dormitories.
It is true that I am by nature not gregarious, and the W.C. and dirty
handkerchief side of life in necessarily more obtrusive when great numbers of
human beings are crushed together in a small space. It is just as bad in an
army, and worse, no doubt, in a prison. Besides, boyhood is the age of disgust.
After one has learned to differentiate, and before one has become hardened —
between seven and eighteen, say — one seems always to be walking the tight-rope
over a cesspool. Yet I do not think I exaggerate the squalor of school life,
when I remember how health and cleanliness were neglected, in spite of the
hoo-ha about fresh air and cold water and keeping in hard training. It was
common to remain constipated for days together. Indeed, one was hardly
encouraged to keep one's bowels open, since the only aperients tolerated were
castor oil or another almost equally horrible drink called liquorice powder. One
was supposed to go into the plunge bath every morning, but some boys shirked it
for days on end, simply making themselves scarce when the bell sounded, or else
slipping along the edge of the bath among the crowd, and then wetting their hair
with a little dirty water off the floor. A little boy of eight or nine will not
necessarily keep himself clean unless there is someone to see that he does it.
There was a new boy named Hazel, a pretty, mother's darling of a boy, who came a
little while before I left. The first thing I noticed about him was the
beautiful pearly whiteness of his teeth. By the end of that term his teeth were
an extraordinary shade of green. During all that time, apparently, no one had
taken sufficient interest in him to see that he brushed them.
But of course the differences between home and school were more than
physical. That bump on the hard mattress, on the first night of term, used to
give me a feeling of abrupt awakening, a feeling of: ‘This is reality, this is
what you are up against.’ Your home might be far from perfect, but at least it
was a place ruled by love rather than by fear, where you did not have to be
perpetually on your guard against the people surrounding you. At eight years old
you were suddenly taken out of this warm nest and flung into a world of force
and fraud and secrecy, like a gold-fish into a tank full of pike. Against no
matter what degree of bullying you had no redress. You could only have defended
yourself by sneaking, which, except in a few rigidly defined circumstances, was
the unforgivable sin. To write home and ask your parent to take you away would
have been even less thinkable, since to do so would have been to admit yourself
unhappy and unpopular, which a boy will never do. Boys are Erewhonians: they
think that misfortune is disgraceful and must be concealed to all cost. It might
perhaps have been considered permissible to complain to your parents about bad
food, or an unjustified caning, or some other ill-treatment inflicted by masters
and not by boys. The fact that Sambo never beat the richer boys suggests that
such complaints were made occasionally. But in my own peculiar circumstances I
could never have asked my parents to intervene on my behalf. Even before I
understood about the reduced fees, I grasped that they were in some way under an
obligation to Sambo, and therefore could not protect me against him. I have
mentioned already that throughout my time at St Cyprian's I never had a cricket
bat of my own. I had been told this was because ‘your parents couldn't afford
it’. One day in the holidays, by some casual remark, it came out that they had
provided ten shillings to buy me one: yet no cricket bat appeared. I did not
protest to my parents, let alone raise the subject with Sambo. How could I? I
was dependent on him, and the ten shillings was merely a fragment of what I owed
him. I realize now, of course, that it is immensely unlikely that Sambo had
simply stuck to the money. No doubt the matter had slipped his memory. But the
point is that I assumed that he had stuck to it, and that he had a right to do
so if he chose.
How difficult it is for a child to have any real independence of attitude
could be seen in our behaviour towards Flip. I think it would be true to say
that every boy in the school hated and feared her. Yet we all fawned on her in
the most abject way, and the top layer of our feelings towards her was a sort of
guilt-stricken loyalty. Flip, although the discipline of the school depended
more on her than on Sambo, hardly pretended to dispense strict justice. She was
frankly capricious. An act which might get you a caning one day might next day
be laughed off as a boyish prank, or even commended because it ‘showed you had
guts’. There were days when everyone cowered before those deep-set, accusing
eyes, and there were days when she was like a flirtatious queen surrounded by
courtier-lovers, laughing and joking, scattering largesse, or the promise of
largesse (‘And if you win the Harrow History Prize I'll give you a new case for
your camera!’), and occasionally even packing three or four favoured boys into
her Ford car and carrying them off to a teashop in town, where they were allowed
to buy coffee and cakes. Flip was inextricably mixed up in my mind with Queen
Elizabeth, whose relations with Leicester and Essex and Raleigh were
intelligible to me from a very early age. A word we all constantly used in
speaking of Flip was ‘favour’. ‘I'm in good favour;’ we would say, or ‘I'm in
bad favour.’ Except for the handful of wealthy or titled boys, no one was
permanently in good favour, but on the other hand even the outcasts had patches
of it from time to time. Thus, although my memories of Flip are mostly hostile,
I also remember considerable periods when I basked under her smiles, when she
called me ‘old chap’ and used my Christian name, and allowed me to frequent her
private library, where I first made acquaintance with Vanity Fair. The
high-water mark of good favour was to be invited to serve at table on Sunday
nights when Flip and Sambo had guests to dinner. In clearing away, of course,
one had a chance to finish off the scraps, but one also got a servile pleasure
from standing behind the seated guests and darting deferentially forward when
something was wanted. Whenever one had the chance to suck up, one did suck up,
and at the first smile one's hatred turned into a sort of cringing love. I was
always tremendously proud when I succeeded in making Flip laugh. I have even, at
her command, written vers d'occasion, comic verses to celebrate memorable
events in the life of the school.
I am anxious to make it clear that I was not a rebel, except by force of
circumstances. I accepted the codes that I found in being. Once, towards the end
of my time, I even sneaked to Brown about a suspected case of homosexuality. I
did not know very well what homosexuality was, but I knew that it happened and
was bad, and that this was one of the contexts in which it was proper to sneak.
Brown told me I was ‘a good fellow’, which make me feel horribly ashamed. Before
Flip one seemed as helpless as a snake before the snake-charmer. She had a
hardly-varying vocabulary of praise and abuse, a whole series of set phrased,
each of which promptly called forth the appropriate response. There was
‘Buck up, old chap!’, which inspired one to paroxysms of energy; there
was ‘Don't be such a fool!’ (or, ‘It's pathetic, isn't it?’),
which made one feel a born idiot; and there was ‘It isn't very straight of you,
is it?’, which always brought one to the brink of tears. And yet all the while,
at the middle of one's heart, there seemed to stand an incorruptible inner self
who knew that whatever one did — whether one laughed or snivelled or went into
frenzies of gratitude for small favours — one's only true feeling was
hatred.
IV
I had learned early in my career that one can do wrong
against one's will, and before long I also learned that one can do wrong without
ever discovering what one has done or why it was wrong. There were sins that
were too subtle to be explained, and there were others that were too terrible to
be clearly mentioned. For example, there was sex, which was always smouldering
just under the surface and which suddenly blew up into a tremendous row when I
was about twelve.
At some preparatory schools homosexuality is not a problem but I think that
St Cyprian's may have acquired a ‘bad tone’ thanks to the presence of the South
American boys, who would perhaps mature a year or two earlier than an English
boy. At that age I was not interested, so I so not actually know what went on,
but I imagine it was group masturbation. At any rate, one day the storm suddenly
burst over our heads. There were summonses, interrogations, confessions,
floggings, repentances, solemn lectures of which one understood nothing except
that some irredeemable sin known as ‘swinishness’ or ‘beastliness’ had been
committed. One of the ringleaders a boy named Horne, was flogged, according to
eye-witnesses, for a quarter of an hour continuously before being expelled. His
yells rang through the house. But we were all implicated, more or less, or felt
ourselves to be implicated. Guilt seemed to hang in the air like a pall or
smoke. A solemn, black-haired imbecile of an assistant master, who was later to
be a Member of Parliament took the older boys to a secluded room and delivered a
talk on the Temple of the Body.
‘Don't you realize what a wonderful thing your body is?’ he said
gravely. ‘You talk of your motor-car engines, your Rolls-Royces and Dainlers and
so on. Don't you understand that no engine ever made is fit to be compared with
your body? And then you go and wreck it, ruin it — for life!’
He turned his cavernous black eyes on me and added quite sadly:
‘And you, whom I'd always believed to be quite a decent person
after your fashion — you, I hear, are one of the very worst.’
A feeling of doom descended upon me. So I was guilty too. I too had done the
dreadful thing, whatever it was, that wrecked you for life, body and soul, and
ended in suicide or the lunatic asylum. Till then I had hoped that I was
innocent, and the conviction of sin which now took possession of me was perhaps
all the stronger because I did not know what I had done. I was not among those
who were interrogated and flogged, and it was not until the row was well over
that I even learned about the trivial accident that had connected my name with
it. Even then I understood nothing. It was not till about two years later that I
fully grasped what that lecture on the Temple of the Body had referred to.
At this time I was in an almost sexless state, which is normal, or at any
rate common, in boys of that age; I was therefore in the position of
simultaneously knowing and not knowing what used to be called the Facts of Life.
At five or six, like many children, I had passed though a phase of sexuality. My
friends were the plumber's children up the road, and we used sometimes to play
games of a vaguely erotic kind. One was called ‘playing at doctors’, and I
remember getting a faint but definitely pleasant thrill from holding a toy
trumpet, which was supposed to be a stethoscope, against a little girl's belly.
About the same time I fell deeply in love, a far more worshipping kind of love
than I have ever felt for anyone since, with a girl named Elsie at the convent
school which I attended. She seemed to me grown up, so I suppose she must have
been fifteen. After that, as so often happens, all sexual feelings seemed to go
out of me for many years. At twelve I knew more than I had known as a young
child, but I understood less, because I no longer knew the essential fact that
there is something pleasant in sexual activity. Between roughly seven and
fourteen, the whole subject seemed to me uninteresting and, when for some reason
I was forced to think of it, disgusting. My knowledge of the so-called Facts of
Life was derived from animals, and was therefore distorted, and in any case was
only intermittent. I knew that animals copulated and that human beings had
bodies resembling those of animals: but that human beings also copulated I only
knew as it were, reluctantly, when something, a phrase in the Bible, perhaps,
compelled me to remember it. Not having desire, I had no curiosity, and was
willing to leave many questions unanswered. Thus, I knew in principle how the
baby gets into the woman, but I did not know how it gets out again, because I
had never followed the subject up. I knew all the dirty words, and in my bad
moments I would repeat them to myself, but I did not know what the worst of them
meant, nor want to know. They were abstractly wicked, a sort of verbal charm.
While I remained in this state, it was easy for me to remain ignorant of any
sexual misdeeds that went on about me, and to be hardly wiser even when the row
broke. At most, through the veiled and terrible warnings of Flip, Sambo and all
the rest of them, I grasped that the crime of which we were all guiltily was
somehow connected with the sexual organs. I had noticed, without feeling much
interest, that one's penis sometimes stands up of its own accord (this starts
happening to a boy long before he has any conscious sexual desires), and I was
inclined to believe, or half-believe, that that must be the crime. At any
rate, it was something to do with the penis — so much I understood. Many other
boys, I have no doubt, were equally in the dark.
After the talk on the Temple of the Body (days later, it seems in retrospect:
the row seemed to continue for days), a dozen of us were seated at a long shiny
table which Sambo used for the scholarship class, under Flip's lowering eye. A
long desolate wail rang out from a room somewhere above. A very small boy named
Ronalds, aged no more than about ten, who was implicated in some way, was being
flogged, or was recovering from a flogging. At the sound, Flip's eyes searched
our faces, and settled upon me.
‘You see,’ she said.
I will not swear that she said ‘You see what you have done,’ but that was the
sense of it. We were all bowed down with shame. It was our fault. Somehow
or other we had led poor Ronalds astray: we were responsible for his
agony and his ruin. Then Flip turned upon another boy named Heath. It is thirty
years ago, and I cannot remember for certain whether she merely quoted a verse
from the Bible, or whether she actually brought out a Bible and made Heath read
it; but at any rate the text indicated was: ‘Who so shall offend one of these
little ones that believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were
hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.’
That, too, was terrible. Ronalds was one of these little ones, we had
offended him; it were better that millstone were hanged about our necks and that
we were drowned in the depth of the sea.
‘Have you thought about that, Heath — have you thought what it
means?’ Flip said. And Heath broke down into snivelling tears.
Another boy, Beacham, whom I have mentioned already, was similarly
overwhelmed with shame by the accusation that he ‘had black rings round his
eyes’.
‘Have you looked in the glass lately, Beacham?’ said Flip.
‘Aren't you ashamed to go about with a face like that? Do you think everyone
doesn't know what it means when a boy has black rings round his eyes?’
Once again the load of guilt and fear seemed to settle down upon me. Had
I got black rings round my eyes? A couple of years later I realized that
these were supposed to be a symptom by which masturbators could be detected. But
already, without knowing this, I accepted the black rings as a sure sign of
depravity, some kind of depravity. And many times, even before I grasped
the supposed meaning, I have gazed anxiously into the glass, looking for the
first hint of that dreaded stigma, the confession which the secret sinner writes
upon his own face.
These terrors wore off, or became merely intermittent, without affecting what
one might call my official beliefs. It was still true about the madhouse and the
suicide's grave, but it was no longer acutely frightening. Some months later it
happened that I once again saw Horne, the ringleader who had been flogged and
expelled. Horne was one of the outcasts, the son of poor middle-class parents,
which was no doubt part of the reason why Sambo had handled him so roughly. The
term after his expulsion he went on to Eastbourne College, the small local
public school, which was hideously despised at St Cyprian's and looked on as
‘not really’ a public school at all. Only a very few boys from St Cyprian's went
there, and Sambo always spoke of them with a sort of contemptuous pity. You had
no chance if you went to a school like that: at the best your destiny would be a
clerkship. I thought of Horne as a person who at thirteen had already forfeited
all hope of any decent future. Physically, morally and socially he was finished.
Moreover I assumed that his parents had only sent him to Eastbourne College
because after his disgrace no ‘good’ school would have him.
During the following term, when we were out for a walk, we passed Horne in
the street. He looked completely normal. He was a strongly-built, rather
good-looking boy with black hair. I immediately noticed that he looked better
than when I had last seen him — his complexion, previously rather pale, was
pinker — and that he did not seem embarrassed at meeting us. Apparently he was
not ashamed either of having been expelled, or of being at Eastbourne College.
If one could gather anything form the way he looked at us as we filed past, it
was that he was glad to have escaped from St Cyprian's. But the encounter made
very little impression on me. I drew no inference from the fact that Horne,
ruined in body and soul, appeared to be happy and in good health. I still
believed in the sexual mythology that had been taught me by Sambo and Flip. The
mysterious, terrible dangers were still there. Any morning the black rings might
appear round your eyes and you would know that you too were among the lost ones.
Only it no longer seemed to matter very much. These contradictions can exist
easily in the mind of a child, because of its own vitality. It accepts — how can
it do otherwise? — the nonsense that its elders tell it, but its youthful body,
and the sweetness of the physical world, tell it another story. It was the same
with Hell, which up to the age of about fourteen I officially believed in.
Almost certainly Hell existed, and there were occasions when a vivid sermon
could scare you into fits. But somehow it never lasted. The fire that waited for
you was real fire, it would hurt in the same way as when you burnt your finger,
and for ever, but most of the time you could contemplate it without
bothering.
V
The various codes which were presented to you at St
Cyprian's — religious, moral social and intellectual — contradicted one another
if you worked out their implications. The essential conflict was between the
tradition of nineteenth-century asceticism and the actually existing luxury and
snobbery of the pre-1914 age. On the one side were low-church Bible
Christianity, sex puritanism, insistence on hard work, respect for academic
distinction, disapproval of self-indulgence: on the other, contempt for
‘braininess’, and worship of games, contempt for foreigners and the working
class, an almost neurotic dread of poverty, and, above all, the assumption not
only that money and privilege are the things that matter, but that it is better
to inherit them than to have to work for them. Broadly, you were bidden to be at
once a Christian and a social success, which is impossible. At the time I did
not perceive that the various ideals which were set before us cancelled out. I
merely saw that they were all, or nearly all, unattainable, so far as I was
concerned, since they all depended not only on what you did but on what you
were.
Very early, at the age of only ten or eleven, I reached the conclusion — no
one told me this, but on the other hand I did not simply make it up out of my
own head: somehow it was in the air I breathed — that you were no good unless
you had £100,000. I had perhaps fixed on this particular sum as a result of
reading Thackeray. The interest on £100,000 would be £4,000 a year (I was in
favour of a safe 4 per cent), and this seemed to me the minimum income that you
must possess if you were to belong to the real top crust, the people in the
country houses. But it was clear that I could never find my way into that
paradise, to which you did not really belong unless you were born into it. You
could only make money, if at all by a mysterious operation called ‘going
to the city’, and when you came out of the City, having won you £100,000, you
were fat and old. But the truly enviable thing about the top-notchers was that
they were rich while young. For people like me, the ambitious middle class, the
examination-passers, only a bleak, laborious kind of success was possible. You
clambered upwards on a ladder of scholarships into the Civil Service or the
Indian Civil Service, or possibly you became a barrister. And if at any point
you ‘slacked’ or ‘went off’ and missed one of the rungs in the ladder, you
became ‘a little office boy at forty pounds a year’. But even if you climbed to
the highest niche that was open to you, you could still only be an underling, a
hanger-on of the people who really counted.
Even if I had not learned this from Sambo and Flip, I would have learned it
from other boys. Looking back, it is astonishing how intimately, intelligently
snobbish we all were, how knowledgeable about names and addresses, how swift to
detect small differences in accents and manners and the cut of clothes. There
were some boys who seemed to drip money from their pores even in the bleak
misery of the middle of a winter term. At the beginning and end of the term,
especially, there was naïvely snobbish chatter about Switzerland, and Scotland
with its ghillies and grouse moors, and ‘my uncle's yacht’, and ‘our place in
the country’. And ‘my pony’ and ‘my pater's touring car’. There never was, I
suppose, in the history of the world a time when the sheer vulgar fatness of
wealth, without any kind of aristocratic elegance to redeem it, was so obtrusive
as in those years before 1914. It was the age when crazy millionaires in curly
top-hats and lavender waistcoats gave champagne parties in rococo house-boats on
the Thames, the age of diabolo and hobble skirts, the age of the ‘knut’ in his
grey bowler and cut-away coat, the age of The Merry Widow, Saki's novels,
Peter Pan and Where the Rainbow Ends, the age when people talked
about chocs and cigs and ripping and topping and heavenly, when they went for
divvy week-ends at Brighton and had scrumptious teas at the Troc. From the whole
decade before 1914 there seems to breathe forth a smell of the more vulgar,
un-grown-up kind of luxury, a smell of brilliantine and crème-de-menthe
and soft-centred chocolates — an atmosphere, as it were, of eating everlasting
strawberry ices on green lawns to the tune of the Eton Boating Song. The
extraordinary thing was the way in which everyone took it for granted that his
oozing, bulging wealth of the English upper and upper-middle classes would last
for ever, and was part of the order of things. After 1918 it was never quite the
same again. Snobbishness and expensive habits came back, certainly, but they
were self-conscious and on the defensive. Before the war the worship of money
was entirely unreflecting and untroubled by any pang of conscience. The goodness
of money was as unmistakable as the goodness of health or beauty, and a
glittering car, a title or a horde of servants was mixed up in people's minds
with the idea of actual moral virtue.
At St Cyprian's, in term-time, the general bareness of life enforced a
certain democracy, but any mention of the holidays, and the consequent
competitive swanking about cars and butlers and country housed, promptly called
class distinctions into being. The school was pervaded by a curious cult of
Scotland, which brought out the fundamental contradiction in our standard of
values. Flip claimed Scottish ancestry, and she favoured the Scottish boys,
encouraging them to wear kilts in their ancestral tartan instead of the school
uniform, and even christened her youngest child by a Gaelic name. Ostensibly we
were supposed to admire the Scots because they were ‘grim’ and ‘dour’ (‘stern’
was perhaps the key word), and irresistible on the field of battle. In the big
schoolroom there was a steel engraving of the charge to the Scots Greys at
Waterloo, all looking as though they enjoyed every moment of it. Our picture of
Scotland was made up of burns, braes, kilts, sporrans, claymores, bagpipes and
the like, all somehow mixed up with the invigorating effects of porridge,
Protestantism and a cold climate. But underlying this was something quite
different. The real reason for the cult of Scotland was that only very rich
people could spend their summers there. And the pretended belief in Scottish
superiority was a cover for the bad conscience of the occupying English, who had
pushed the Highland peasantry off their farms to make way for the deer forests,
and then compensated them by turning them into servants. Flip's face always
beamed with innocent snobbishness when she spoke of Scotland. Occasionally she
even attempted a trace of Scottish accent. Scotland was a private paradise which
a few initiates could talk about and make outsiders feel small.
‘You going to Scotland this hols?’
‘Rather! We go every year.’
‘My pater's got three miles of river.’
‘My pater's giving me a new gun for the twelfth. There's jolly
good black game where we go. Get out, Smith! What are listening for? You've
never been to Scotland. I bet you don't know what a blackcock looks like.’
Following on this, imitations of the cry of a blackcock, of the roaring of a
stag, of the accent of ‘our ghillies’, etc. etc.
And the questionings that new boys of doubtful social origin were sometimes
put through — questionings quite surprising in their mean-minded particularity,
when one reflects that the inquisitors were only twelve or thirteen!
‘How much a year has your pater got? What part of London do you
live in? Is that Knightsbridge or Kensington? How many bathrooms has you house
got? How many servants do your people keep? Have you got a butler? Well, then,
have you got a cook? Where do you get your clothes made? How many shows did you
go to in the hols? How much money did you bring back with you?’ etc. etc.
I have seen a little new boy, hardly older than eight, desperately lying his
way through such a catechism:
‘Have your people got a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of car?’
‘Daimler.’
‘How many horse-power?’
(Pause, and leap in the dark.) ‘Fifteen.’
‘What kind of lights?’
The little boy is bewildered.
‘What kind of lights? Electric or acetylene?’
(A longer pause, and another leap in the dark.) ‘Acetylene.’
‘Coo! He says his pater's car's got acetylene lamps. They went
out years ago. It must be as old as the hill.’
‘Rot! He's making it up. He hasn't got a car. He's just a navvy.
Your pater's a navvy.’
And so on.
By the social standards that prevailed about me, I was no good, and could not
be any good. But all the different kinds of virtue seemed to be mysteriously
interconnected and to belong to much the same people. It was not only money that
mattered: there were also strength, beauty, charm, athleticism and something
called ‘guts’ or ‘character’, which in reality meant the power to impose your
will on others. I did not possess any of these qualities. At games, for
instance, I was hopeless. I was a fairly good swimmer and not altogether
contemptible at cricket, but these had no prestige value, because boys only
attach importance to a game if it requires strength and courage. What counted
was football, at which I was a funk. I loathed the game, and since I could see
no pleasure or usefulness in it, it was very difficult for me to show courage at
it. Football, it seemed to me, is not really played for the pleasure of kicking
a ball about, but is a species of fighting. The lovers of football are large,
boisterous, nobbly boys who are good at knocking down and trampling on slightly
smaller boys. That was the pattern of school life — a continuous triumph of the
strong over the weak. Virtue consisted in winning: it consisted in being bigger,
stronger, handsomer, richer, more popular, more elegant, more unscrupulous than
other people — in dominating them, bullying them, making them suffer pain,
making them look foolish, getting the better of them in every way. Life was
hierarchical and whatever happened was right. There were the strong, who
deserved to win and always did win, and there were the weak, who deserved to
lose and always did lose, everlastingly.
I did not question the prevailing standards, because so far as I could see
there were no others. How could the rich, the strong, the elegant, the
fashionable, the powerful, be in the wrong? It was their world, and the rules
they made for it must be the right ones. And yet from a very early age I was
aware of the impossibility of any subjective conformity. Always at the
centre of my heart the inner self seemed to be awake, pointing out the
difference between the moral obligation and the psychological fact. It
was the same in all matters, worldly or other-worldly. Take religion, for
instance. You were supposed to love God, and I did not question this. Till the
age of about fourteen I believed in God, and believed that the accounts given of
him were true. But I was well aware that I did not love him. On the contrary, I
hated him, just as I hated Jesus and the Hebrew patriarchs. If I had sympathetic
feelings towards any character in the Old Testament, it was towards such people
as Cain, Jezebel, Haman, Agag, Sisera: in the New Testament my friends, if any,
were Ananias, Caiaphas, Judas and Pontius Pilate. But the whole business of
religion seemed to be strewn with psychological impossibilities. The Prayer Book
told you, for example, to love God and fear him: but how could you love someone
whom you feared? With your private affections it was the same. What you
ought to feel was usually clear enough but the appropriate emotion could
not be commanded. Obviously it was my duty to feel grateful towards Flip and
Sambo; but I was not grateful. It was equally clear that one ought to love one's
father, but I knew very well that I merely disliked my own father, whom I had
barely seen before I was eight and who appeared to me simply as a gruff-voiced
elderly man forever saying ‘Don't’. It was not that one did not want to possess
the right qualities or feel the correct emotions, but that one could not. The
good and the possible never seemed to coincide.
There was a line of verse that I came across not actually while I was at St
Cyprian's, but a year of two later, and which seemed to strike a sort of leaden
echo in my heart. It was: ‘The armies of unalterable law’. I understood to
perfection what it meant to be Lucifer, defeated and justly defeated, with no
possibility of revenge. The schoolmasters with their canes, the millionaires
with their Scottish castles, the athletes with their curly hair — these were the
armies of unalterable law. It was not easy, at that date, to realize that in
fact it was alterable. And according to that law I was damned. I had no
money, I was weak, I was ugly, I was unpopular, I had a chronic cough, I was
cowardly, I smelt. This picture, I should add, was not altogether fanciful. I
was an unattractive boy. St Cyprian's soon made me so, even if I had not been so
before. But a child's belief in its own shortcomings is not much influenced by
facts. I believed, for example, that I ‘smelt’. But this was based simply on
general probability. It was notorious that disagreeable people smelt, and
therefore presumably I did so too. Again, until after I had left school for good
I continued to believe that I was preternaturally ugly. It was what my
schoolfellows had told me, and I had no other authority to refer to. The
conviction that it was not possible for me to be a success went deep
enough to influence my actions till far into adult life. Until I was about
thirty I always planned my life on the assumption not only that any major
undertaking was bound to fail, but that I could only expect to live a few years
longer.
But this sense of guilt and inevitable failure was balanced by something
else: that is, the instinct to survive. Even a creature that is weak, ugly,
cowardly, smelly and in no way justifiable still wants to stay alive and be
happy after its own fashion. I could not invert the existing scale of values, or
turn myself into a success, but I could accept my failure and make the best of
it. I could resign myself to being what I was, and then endeavour to survive on
those terms.
To survive, or at least to preserve any kind of independence, was essentially
criminal, since it meant breaking rules which you yourself recognized. There was
a boy named Johnny Hale who for some months oppressed me horribly. He was a big,
powerful, coarsely handsome boy with a very red face and curly black hair, who
was forever twisting somebody's arm, wringing somebody's ear, flogging somebody
with a riding-crop (he was a member of the Sixth Form), or performing prodigies
of activity on the football field. Flip loved him (hence the fact he was
habitually called by his Christian name) and Sambo commended him as a boy who
‘had character’ and ‘could keep order’. He was followed about by a group of
toadies who nicknamed him Strong Man.
One day, when we were taking off our overcoats in the changing-room, Hale
picked on me for some reason. I ‘answered him back’. Whereupon he gripped my
wrist, twisted it round and bent my forearm back upon itself in a hideously
painful way. I remember his handsome, jeering red face bearing down upon mine.
He was, I think, older than I, besides being enormously stronger. As he let go
of me a terrible, wicked resolve formed itself in my heart. I would get back on
him by hitting him when he did not expect it. It was a strategic moment, for the
master who had been ‘taking’ the walk would be coming back almost immediately,
and then there could be no fight. I let perhaps a minute go by, walked up to
Hale with the most harmless air I could assume, and then, getting the weight of
my body behind it, smashed my fist into his face. He was flung backwards by the
blow, and some blood ran out of his mouth. His always sanguine face turned
almost black with rage. Then he turned away to rinse his mouth at the
wash-basins.
‘All right!’ he said to me between his teeth as the
master led us away.
For days after this he followed me about, challenging me to fight. Although
terrified out of my wits, I steadily refused to fight. I said that the blow in
the face had served him right, and there was an end of it. Curiously enough he
did not simply fall upon me there and then, which public opinion would probably
have supported him in doing. So gradually the matter tailed off, and there was
no fight.
Now, I had behaved wrongly, by my own code no less than his. To hit him
unawares was wrong. But to refuse afterwards to fight knowing that if we fought
we would beat me — that was far worse: it was cowardly. If I had refused because
I disapproved of fighting, or because I genuinely felt the matter to be closed,
it would have been all right; but I had refused merely because I was afraid.
Even my revenge was made empty by that fact. I had struck the blow in a moment
of mindless violence, deliberately not looking far ahead and merely determined
to get my own back for once and damn the consequences. I had had time to realize
that what I did was wrong, but it was the kind of crime from which you could get
some satisfaction. Now all was nullified. There had been a sort of courage in
the first act, but my subsequent cowardice had wiped it out.
The fact I hardly noticed was that though Hale formally challenged me to
fight, he did not actually attack me. Indeed, after receiving that one blow he
never oppressed me again. It was perhaps twenty years before I saw the
significance of this. At the time I could not see beyond the moral dilemma that
is presented to the weak in a world governed by the strong: Break the rules, or
perish. I did not see that in that case the weak have the right to make a
different set of rules for themselves; because, even if such an idea had
occurred to me, there was no one in my environment who could have confirmed me
in it. I lived in a world of boys, gregarious animals questioning nothing,
accepting the law of the stronger and avenging their own humiliations by passing
them down to someone smaller. My situation was that of countless other boys, and
if potentially I was more of a rebel than most, it was only because, by boyish
standards, I was a poorer specimen. But I never did rebel intellectually, only
emotionally. I had nothing to help me except my dumb selfishness, my inability —
not, indeed, to despise myself, but to dislike myself — my instinct to
survive.
It was about a year after I hit Johnny Hale in the face that I left St
Cyprian's for ever. It was the end of a winter term. With a sense of coming out
from darkness into sunlight I put on my Old Boy's tie as we dressed for the
journey. I well remember the feeling of emancipation, as though the tie had been
at once a badge of manhood and an amulet against Flip's voice and Sambo's cane.
I was escaping from bondage. It was not that I expected, or even intended, to be
any more successful at a public school than I had been at St Cyprian's. But
still, I was escaping. I knew that at a public school there would be more
privacy, more neglect, more chance to be idle and self-indulgent and degenerate.
For years I had been resolved — unconsciously at first, but consciously later on
— that when once my scholarship was won I would ‘slack off’ and cram no longer.
This resolve, by the way, was so fully carried out that between the ages of
thirteen and twenty-two or three I hardly ever did a stroke of avoidable
work.
Flip shook hands to say good-bye. She even gave me my Christian name for the
occasion. But there was a sort of patronage, almost a sneer, in her face and in
her voice. The tone in which she said good-bye was nearly the tone in which she
had been used to say little butterflies. I had won two scholarships but I
was a failure, because success was measured not by what you did but by what you
were. I was ‘not a good type of boy’ and could bring no credit on the
school. I did not possess character or courage or health or strength or money,
or even good manners, the power to look like a gentlemen.
‘Good-bye,’ Flip's parting smile seemed to say; ‘its not worth
quarrelling now. You haven't made much of a success of your time at St
Cyprian's, have you? And I don't suppose you'll get on awfully well at a public
school either. We make a mistake, really, in wasting our time and money on you.
This kind of education hasn't much to offer to a boy with your background and
your outlook. Oh, don't think we don't understand you! We know all about those
ideas you have at the back of your head, we know you disbelieve in everything
we've taught you, and we know you aren't in the least grateful for all we've
done for you. But there's no use in bringing it all up now. We aren't
responsible for you any longer, and we shan't be seeing you again. Let's just
admit that you're one of our failures and part without ill-feeling. And so,
good-bye.’
That at least was what I read into her face. And yet how happy I was, that
winter morning, as the train bore me away with the gleaming new silk tie (dark
green, pale blue and black, if I remember rightly) round my neck! The world was
opening before me, just a little, like a grey sky which exhibits a narrow crack
of blue. A public school would be better fun than St Cyprian's, but at bottom
equally alien. In a world where the prime necessities were money, titled
relatives, athleticism, tailor-made clothes, neatly-brushed hair, a charming
smile, I was no good. All I had gained was a breathing-space. A little quietude,
a little self-indulgence, a little respite from cramming — and then, ruin. What
kind of ruin I did not know: perhaps the colonies or an office stool, perhaps
prison or an early death. But first a year or two in which one could ‘slack off’
and get the benefit of one's sins, like Doctor Faustus. I believed firmly in my
evil destiny, and yet I was acutely happy. It is the advantage of being thirteen
that you can not only live in the moment, but do so with full consciousness,
foreseeing the future and yet not caring about it Next term I was going to
Wellington. I had also won a scholarship at Eton, but it was uncertain whether
there would be a vacancy, and I was going to Wellington first. At Eton you had a
room to yourself — a room which might even have a fire in it. At Wellington you
had your own cubicle, and could make yourself cocoa in the evenings. The privacy
of it, the grown-upness! And there would be libraries to hang about in, and
summer afternoons when you could shirk games and mooch about the countryside
alone, with no master driving you along. Meanwhile there were the holidays.
There was the 22 rifle that I had bought the previous holidays (the Crackshot,
it was called, costing twenty-two and sixpence), and Christmas was coming next
week. There were also the pleasures of overeating. I thought of some
particularly voluptuous cream buns which could be bought for twopence each at a
shop in our town. (This was 1916, and food-rationing had not yet started.) Even
the detail that my journey-money had been slightly miscalculated, leaving about
a shilling over — enough for an unforeseen cup of coffee and a cake or two
somewhere on the way — was enough to fill me with bliss. There was time for a
bit of happiness before the future closed in upon me. But I did know that the
future was dark. Failure, failure, failure — failure behind me, failure ahead of
me — that was by far the deepest conviction that I carried away.
VI
All this was thirty years ago and more. The question is:
Does a child at school go through the same kind of experiences nowadays?
The only honest answer, I believe, is that we do not with certainty know. Of
course it is obvious that the present-day attitude towards education is
enormously more humane and sensible than that of the past. The snobbishness that
was an integral part of my own education would be almost unthinkable today,
because the society that nourished it is dead. I recall a conversation that must
have taken place about a year before I left St Cyprian's. A Russian boy, large
and fair-haired, a year older than myself, was questioning me.
‘How much a year has your father got?’
I told him what I thought it was, adding a few hundreds to make it sound
better. The Russian boy, neat in his habits, produced a pencil and a small
note-book and made a calculation.
‘My father has over two hundred times as much money as yours,’
he announced with a sort of amused contempt.
That was in 1915. What happened to that money a couple of years later, I
wonder? And still more I wonder, do conversations of that kind happen at
preparatory schools now?
Clearly there has been a vast change of outlook, a general growth of
‘enlightenment’, even among ordinary, unthinking middle-class people. Religious
belief, for instance, has largely vanished, dragging other kinds of nonsense
after it. I imagine that very few people nowadays would tell a child that if it
masturbates it will end in the lunatic asylum. Beating, too, has become
discredited, and has even been abandoned at many schools. Nor is the
underfeeding of children looked on as a normal, almost meritorious act. No one
now would openly set out to give his pupils as little food as they could do
with, or tell them that it is healthy to get up from a meal as hungry as you sat
down. The whole status of children has improved, partly because they have grown
relatively less numerous. And the diffusion of even a little psychological
knowledge has made it harder for parents and schoolteachers to indulge their
aberrations in the name of discipline. Here is a case, not known to me
personally, but known to some one I can vouch for, and happening within my own
lifetime. A small girl, daughter of a clergyman, continued wetting her bed at an
age when she should have grown out of it. In order to punish her for this
dreadful deed, her father took her to a large garden party and there introduced
her to the whole company as a little girl who wetted her bed: and to underline
her wickedness he had previously painted her face black. I do not suggest that
Flip and Sambo would actually have done a thing like this, but I doubt whether
it would have much surprised them. After all, things do change. And yet — !
The question is not whether boys are still buckled into Eton collars on
Sunday, or told that babies are dug up under gooseberry bushes. That kind of
thing is at an end, admittedly. The real question is whether it is still normal
for a school child to live for years amid irrational terrors and lunatic
misunderstandings. And here one is up against the very great difficulty of
knowing what a child really feels and thinks. A child which appears reasonably
happy may actually be suffering horrors which it cannot or will not reveal. It
lives in a sort of alien under-water world which we can only penetrate by memory
or divination. Our chief clue is the fact that we were once children ourselves,
and many people appear to forget the atmosphere of their own childhood almost
entirely. Think for instance of the unnecessary torments that people will
inflict by sending a child back to school with clothes to the wrong pattern, and
refusing to see that this matters! Over things of this kind a child will
sometimes utter a protest, but a great deal of the time its attitude is one of
simple concealment. Not to expose your true feelings to an adult seems to be
instinctive from the age of seven or eight onwards. Even the affection that one
feels for a child, the desire to protect and cherish it, is a cause of
misunderstanding. One can love a child, perhaps, more deeply than one can love
another adult, but it is rash to assume that the child feels any love in return.
Looking back on my own childhood, after the infant years were over, I do not
believe that I ever felt love for any mature person, except my mother, and even
her I did not trust, in the sense that shyness made me conceal most of my real
feelings from her. Love, the spontaneous, unqualified emotion of love, was
something I could only feel for people who were young. Towards people who were
old — and remember that ‘old’ to a child means over thirty, or even over
twenty-five — I could feel reverence respect, admiration or compunction, but I
seemed cut off from them by a veil of fear and shyness mixed up with physical
distaste. People are too ready to forget the child's physical shrinking
from the adult. The enormous size of grown-ups, their ungainly, rigid bodies,
their coarse, wrinkled skins, their great relaxed eyelids, their yellow teeth,
and the whiffs of musty clothes and beer and sweat and tobacco that disengage
from them at every movement! Part of the reason for the ugliness of adults, in a
child's eyes, is that the child is usually looking upwards, and few faces are at
their best when seen from below. Besides, being fresh and unmarked itself, the
child has impossibly high standards in the matter of skin and teeth and
complexion. But the greatest barrier of all is the child's misconception about
age. A child can hardly envisage life beyond thirty, and in judging people's
ages it will make fantastic mistakes. It will think that a person of twenty-five
is forty, that a person of forty is sixty-five, and so on. Thus, when I fell in
love with Elsie I took her to be grown-up. I met her again, when I was thirteen
and she, I think, must have been twenty-three; she now seemed to me a
middle-aged woman, somewhat past her best. And the child thinks of growing old
as an almost obscene calamity, which for some mysterious reason will never
happen to itself. All who have passed the age of thirty are joyless grotesques,
endlessly fussing about things of no importance and staying alive without so far
as the child can see, having anything to live for. Only child life is real life.
The schoolmaster who imagines that he is loved and trusted by his boys is in
fact mimicked and laughed at behind his back. An adult who does not seem
dangerous nearly always seems ridiculous.
I base these generalizations on what I can recall of my own childhood out
look. Treacherous though memory is, it seems to me the chief means we have of
discovering how a child's mind works. Only by resurrecting our own memories can
we realize how incredibly distorted is the child's vision of the world. Consider
this, for example. How would St Cyprian's appear to me now, if I could go back,
at my present age, and see it as it was in 1915? What should I think of Sambo
and Flip, those terrible, all-powerful monsters? I should see them as a couple
of silly, shallow, ineffectual people, eagerly clambering up a social ladder
which any thinking person could see to be on the point of collapse. I would no
more be frightened of them than I would be frightened of a dormouse. Moreover,
in those days they seemed to me fantastically old, whereas — though of this I am
not certain — I imagine they must have been somewhat younger than I am now. And
how would Johnny Hale appear with his blacksmith's arms and his red, jeering
face? Merely a scruffy little boy, barely distinguishable from hundreds of other
scruffy little boys. The two sets of facts can lie side by side in my mind,
because those happen to be my own memories. But it would be very difficult for
me to see with the eyes of any other child, except by an effort of the
imagination which might lead me completely astray. The child and the adult live
in different worlds. If that is so, we cannot be certain that school, at any
rate boarding school, is not still for many children as dreadful an experience
as it used to be. Take away God, Latin, the cane, class distinctions and sexual
taboos, and the fear, the hatred, the snobbery and the misunderstanding might
still all be there. It will have been seen that my own main trouble was an utter
lack of any sense of proportion or probability. This led me to accept outrages
and believe absurdities, and to suffer torments over things which were in fact
of no importance. It is not enough to say that I was ‘silly’ and ‘ought to have
known better’. Look back into your own childhood and think of the nonsense you
used to believe and the trivialities which could make you suffer. Of course my
own case had its individual variations, but essentially it was that of countless
other boys. The weakness of the child is that it starts with a blank sheet. It
neither understands nor questions the society in which it lives, and because of
its credulity other people can work upon it, infecting it with the sense of
inferiority and the dread of offending against mysterious, terrible laws. It may
be that everything that happened to me at St Cyprian's could happen in the most
‘enlightened’ school, though perhaps in subtler forms. Of one thing, however, I
do feel fairly sure, and that is that boarding schools are worse than day
schools. A child has a better chance with the sanctuary of its home near at
hand. And I think the characteristic faults of the English upper and middle
classes may be partly due to the practice, general until recently, of sending
children away from home as young as nine, eight or even seven.
I have never been back to St Cyprian's. Reunions, old boys’ dinners and
such-like leave me something more than cold, even when my memories are friendly.
I have never even been down to Eton, where I was relatively happy, though I did
once pass through it in 1933 and noted with interest that nothing seemed to have
changed, except that the shops now sold radios. As for St Cyprian's, for years I
loathed its very name so deeply that I could not view it with enough detachment
to see the significance of the things that happened to me there. In a way it is
only within the last decade that I have really thought over my schooldays,
vividly though their memory has always haunted me. Nowadays, I believe, it would
make very little impression on me to see the place again, if it still exists. (I
remember hearing a rumour some years ago that it had been burnt down.) If I had
to pass through Eastbourn I would not make a detour to avoid the school: and if
I happened to pass the school itself I might even stop for a moment by the low
brick wall, with the steep bank running down from it, and look across the flat
playing field at the ugly building with the square of asphalt in front of it.
And if I went inside and smelt again the inky, dusty smell of the big
schoolroom, the rosiny smell of the chapel, the stagnant smell of the swimming
bath and the cold reek of the lavatories, I think I should only feel what one
invariably feels in revisiting any scene of childhood: How small everything has
grown, and how terrible is the deterioration in myself! But it is a fact that
for many years I could hardly have borne to look at it again. Except upon dire
necessity I would not have set foot in Eastbourne. I even conceived a prejudice
against Sussex, as the country that contained St Cyprian's, and as an adult I
have only once been in Sussex, on a short visit. Now, however, the place is out
of my system for good. Its magic works no longer, and I have not even enough
animosity left to make me hope that Flip and Sambo are dead or that the story of
the school being burnt down was true.