My unpopularity increased by leaps and
bounds, but so did my moral courage, and I accepted the belated
efforts of my school-fellows to knock the intelligence out of me as
so many tributes to the force of my individuality. I no longer cried
in my bed at night, but lay awake enraptured at the profundity of my
thoughts. After years of unquestioning humility I enjoyed a prolonged
debauch of intellectual pride, and I marvelled at the little boy of
yesterday who had wept because he could not be an imbecile. It was
the apotheosis of the ugly duckling, and I saw my swan's plumage
reflected in the placid faces of the boys around me, as in the vacant
waters of a pool. As yet I did not dream of a moulting season, still
less that a day would come when I should envy the ducks their
domestic ease and the unthinking tranquillity of their lives. A
little boy may be excused for not realising that Hans Andersen's
story is only the prelude to a sadder story that he had not the heart
to write. My new freedom of spirit gave me courage to re-examine the emotional
and æesthetic values of my environment. I could not persuade myself
that I liked the sound of bells, and the greyness of the country in
winter-time still revolted me, as though I had not yet forgotten the
cheerful reds and greens and blues of the picture-books that filled
my mind as a child with dreams of a delightful world. But now that I
was wise enough to make the best of my unboyish emotionalism, I began
to take pleasure in certain phases of school-life. Though I was
devoid of any recognisable religious sense I liked the wide words in
the Psalms that we read at night in the school chapel. This was not
due to any precocious recognition of their poetry, but to the fact
that their intense imagery conjured up all sorts of precious visions
in my mind, I could see the hart panting after the water-brooks, in
the valleys of Exmoor, where I had once spent an enchanted holiday. I
could see the men going down to the sea in ships, and the stormy
waves, and the staggering, fearful mariners, for I had witnessed a
great tempest off Flamborough Head. Even such vague phrases as "the
hills" gave me an intense joy. I could see them so clearly, those
hills, chalky hills covered with wild pansies, and with an all-blue
sky overhead, like the lid of a chocolate-box. I liked, too, the
services in the old church on Sunday nights, when the lights were
lowered for the sermon, and I would put my hands over my ears and
hear the voice of the preacher like the drone of a distant bee. After
church the choral society used to practise in the Great Hall, and as
I walked round the school buildings, snatches of their singing would
beat against my face like sudden gusts of wind. When I listened at
the doors of my form-room I heard the boys talking about football
matches, or indulging their tireless passion for unimaginative
personalities; I would stand on the mat outside wondering whether I
would be allowed to read if I went in. I looked forward to Tuesday night, which was my bath-night,
almost as much as to Sunday. The school sanitary arrangements
were primitive, and all the water had to be fetched in pails,
and I used to like to see the man tipping the hot water into the
bath and flinging his great body back to avoid the steam that
made his grey flannel shirt-sleeves cling to his hairy arms. Most of the boys added a lot of cold water, but I liked to boil
myself because the subsequent languor was so pleasant. The
matron would bring our own bath towels warm from the fire, and I
would press mine against my face because it smelt of childhood
and of home. I always thought my body looked pretty after a
really hot bath; its rosiness enabled me to forgive myself for
being fat. One very strong impression was connected with the only master in the
school whom I did not like. He was a German, and as is the case with
others of his nationality, a spray of saliva flew from his lips when
he was angry, and seeing this, I would edge away from him in alarm. Perhaps it was on this account that he treated me with systematic
unfairness and set himself the unnecessary task of making me
ridiculous in the eyes of the other boys. One night I was wandering
in the playground and heard him playing the violin in his study. My
taste in music was barbarian; I liked comic songs, which I used to
sing to myself in a lugubrious voice, and in London the plaintive
clamour of the street-organs had helped to make my sorrows
rhythmical. But now, perhaps for the first time, I became aware of
the illimitable melancholy that lies at the heart of all great
music. It seemed to me that the German master, the man whom I hated,
had shut himself up alone in his study, and was crying aloud. I knew
that if he was unhappy, it must be because he too was an Ishmael, a
personality, one of the different ones. A great sympathy woke within
me, and I peeped through the window and saw him playing with his
face all shiny with perspiration and a silk handkerchief tucked
under his chin. I would have liked to have knocked at his door and
told him that I knew all about these things, but I was afraid that
he would think me cheeky and splutter in my face. The next day in his class, I looked at him hopefully, in the light
of my new understanding, but it did not seem to make any difference. He only told me to get on with my work. The term drew to a close, and most of the boys in my form-room
ticked off the days on lists, in which the Sundays were written in
red ink to show that they did not really count. As time went on they
grew more and more boisterous, and wherever I went I heard them
telling one another how they were going to spend their holidays. It
was surprising to me that these boys who were so ordinary during
term-time should lead such adventurous lives in the holidays, and I
felt a little envious of their good fortune. They talked of visiting
the theatre and foreign travel in a matter-of-fact way that made me
think that perhaps after all my home-life was incomplete. I had
never been out of England, and my dramatic knowledge was limited to
pantomimes, for which these enthusiastic students of musical comedy
expressed a large contempt. Some of them were allowed to shoot with
real guns in the holidays, which reminded me of the worst excesses
of my brother in Yorkshire. Examining my own life, I had often come
to the conclusion that adventures did not exist outside books. But
the boys shook this comforting theory with their boastful
prophecies, and I thought once more that perhaps it was my
misfortune that they did not happen to me. I began to fear that I
would find the holidays tame. There were other considerations that made me look forward to the end
of the term with misgiving. Since it had been made plain to me that I
was a remarkable boy, I had rather enjoyed my life at school.