Читать книгу Ploughman of the Moon - Robert William Service - Страница 10

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When I was first recalled to the family fold I must have been a most objectionable brat. My aunts had spoiled me to the point of exhibitionism. True, I could draw and recite, and I was unusually "quick in the up-tak'"; but there was no reason to regard me as a boy-wonder. Because I was different, they thought me original; because I was precocious, they fancied me a prodigy. If I had remained with them I would have turned out a prize prig. But my new education was bang in the other direction. It was an inferiority complex course, from which I never recovered. It moulded me into the meek middle class to which I belonged.

How often did I hear phrases such as: "Children should be seen and not heard." ... "Keep your place and don't try to ape your betters." ... "You're getting too big for your boots; you want taking down a peg or two." It was ever being impressed on me that I must accept my station in life and not aspire to rise above it. But it was the life itself which wore me down to submissive humility.

First of all, I had to get acquainted with a swarm of brothers. I forget how many there were, but it was rather bewildering. At first they looked on me as a stranger and were inclined to resent me, especially as I tried to patronize them. But soon I fell in line, though I never quite recovered from the feeling that I was a changeling.

"Dinna forget tae say yer prayers," was Aunt Jeannie's last injunction. That night in a large bare room shared by four of us, I knelt down by my bed and began my "Gentle Jesus." I heard sniggers, and a pillow was thrown at me. Mama intervened, telling my brothers that they would be better following my example. Having never been taught to do so, they found this funny. Their derision became indifference as I persisted in my prayers. Maybe I got a40 self-righteous kick out of it.

One night, when I shivered in the freezing cold, the idea came to me to say them in bed. Maybe God wouldn't mind, I thought, as I closed my eyes, clasped my hands, and drew up my legs as if I were kneeling. Thus comfortable, I prayed longer than usual, elaborating my usual petition to include friends far and near. Indeed, as I went on, these cosy bed-prayers became so comprehensive I often fell asleep before they were finished. Then one night I went to sleep before they were begun. I had fallen into the habit of making up stories in my mind and became so interested that I ended by drowsing off before I got round to my prayers. Very remorseful I tried to make up for it by a morning prayer and resolved it would not happen again. But it did, more and more often, till finally I lost the prayer habit. It died hard, though. For years I would pray intermittently, especially when I was worried or afraid; and when I realized I could no longer continue, I had a sneaking feeling that I was letting God down.

My new home was certainly a contrast to my old. It was absolutely devoid of religious atmosphere. I never knew Mama and Papa go to church. They brought us up like pagans and I never heard mention of even the existence of a deity. No doubt there was a place for piety but it was certainly not the home. In church on Sunday the Minister took care of that, and we as children were prodded on to fill the family pew. It cost a pound a year, so Papa had to get value for his money.... And nearly all families were like that. Sunday morning church squared us with God for the rest of the week. That was the difference between town and country. In the latter the religious spirit was integral in our living, while in town it contracted to a weekly ritual. Religion died hard in me, but when it passed it did so for good. It seems a pity that all my Bible reading should have been wasted. Yet I think Aunt Jeannie's teaching did me no harm. Ultimately my sceptical spirit was bound to prevail, but until I was well advanced in boyhood my respect for righteousness survived.

Our home was in a four-story block of flats called Roselea Terrace. Opposite it was a similar block called Ferndale Terrace. Their sole41 rustic suggestions were their names; for they were both grim and gloomy, and only in high summer did the sunshine gild our door-mat. But it was a highly respectable street, where we lived in genteel poverty. Our flat was number nineteen, the biggest and the last in the terrace. It was on the ground floor and had a basement where there was an occasional rat, lots of mice and swarms of cockroaches. The latter were big glossy fellows that came out at night, so that we hated to venture into the kitchen after dark. They crunched horribly under the descending carpet slipper, and when the gas was lit they scuttled in all directions. Often they got in the beds, and I always remember the screams of Mama when a big one dropped from her panties.

We paid forty pounds a year for the flat, but generally had to borrow money to meet the rent. As time went on we had to turn the drawing-room into a bedroom, owing to the family increase. There was a downstairs sitting-room we called the nursery, where I sat till midnight reading yarns of adventure when the house lay asleep. Then I would stumble to bed and know nothing more till awakened in the morning by Papa pulling the clothes off me. That was his way of making me get up.... Roselea Terrace stopped at our house and gave on a vacant lot we called the Hollow. It was full of pot-holes and clothed with rank grass and nettles, but it was our beloved playground. Board fences surrounded it, the crevices full of earwigs. It was priceless to us, as otherwise we would have been obliged to play in the streets. Although only a squalid wasteland, to our notion it was precious country where green things grew and the air was fresh. I have no doubt that sunken field did much to help our growth.

There were a gang of about twenty boys in our street and we were very aggressive. On the hill beyond was Sunnybrae Gardens where the boys were of a superior breed. Their fathers were successful business men, and they went to private academies, not to plebeian board-schools like ourselves. We called them "gentry pups" and sought fights with them. But down in Byars Road, which lay below us, was another class of small tradesmen, and their sons we called "keelies." With them, too, we were always at war. We were the middle-middle class, most bellicose of all, because we were better42 fed than the "keelies," and less fastidious than the "gentry pups." In short, we were rather nasty little vulgarians.

Of course I had to go to a new school. It must have been of better quality than my last, for bare feet were forbidden. My suggestion that I should go without shoes shocked my family. Papa said: "No one wears bare feet in the city. It's against a civil ordinance." It seemed queer to me, who loved to feel my soles in contact with the soil, that my feet should be prisoned or the city would be disgraced.

At eight in the morning we were routed out of bed, and after a cat's-paw wash we had breakfast of porridge (either under-cooked or burned), a roll and a straw-flavoured egg. Gulping it down we were bundled off to school. As a rule we were late and had to run, leaving the smallest blubbering in the rear. There was no protective spirit among us. The youngest had to look out for himself. Fortunately the roads were safe, cabs and drays forming most of the traffic. Accidents were rare. The streets of my youth were fresh, calm and innocent.

The school was in a dubious region between slum-land and respectability. It was dingy, grey and shabby, but we used to run most of the way to get there in time to play. When the whistle blew, the playground would be jammed with boys playing games. Every Friday, being washing-day at home, we were allowed to take a lunch to school. This consisted of an egg sandwich, with bread and jam. It took us five minutes to bolt it, after which we had the rest of the hour for play. The Masters wore shabby tail-coats and swung straps as they paced the floor. At my first school canes had been the instruments of discipline, but here thongs of leather were the symbols of authority. One can imagine the young Master going to the leather merchant and carefully selecting the tool of his trade. "Let me have a nice supple one with tails that flick around the fingers." ... Or "Maybe I'd better try one of those broad heavy fellows. Perhaps it would be more effective if I soaked it in brine. Let me swish it through the air to get the balance of it." What would a Master be without his faithful strap?43

There was a technique in swinging it. A turn of the wrist, and it would lacerate the hand. But most of the Masters played fair. Only when they were exasperated did they resort to that vicious twist. On the other hand a flat delivery would raise a blister. Two strokes were the average and the maximum was four. After four it was a long time before the hands regained their feeling, and one was lucky if they were not cut open. But no one thought of complaining. We would grin ruefully and tell our chums we had been given a good licking. We would be proud of our bruises and boast how we could take it. The unwritten law prescribed that one must never be a cry-baby or a sneak. We dare not tell our parents, for they would have replied: "Well, you must have deserved it. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Corporal punishment is a part of education."

Maybe they were right, for was not the theory backed by ages of convention? Flogging was supposed to toughen the race. But in my case it had a contrary effect. I resented my strappings, and there was one in particular that even to-day makes me grit my teeth with rage. The German Master said something that set the class laughing, and he picked me out as a scapegoat. I was sent down to the Head to be flogged. He was a bearded man in a frock-coat and he took from his desk a black strap. "The whole class was laughing, sir," I protested. He answered: "I cannot punish the whole class, so I will make an example of you." And he did. That was the only time I got six. But though my hands were numb he did not break my spirit. Toward the last I was feeling distinctly murderous. It was not so much what he did to me as the gusto with which he did it. I found myself eying a heavy ink-well on his desk and wondering what would happen if I hurled it at his head. It was red ink too. I believe another lash would have made me do it.

One does not forgive and forget punishment that is severe and unjust. Years after, when I heard he had been drowned while bathing, I laughed for joy. Yet I have no doubt he gave no further thought to the matter and would have been profoundly surprised at my lasting resentment.

In the lane behind the playground we frequently staged fights. I would say to another boy: "I can lick you," and he would reply:44 "I don't think you can."

"Well, meet me in the lane after school." So all the class would know and assemble to cheer or jeer.

Sometimes the school janitor, an old soldier, would intervene. "Fighting's a blackguardly thing," he said to me, as he marched my opponent and myself to the class Master. "You fought in the army," I protested. But he would not argue the matter. I disagreed with him. It is good for boys to fight, I thought. But the Master had to disapprove, so he gave us both a light one. Then he looked at me quizzically. "Who won?"

"He did," I said, pointing to my companion. But the latter, not to be outdone in generosity, insisted I was the victor. So the Master said: "Well, I suppose it was a draw; but don't make any return match, or I'll really warm your palms for you. Now shake hands."

On account of the boxing lessons Pat had given me I acquired the reputation of a scrapper. Luckily no one knew how little I knew, and the bluff worked. I do not think I was yellow, but as I never got a real licking I cannot be sure. And before I could find out, I was beyond the blubber age. For there comes a point in a boy's life when he discovers he no longer cries when he is hurt. When I was ten I crushed my hand in a gate and the pain was agonizing. But it was forgotten in my amazement to find I did not howl any more. I was on my way to be a man.

Of my companions at this school I recall only one, and he was unforgettable. He sat next to me, a boy with a pale face and a big head. One day I noticed that he was making drawings, and he showed me one.

"It's the Fat Boy in Pickwick," he told me gleefully. "When he's not eating he sleeps."

I admired the drawing, which was copied from Phiz. He had a lively sense of humour, and, though he did not shine at his lessons any more than I did, he was more avid and precocious. In fact, I was rather awe-struck to find that he had been able to absorb a real novel, as my reading was confined to penny dreadfuls and papers like Ching Ching's Own. My friend high-browed me, and sought45 to wean me away from Jack Harkaway and Deadwood Dick, but without success. Eric, or Little by Little gave me a pain in the neck, while Tom Brown's School Days repelled me by its moral platitudes. He tried to interest me in the Boys' Own Paper, known as the B.O.P., and endorsed by the public schools. No doubt it was pukka, but I was not. I liked stories by Manville Fenn and Talbot Baines Reed, but constructive articles such as How to Rig a Model Yacht or How to Stuff Birds left me cold. So my apostle of uplift failed in his effort.

I mention him because to-day he is known as Britain's Best Journalist. He is the London Editor of a famous daily paper and has published many books. Cabinet Ministers consult him, and mandarins of letters weigh his words. One of his brothers is a famous etcher who has been knighted; while another is skipper of a big Atlantic liner, and himself an author of note. I used to call him Jimmy but now I call him James. He still high-brows me and I love it. May he long live to drink the Scotch he enjoys so heartily.

I left this school in a glow of triumph. We had been told to do an essay on coal, and the subject pleased me. So I sat down and found myself writing with surprising ease. Ideas crowded on me, and words came to clothe them so willingly I wondered what had gotten into me. It was my first experience of Inspiration. I finished in a mood of exultation. I knew my work was good; indeed, I knew it was better than the combined class could do. When the essays were handed back to us the teacher did not return mine. Instead he said: "Here is one I want to read aloud."

He did so, while I hung my head in embarrassed shame. I blushed when he indicated that I was the author, and the other boys laughed derisively. To write well was to be considered a sissy. Afterwards he took me aside.

"Did no one help you?"

"No, Sir."

"Not even your father?"

"He's not capable," I said, a little contemptuously.

"Well, it's a pity some one could not take you in hand. If you were well trained you might bud."

I did not know what he meant, and he left it at that. But I was46 leaving next day for another school, so after I had packed my books I went to him and said: "Good-bye and thank you, sir." He was surprised and shook hands with me, saying: "You're the only pupil who ever said good-bye to me." I went away rather wistfully, wondering if I had not done it to show off.