Читать книгу The Impudence of Youth - Warwick Deeping - Страница 5

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The master looked out of his window.

As an admirer of Dante he saw the Great Court as a miniature replica of Hades, filled with tormented shadows and lit by spurts of fire and little tongues of flame. It howled, it shouted, it sang; it blew horns and hammered teatrays, and the discord was immense. The Master stroked his Mosaic beard and smiled, though the sacred turf was being desecrated. Did flowers of flame burn the feet of those who walked in the Elysian Fields? But this was a happy and a hilarious crowd, part of it not a little drunk, for the occasion was splendid and singular. The college's first May boat had gone head of the river, removing from that distinguished place that very bumptious college, Tudor Hall. The Master of St. Jude's did not love the Master of Tudor Hall. Both of them were eminent classicists, and Tudor Hall had dared to criticise St. Jude's monumental work upon Plato. Surely, there were occasions when it was pleasant to behold the head of John the Baptist served upon a charger?

Another figure joined the Master in the oriel, the neat, serene, pragmatical mate of the Head who remembered when he forgot. The great man might be as wise as Moses, but he could be colossally absent-minded, or pretend to be so. He could ape a bland and childlike innocence, and ask idiotic questions, but there was a lovely naughtiness in his naïveté.

"The stars look down, my dear, on the Greeks sacking Troy. Why did you not ask Jeudwine to dinner?"

His wife slipped a hand under his arm.

"Would you gloat over poor Hector?"

"No, but I might over a swollen head that was exploded. Caught them in the Long Reach, I understand. How many years have they been head?"

"Seven, I think."

"Quite biblical, my dear! Naughty, naughty, but I did want to see Jeudwine bumped before my descent into Hades."

His wife smiled up at him in the oriel where the coloured escutcheons gathered some of the light from the pyrotechnic fire-flies in the court.

"Yes, and you would be the first to——"

"Oh, should I! I don't like academic bounders. My dear, what is a bounder? Define the creature."

"A man who wears a black coat with a red tie and brown boots."

"Naughty, naughty! Do you know what I should like to do?"

"I never know exactly what——"

"Now, now, am I so incalculable as all that? I should like to go out and ring our dinner-bell, and let off one small squib."

A bump-supper may produce joy and horse-play of varying intensities, and the great court was full of healthy exultation. Gains, the rowing blue, might be drunk, but that was his privilege, and he could be drunk with dignity. If the Hon. Selby Lowndes, the first boat's stroke, crawled about on the grass, and implored someone to milk him, that was harmless cow-play. But in such a crowd, especially when the more wholesome members are drifting off to bed, there are the elementals who make mischief. A victim must be offered up. One, named Crewdson, a third year man with lascivious eyes, and the profile of a goat, was the leader of a clique drawn from a particular school which was suffering from an unpleasant reputation.

"Say, you chaps, anyone seen the Tadpole?"

No one had seen J.J. Pope, and the inference was obvious. A little swat who could not join in celebrating his college's triumph needed educating. Moreover, J.J. Pope had come from nowhere out of nothing; he wore the clothes of a shop-assistant, played no games, was rarely seen in hall, and was supposed to live on apples and bread and cheese. Also, J.J. Pope worked much too assiduously; he possessed that absurd passion for gathering knowledge which is an offence to a certain sort of Englishman.

"Gentlemen," said Crewdson, "I think a lesson in deportment is indicated."

Crewdson spoke with a supercilious lisp, but he could be crisp and sardonic when in liquor.

"No sense of obligation, gentlemen, no loyalty to this great institution. Sits and swats on an occasion such as this. Regard, I beseech you, this noble court, this splendid fountain, our Hall, our Chapel, our immemorial gateway. The Tudor Rose, gentlemen, shades of the Great Henry. Beef, beer, and brothels! What shall we do about it?"

A voice said: "Let's have the little squit out and duck him."

Crewdson, standing on the steps of the fountain, raised his mortar-board to the voice.

"Sir, I salute you. A sage has spoken. The genius Tadpole is bred in water. Even when it becomes a frog, it is no more than a frog. Let us proceed to Sputum Court, and collect the specimen."

J.J. Pope kept in a room of the top floor of that dismal, mock-Gothic building. There was no spaciousness and splendour here. His windows faced the north, and received no sunlight. J.J. Pope was working. He had sported his oak, and was sitting at a table under the narrow, mullioned window across which old red serge curtains had been drawn. He had a book propped up before him, and he was making notes as he read.

The world knew him as a very little man, not more than five feet two in height, with a large head and ridiculous legs. He was dark to swarthiness, with rebellious hair that swept back from his big round forehead like an insurgent and intelligent wave. His mouth was the mouth of a man who suffered almost ascetic self-restraints, yet, it was not a bitter mouth. His very deep set eyes were happy, if the eyes of a searcher after truth are ever happy. His little legs were tucked away under his chair. The hand which held the pencil was narrow and fragile, and not made for coarse labour or for games. It was an artist's hand, and he worked with the cuff of his coat turned up, not because the cloth was frayed, but because he had a peculiar dislike of anything constricting or rubbing against his wrists.

At the moment he was working upon abstruse chemical formulae, and bringing to them that imagination with which genius lights up the implications of a problem. At the end of his second year J.J. Pope was no mere indefatigable scholar, but a young man to whom the great could delegate research, and to whom they could talk as an equal. Half way through his university career he could have taken a first in the Science Tripos far more easily than a third year man could have secured a pass. He had jotted down some figures in his note-book and had raised his head to gaze at and beyond the shabby red curtains when he heard those noisy voices on the stairs.

His face sharpened; his eyes narrowed and lost their meditative serenity. He turned his head to listen. His little legs hooked themselves almost convulsively round the legs of the chair. A spasm of fear gripped him. He knew the possible significance of those sounds, and had suffered on other occasions from such invasions, smashed furniture and secret humiliation. He had come to believe that he had lived down the dislike that certain young gentlemen felt for him. Why was he hated? Because he was singular, because of his indefatigable urge to know, because he wore odd clothes, played no games, and was not a social creature? Well, did it matter?

Crewdson & Co. were at the outer door, hammering on it and shouting.

"Hallo, Pope, open up."

"Is the little swat in?"

"Open up, Jerry Pope."

J.J. sat very still, his fingers still holding the pencil. Should he lie low and pretend to be out? But even if he shirked the issue, they might break in and smash up his furniture. It was poor stuff, but his own.

"I can see a light under the door."

"Pope, you'd better open up."

He recognised the voice of Crewdson. His head gave a jerk. Courage! There was a mounting pride in him that blazed with sudden scorn and fierceness. But one should not show anger, only a cool and smiling indifference. He would face it out, and he would not forget. He had many such things to remember.

The keeping-room door was closed. Deliberately, and head high he went and opened the door and stepped into the little lobby. His stomach might contract with an animal's primordial dread of its enemies, but his head was clear.

"What do you want with me?"

"Open up, Pope, and we'll tell you."

There was a little smile on his face as he turned the key and stepped back quickly into the room. He preferred to face the crowd there, head up, back to the wall. They might be many, and stronger than he was, but he had a tongue and would use it. He was not going to cringe to them, or seek to placate prejudice.

The dozen or so young men surged into the room like a football scrum breaking up. They filled it. Pope stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands in his pockets. There was hardly a yard between him and that bunch of faces, but, for the moment the space between them held.

"Well, what do you want with me, gentlemen?"

He smiled, but there was irony in the one word. Gentlemen! It was Crewdson who answered him.

"Why weren't you out in the Great Court?"

Pope glanced towards his table.

"Working. Is that a crime, Crewdson?"

"You little squit, don't you understand?"

Pope smiled in his face.

"Have I neglected my duty? Isn't it possible, Crewdson, for a brain to bring honour, as well as a rowing man's hands? And you don't row, I believe."

He could pose them with his quick tongue and the flash of his temperament, and the coarser creature, when thwarted in the battle of wits, reverts to crude violence. Crewdson, with a sneer on his Capricorn face, turned to his clique.

"No sense of decency. What shall we do with the little swat?"

"Duck him," said a voice from the background.

"Had a bath, Pope, recently? You don't do it, do you?"

Pope looked Crewdson straight in the face.

"There are other sorts of dirtinesses, Crewdson."

"Oh, are there! Well, you've got a head like a Bath bun. Swollen, what! Go and have a look, Kernott. See if it does keep a bath."

Kernott and another lad went to explore the bedroom.

"No bath, sir."

"I thought tadpoles liked cold water."

"Well, we can wash him in the fountain. Better take his breeches off, you fellows."

Pope did not attempt to resist. He smiled and was silent. Crewdson and Kernott caught him by the arms, swung him to the floor and held him there while two other men removed his trousers.

"Gosh, he's wearing pants!"

"Pants in May, you stuffy little beast!"

"Remove them," said Crewdson.

They frog-marched him down the stairs. The blood ran to his head; his shoulders hurt, but he neither spoke nor struggled. A kind of fierce gaiety sustained him. Some day he would be revenged upon the Crewdson world, or he would be so remote from it that it would be no more than a forgotten cesspit. His courage transcended the crisis. At the Great Gate a porter was on duty, but he made no attempt to intervene. These young gentlemen were merely honouring a tradition. The college had gone head of the river, and hilarious things might be expected to happen. Moreover, the porter was tired and sleepy, and his feet were sore; he wanted to take off his boots and get to bed.

The great court had almost emptied itself. The last cracker had skipped about the grass, and youth, having exhausted itself, was becoming conscious of reaction. The procession proceeded across the grass to the fountain. There were beds of wallflowers about it, and they suffered from youth's trampling feet.

"Now then, one, two, three, all together, heave."

J.J. Pope's body was swung like a sack. His chin and knees just grazed the edge of the basin. The lads let go, and the victim struck the water with a solid splash.

The little crowd cheered.

"That was a good souse."

"Hallo, Tad, how's the water-weed?"

They watched him emerge and stand with the wet kilt of a shirt sticking to his thighs. He seemed to be smiling at them. They saw his white teeth, but not a word did he utter.

"Better clear off now," said someone, in an undertone.

Maybe, an anti-climax mocked them, and that there were members of the gang who would become conscious of secret shame. Nothing can be more damning than silence.

"Nighty-night, Tad. Better run home and get dry."

As they drifted away, breaking into groups of twos and threes, their voices sounded less loud and confident. They had ducked J.J. Pope, but they had failed to make him flinch or squeal.

John James Pope sat on the edge of the great stone basin and shivered. The tail of his shirt trailed in the water, but it was his body that shivered, not his spirit. The air about the fountain could be fragrant with the scent of wallflowers when England's dastardly spring was not all north-east wind and grey bloom. In the darkness of this warmish night J.J. fancied that he could smell the flowers, and the scent of them was to become a memory associated with his eternal combat with a Crewdson world. He did not wish to forget it, the stars, the great grey court, the coldness of the water, the scent of the flowers, the kind of shivering exultation that filled him. He had outfaced these fools. They had not extracted a squeak from him.

The master, meanwhile, had been standing at his window. He was supposed to be short of sight, but he saw many things that he was not expected to see. He stroked his Mosaic beard and was challenged by the occasion. All that he said to his wife was: "There is someone out there, my dear, whom I think I ought to interview."

This large and stately figure crossed the sacred grass to the fountain. J.J. Pope had seen the master's door open, and if he still shivered, the imminent interview filled him with a feeling of curious exhilaration. What would Academic Dignity have to say upon the subject of his outrageous nudity?

The master paused and stroked his beard.

"May I ask who it is? In this light my sight is a little inadequate."

"Pope, sir."

"Ah, Mr. Pope. It seems that a little horse-play has been in progress. Can you explain?"

"Easily, sir. I'm afraid I did not get drunk and excited because our first boat——"

The master interrupted him.

"Mr. Pope, I am sorry that this has happened. I will admit that in this young and rather physical world, those who play no games and work with great assiduity are apt to be unpopular, but——"

This time J.J. Pope interrupted the master.

"I admit that, sir. I'm afraid I am too separative a creature and must accept the consequences of my sin."

"You are not feeling bitter, Mr. Pope?"

"No, sir. Stimulated. It may seem strange to you, but to be unpopular with certain persons may be essential, if——No, I do not wish to give any names."

"That is magnanimous of you, Mr. Pope. But, forgive me, you must be very cold. Honour me by coming into the Lodge and drinking a whisky, and borrowing a pair of my trousers. May I say that I am one of those, and there are many others, who appreciate your assiduity. But, Mr. Pope, even scholars and philosophers must cultivate social cunning. Please come with me."

Pope hesitated for a second or two; then, he slipped off the stone basin and planted his feet among the wallflowers.

"Thank you, sir."

"Mr. Pope, your name is almost symbolical. Remember how some reputations live when the braying mob is dust."

The great man and the little man crossed the sacred turf, and the stars looked down upon John James Pope's shirt-tail and naked legs. The master was confronting the immediate problem. This nudity of body and soul had to be both protected and comforted. The master opened his door and then pointed J.J. Pope to a chair.

"One moment, Mr. Pope. Sit there, or perhaps you would be warmer standing."

He crossed the hall, glanced into the particular room and saw that it was empty, but that a fire was laid in the grate. The master's Mary exercised foresight in the providing of all possible comforts, and these Gothic buildings could be cold even in June.

"You will find a box of matches on the mantelpiece, Mr. Pope. Light the fire. And excuse me for a moment."

The master mounted the stairs while J.J. crept into the room, and finding the matches, knelt down and lit the fire. Oh, blessed flames, oh, fatherly and human kindness! On the landing above the master met his wife.

"Refrain from going downstairs, my dear. Someone has had a ducking. Yes, organic savagery. I will collect dry clothes."

"Who is it, Montague?"

"Poor little Pope. So like his namesake."

The master went and rummaged in his dressing-room, and marched downstairs with a pair of trousers, an old white sweater, a flannel shirt and a pair of shoes. In his preoccupation he forgot such essentials as braces. J.J. Pope was kneeling in front of the fire, spreading his hands to it, and trying not to shiver. The master closed the door and deposited the clothes in an armchair.

"Change, Mr. Pope, while I find some hot water for a whisky."

He left the little man alone, closing the door carefully after him. He called up the stairs.

"Mary, my dear, do you think you can find me a glass of hot water?"

J.J. Pope was busy on the hearthrug, stripping off his wet coat, shirt and vest. He grabbed the great man's trousers and stepped into them. They were monstrous bags, ascending nearly to his chin, yet leaving concertina-folds about his feet. How was he to sustain them? He let them fall, and slipped into shirt and sweater, and they descended well below his knees. He lugged up the trousers, and tucked the upper garments into them, and was holding up the bags and looking lost when the master returned.

"Bless my soul, Pope, but I have forgotten the most urgent necessity!"

"If I could have a belt, sir."

"Let us improvise. Take that antimacassar and rope it around you. I am afraid I am something of a Behemoth. Now, a little whisky."

The master walked to the sideboard and took a bottle from the tantalus. He poured a good dollop of spirit into the hot water while J.J. Pope swathed the antimacassar about his middle. It looked like some prodigious Oriental sash. The master approached him with the steaming glass.

"Drink that down, Mr. Pope. I think you had better stay in bed to-morrow."

Pope's hand shook a little with emotion and with cold.

"I shall have to, sir. That is my only suit."

The master fondled his beard.

"Is that so? Well, Mr. Pope, I will have these clothes put before the fire. They shall be brought to your room early in the morning. You can return those garments at your leisure."

Pope was sipping the whisky. It was a new drink to him, and it warmed other things than his stomach.

"You have been very kind to me, sir."

"Oh, no, Mr. Pope, just human. By the way, I breakfast at nine. I shall be glad if you will breakfast with me."

"If my clothes are dry, sir, I——"

"I will see that they are dry. How is the whisky?"

"Excellent, sir."

"Drink it down, my dear lad. Let it warm up your philosophy. Then I should run along and get to bed. By the way, who is on duty at the Great Gate?"

"I think it is Robinson, sir."

"Please tell Robinson as you go out that I wish to see him."

J.J. Pope swallowed the last of the whisky. He had ceased to shiver.

"Is it the names, sir, you want from Robinson?"

Master and undergrad looked at each other steadfastly.

"I admit that I had that in mind, Mr. Pope."

"May I ask you a favour, sir?"

"Most certainly."

"May they remain anonymous, sir?"

"That is generous of you, Mr. Pope."

J.J. Pope put his glass down on the table. His feud was his own and he would cherish it, but he did not tell the master so.