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Title: Surprised by Joy. The shape of my early life.
Author: Lewis, C. S. [Clive Staples] (1898-1963)
Date of first publication: 1955
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Geoffrey Bles, 1955
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 4 October 2015
Date last updated: 16 October 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1275

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Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

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                            SURPRISED BY JOY
                       The shape of my early life


                                   by
                              C. S. LEWIS


                _Surprised by joy--impatient as the wind_
                                                              WORDSWORTH


                                _LONDON_
                             GEOFFREY BLES
                                  1955

                      _Printed in Great Britain by
                       Butler & Tanner Ltd Frome
                           for the publishers
                           Geoffrey Bles Ltd
                      52 Doughty Street London WC1
                        First published in 1955_


                                   To
                       DOM BEDE GRIFFITHS, O.S.B.




                                Preface


This book is written partly in answer to requests that I would tell how
I passed from Atheism to Christianity and partly to correct one or two
false notions that seem to have got about. How far the story matters to
anyone but myself depends on the degree to which others have experienced
what I call "joy". If it is at all common, a more detailed treatment of
it than has (I believe) been attempted before may be of some use. I have
been emboldened to write of it because I notice that a man seldom
mentions what he had supposed to be his most idiosyncratic sensations
without receiving from at least one (often more) of those present the
reply, "What! Have _you_ felt that too? I always thought I was the only
one."

The book aims at telling the story of my conversion and is not a general
autobiography, still less "Confessions" like those of St. Augustine or
Rousseau. This means in practice that it gets less like a general
autobiography as it goes on. In the earlier chapters the net has to be
spread pretty wide in order that, when the explicitly spiritual crisis
arrives, the reader may understand what sort of person my childhood and
adolescence had made me. When the "build-up" is complete, I confine
myself strictly to business and omit everything (however important by
ordinary biographical standards) which seems, at that stage, irrelevant.
I do not think there is much loss; I never read an autobiography in
which the parts devoted to the earlier years were not far the most
interesting.

The story is, I fear, suffocatingly subjective; the kind of thing I have
never written before and shall probably never write again. I have tried
so to write the first chapter that those who can't bear such a story
will see at once what they are in for and close the book with the least
waste of time.

                                                                C. S. L.




                                Contents


  I THE FIRST YEARS                                                    11
  II CONCENTRATION CAMP                                                29
  III MOUNTBRACKEN AND CAMPBELL                                        47
  IV I BROADEN MY MIND                                                 59
  V RENAISSANCE                                                        73
  VI BLOODERY                                                          85
  VII LIGHT AND SHADE                                                 101
  VIII RELEASE                                                        115
  IX THE GREAT KNOCK                                                  127
  X FORTUNE'S SMILE                                                   143
  XI CHECK                                                            157
  XII GUNS AND GOOD COMPANY                                           173
  XIII THE NEW LOOK                                                   187
  XIV CHECKMATE                                                       201
  XV THE BEGINNING                                                    217




                           I. The First Years


  _Happy, but for so happy ill secured._
                                                                  MILTON

I was born in the winter of 1898 at Belfast, the son of a solicitor and
of a clergyman's daughter. My parents had only two children, both sons,
and I was the younger by about three years. Two very different strains
had gone to our making. My father belonged to the first generation of
his family that reached professional station. His grandfather had been a
Welsh farmer; his father, a self-made man, had begun life as a workman,
emigrated to Ireland, and ended as a partner in the firm of Macilwaine
and Lewis, "Boiler-makers, Engineers, and Iron Ship Builders". My mother
was a Hamilton with many generations of clergymen, lawyers, sailors, and
the like behind her; on her mother's side, through the Warrens, the
blood went back to a Norman knight whose bones lie at Battle Abbey. The
two families from which I spring were as different in temperament as in
origin. My father's people were true Welshmen, sentimental, passionate,
and rhetorical, easily moved both to anger and to tenderness; men who
laughed and cried a great deal and who had not much of the talent for
happiness. The Hamiltons were a cooler race. Their minds were critical
and ironic and they had the talent for happiness in a high degree--went
straight for it as experienced travellers go for the best seat in a
train. From my earliest years I was aware of the vivid contrast between
my mother's cheerful and tranquil affection and the ups and downs of my
father's emotional life, and this bred in me long before I was old
enough to give it a name a certain distrust or dislike of emotion as
something uncomfortable and embarrassing and even dangerous.

Both my parents, by the standards of that time and place, were bookish
or "clever" people. My mother had been a promising mathematician in her
youth and a B.A. of Queen's College, Belfast, and before her death was
able to start me both in French and Latin. She was a voracious reader of
good novels, and I think the Merediths and Tolstoys which I have
inherited were bought for her. My father's tastes were quite different.
He was fond of oratory and had himself spoken on political platforms in
England as a young man; if he had had independent means he would
certainly have aimed at a political career. In this, unless his sense of
honour, which was fine to the point of being Quixotic, had made him
unmanageable, he might well have succeeded, for he had many of the gifts
once needed by a Parliamentarian--a fine presence, a resonant voice,
great quickness of mind, eloquence, and memory. Trollope's political
novels were very dear to him; in following the career of Phineas Finn he
was, as I now suppose, vicariously gratifying his own desires. He was
fond of poetry provided it had elements of rhetoric or pathos, or both;
I think _Othello_ was his favourite Shakespearian play. He greatly
enjoyed nearly all humorous authors, from Dickens to W. W. Jacobs, and
was himself, almost without rival, the best _raconteur_ I have ever
heard; the best, that is, of his own type, the type that acts all the
characters in turn with a free use of grimace, gesture, and pantomime.
He was never happier than when closeted for an hour or so with one or
two of my uncles exchanging "wheezes" (as anecdotes were oddly called in
our family). What neither he nor my mother had the least taste for was
that kind of literature to which my allegiance was given the moment I
could choose books for myself. Neither had ever listened for the horns
of elfland. There was no copy either of Keats or Shelley in the house,
and the copy of Coleridge was never (to my knowledge) opened. If I am a
romantic my parents bear no responsibility for it. Tennyson, indeed, my
father liked, but it was the Tennyson of _In Memoriam_ and _Locksley
Hall_. I never heard from him of the _Lotus Eaters_ or the _Morte
d'Arthur_. My mother, I have been told, cared for no poetry at all.

In addition to good parents, good food, and a garden (which then seemed
large) to play in, I began life with two other blessings. One was our
nurse, Lizzie Endicott, in whom even the exacting memory of childhood
can discover no flaw--nothing but kindness, gaiety, and good sense. There
was no nonsense about "lady nurses" in those days. Through Lizzie we
struck our roots into the peasantry of County Down. We were thus free of
two very different social worlds. To this I owe my lifelong immunity
from the false identification which some people make of refinement with
virtue. From before I can remember I had understood that certain jokes
could be shared with Lizzie which were impossible in the drawing-room;
and also that Lizzie was, as nearly as a human can be, simply good.

The other blessing was my brother. Though three years my senior, he
never seemed to be an elder brother; we were allies, not to say
confederates, from the first. Yet we were very different. Our earliest
pictures (and I can remember no time when we were not incessantly
drawing) reveal it. His were of ships and trains and battles; mine, when
not imitated from his, were of what we both called "dressed animals"--the
anthropomorphised beasts of nursery literature. His earliest story--as my
elder he preceded me in the transition from drawing to writing--was
called _The Young Rajah_. He had already made India "his country";
Animal-Land was mine. I do not think any of the surviving drawings date
from the first six years of my life which I am now describing, but I
have plenty of them that cannot be much later. From them it appears to
me that I had the better talent. From a very early age I could draw
movement--figures that looked as if they were really running or
fighting--and the perspective is good. But nowhere, either in my
brother's work or my own, is there a single line drawn in obedience to
an idea, however crude, of beauty. There is action, comedy, invention;
but there is not even the germ of a feeling for design, and there is a
shocking ignorance of natural form. Trees appear as balls of cotton wool
stuck on posts, and there is nothing to show that either of us knew the
shape of any leaf in the garden where we played almost daily. This
absence of beauty, now that I come to think of it, is characteristic of
our childhood. No picture on the walls of my father's house ever
attracted--and indeed none deserved--our attention. We never saw a
beautiful building nor imagined that a building could be beautiful. My
earliest aesthetic experiences, if indeed they were aesthetic, were not
of that kind; they were already incurably romantic, not formal. Once in
those very early days my brother brought into the nursery the lid of a
biscuit tin which he had covered with moss and garnished with twigs and
flowers so as to make it a toy garden or a toy forest. That was the
first beauty I ever knew. What the real garden had failed to do, the toy
garden did. It made me aware of nature--not, indeed, as a storehouse of
forms and colours but as something cool, dewy, fresh, exuberant. I do
not think the impression was very important at the moment, but it soon
became important in memory. As long as I live my imagination of Paradise
will retain something of my brother's toy garden. And every day there
were what we called "the Green Hills"; that is, the low line of the
Castlereagh Hills which we saw from the nursery windows. They were not
very far off but they were, to children, quite unattainable. They taught
me longing--_Sehnsucht_; made me for good or ill, and before I was six
years old, a votary of the Blue Flower.

If aesthetic experiences were rare, religious experiences did not occur
at all. Some people have got the impression from my books that I was
brought up in strict and vivid Puritanism, but this is quite untrue. I
was taught the usual things and made to say my prayers and in due time
taken to church. I naturally accepted what I was told but I cannot
remember feeling much interest in it. My father, far from being
specially Puritanical, was, by nineteenth-century and Church of Ireland
standards, rather "high", and his approach to religion, as to
literature, was at the opposite pole from what later became my own. The
charm of tradition and the verbal beauty of Bible and Prayer Book (all
of them for me late and acquired tastes) were his natural delight, and
it would have been hard to find an equally intelligent man who cared so
little for metaphysics. Of my mother's religion I can say almost nothing
from my own memory. My childhood, at all events, was not in the least
other-worldly. Except for the toy garden and the Green Hills it was not
even imaginative; it lives in my memory mainly as a period of humdrum,
prosaic happiness and awakes none of the poignant nostalgia with which I
look back on my much less happy boyhood. It is not settled happiness but
momentary joy that glorifies the past.

To this general happiness there was one exception. I remember nothing
earlier than the terror of certain dreams. It is a very common trouble
at that age, yet it still seems to me odd that petted and guarded
childhood should so often have in it a window opening on what is hardly
less than Hell. My bad dreams were of two kinds, those about spectres
and those about insects. The second were, beyond comparison, the worse;
to this day I would rather meet a ghost than a tarantula. And to this
day I could almost find it in my heart to rationalise and justify my
phobia. As Owen Barfield once said to me, "The trouble about insects is
that they are like French locomotives--they have all the works on the
outside." _The works_--that is the trouble. Their angular limbs, their
jerky movements, their dry, metallic noises, all suggest either machines
that have come to life or life degenerating into mechanism. You may add
that in the hive and the ant-hill we see fully realised the two things
that some of us most dread for our own species--the dominance of the
female and the dominance of the collective. One fact about the history
of this phobia is perhaps worth recording. Much later, in my teens, from
reading Lubbock's _Ants, Bees and Wasps_, I developed for a short time a
genuinely scientific interest in insects. Other studies soon crowded it
out; but while my entomological period lasted my fear almost vanished,
and I am inclined to think a real objective curiosity will usually have
this cleansing effect.

I am afraid the psychologists will not be content to explain my insect
fears by what a simpler generation would diagnose as their cause--a
certain detestable picture in one of my nursery books. In it a midget
child, a sort of Tom Thumb, stood on a toadstool and was threatened from
below by a stag-beetle very much larger than himself. This was bad
enough; but there is worse to come. The horns of the beetle were strips
of cardboard separate from the plate and working on a pivot. By moving a
devilish contraption on the _verso_ you could make them open and shut
like pincers: snip-snap--snip-snap--I can see it while I write. How a
woman ordinarily so wise as my mother could have allowed this
abomination into the nursery is difficult to understand. Unless, indeed
(for now a doubt assails me), unless that picture itself is a product of
nightmare. But I think not.

In 1905, my seventh year, the first great change in my life took place.
We moved house. My father, growing, I suppose, in prosperity, decided to
leave the semi-detached villa in which I had been born and build himself
a much larger house, further out into what was then the country. The
"New House", as we continued for years to call it, was a large one even
by my present standards; to a child it seemed less like a house than a
city. My father, who had more capacity for being cheated than any man I
have ever known, was badly cheated by his builders; the drains were
wrong, the chimneys were wrong, and there was a draught in every room.
None of this, however, mattered to a child. To me, the important thing
about the move was that the background of my life became larger. The New
House is almost a major character in my story. I am a product of long
corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstair indoor silences, attics explored
in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the
noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books. My father bought
all the books he read and never got rid of any of them. There were books
in the study, books in the drawing-room, books in the cloakroom, books
(two deep) in the great bookcase on the landing, books in a bedroom,
books piled as high as my shoulder in the cistern attic, books of all
kinds reflecting every transient stage of my parents' interests, books
readable and unreadable, books suitable for a child and books most
emphatically not. Nothing was forbidden me. In the seemingly endless
rainy afternoons I took volume after volume from the shelves. I had
always the same certainty of finding a book that was new to me as a man
who walks into a field has of finding a new blade of grass. Where all
these books had been before we came to the New House is a problem that
never occurred to me until I began writing this paragraph. I have no
idea of the answer.

Out of doors was "the view" for which, no doubt, the site had
principally been chosen. From our front door we looked down over wide
fields to Belfast Lough and across it to the long mountain line of the
Antrim shore--Divis, Colin, Cave Hill. This was in the far-off days when
Britain was the world's carrier and the Lough was full of shipping; a
delight to both us boys, but most to my brother. The sound of a
steamer's horn at night still conjures up my whole boyhood. Behind the
house, greener, lower, and nearer than the Antrim mountains, were the
Holywood Hills, but it was not till much later that they won my
attention. The north-western prospect was what mattered at first; the
interminable summer sunsets behind the blue ridges, and the rooks flying
home. In these surroundings the blows of change began to fall.

First of all, my brother was packed off to an English boarding-school
and thus removed from my life for the greater part of every year. I
remember well the rapture of his homecomings for the holidays but have
no recollection of any corresponding anguish at his departures. His new
life made no difference to the relations between us. I, meanwhile, was
going on with my education at home; French and Latin from my mother and
everything else from an excellent governess, Annie Harper. I made rather
a bugbear of this mild and modest little lady at the time, but all that
I can remember assures me that I was unjust. She was a Presbyterian; and
a longish lecture which she once interpolated between sums and copies is
the first thing I can remember that brought the other world to my mind
with any sense of reality. But there were many things that I thought
about more. My real life--or what memory reports as my real life--was
increasingly one of solitude. I had indeed plenty of people to talk to:
my parents, my grandfather Lewis, prematurely old and deaf, who lived
with us; the maids; and a somewhat bibulous old gardener. I was, I
believe, an intolerable chatterbox. But solitude was nearly always at my
command, somewhere in the garden or somewhere in the house. I had now
learned both to read and to write; I had a dozen things to do.

What drove me to write was the extreme manual clumsiness from which I
have always suffered. I attribute it to a physical defect which my
brother and I both inherit from our father; we have only one joint in
the thumb. The upper joint (that furthest from the nail) is visible, but
it is a mere sham; we cannot bend it. But whatever the cause, nature
laid on me from birth an utter incapacity to make anything. With pencil
and pen I was handy enough, and I can still tie as good a bow as ever
lay on a man's collar; but with a tool or a bat or a gun, a sleeve-link
or a corkscrew, I have always been unteachable. It was this that forced
me to write. I longed to make things, ships, houses, engines. Many
sheets of cardboard and pairs of scissors I spoiled, only to turn from
my hopeless failures in tears. As a last resource, as a _pis aller_, I
was driven to write stories instead; little dreaming to what a world of
happiness I was being admitted. You can do more with a castle in a story
than with the best cardboard castle that ever stood on a nursery table.

I soon staked out a claim to one of the attics and made it "my study".
Pictures, of my own making or cut from the brightly coloured Christmas
numbers of magazines, were nailed on the walls. There I kept my pen and
inkpot and writing books and paint-box; and there

  _What more felicity can fall to creature_
  _Than to enjoy delight with liberty?_

Here my first stories were written, and illustrated, with enormous
satisfaction. They were an attempt to combine my two chief literary
pleasures--"dressed animals" and "knights-in-armour". As a result, I
wrote about chivalrous mice and rabbits who rode out in complete mail to
kill not giants but cats. But already the mood of the systematiser was
strong in me; the mood which led Trollope so endlessly to elaborate his
Barsetshire. The Animal-Land which came into action in the holidays when
my brother was at home was a modern Animal-Land; it had to have trains
and steamships if it was to be a country shared with him. It followed,
of course, that the medieval Animal-Land about which I wrote my stories
must be the same country at an earlier period; and of course the two
periods must be properly connected. This led me from romancing to
historiography; I set about writing a full history of Animal-Land.
Though more than one version of this instructive work is extant, I never
succeeded in bringing it down to modern times; centuries take a deal of
filling when all the events have to come out of the historian's head.
But there is one touch in the _History_ that I still recall with some
pride. The chivalric adventures which filled my stories were in it
alluded to very lightly and the reader was warned that they might be
"only legends". Somehow--but heaven knows how--I realised even then that a
historian should adopt a critical attitude towards epic material. From
history it was only a step to geography. There was soon a map of
Animal-Land--several maps, all tolerably consistent. Then Animal-Land had
to be geographically related to my brother's India, and India
consequently lifted out of its place in the real world. We made it an
island, with its north coast running along the back of the Himalayas;
between it and Animal-Land my brother rapidly invented the principal
steamship routes. Soon there was a whole world and a map of that world
which used every colour in my paint box. And those parts of that world
which we regarded as our own--Animal-Land and India--were increasingly
peopled with consistent characters.

Of the books that I read at this time very few have quite faded from
memory, but not all have retained my love. Conan Doyle's _Sir Nigel_,
which first set my mind upon "knights in armour", I have never felt
inclined to reread. Still less would I now read Mark Twain's _Yankee at
the Court of King Arthur_, which was then my only source for the
Arthurian story, blissfully read for the sake of the romantic elements
that came through and with total disregard of the vulgar ridicule
directed against them. Much better than either of these was E. Nesbit's
trilogy, _Five Children and It_, _The Phoenix and the Wishing Carpet_,
and _The Amulet_. The last did most for me. It first opened my eyes to
antiquity, the "dark backward and abysm of time". I can still re-read it
with delight. _Gulliver_ in an unexpurgated and lavishly illustrated
edition was one of my favourites, and I pored endlessly over an almost
complete set of old _Punches_ which stood in my father's study. Tenniel
gratified my passion for "dressed animals" with his Russian Bear,
British Lion, Egyptian Crocodile and the rest, while his slovenly and
perfunctory treatment of vegetation confirmed my own deficiencies. Then
came the Beatrix Potter books, and here at last beauty.

It will be clear that at this time--at the age of six, seven, and eight--I
was living almost entirely in my imagination; or at least that the
imaginative experience of those years now seems to me more important
than anything else. Thus I pass over a holiday in Normandy (of which,
nevertheless, I retain very clear memories) as a thing of no account; if
it could be cut out of my past I should still be almost exactly the man
I am. But imagination is a vague word and I must make some distinctions.
It may mean the world of reverie, day-dream, wish-fulfilling fantasy. Of
that I knew more than enough. I often pictured myself cutting a fine
figure. But I must insist that this was a totally different activity
from the invention of Animal-Land. Animal-Land was not (in that sense) a
fantasy at all. I was not one of the characters it contained. I was its
creator, not a candidate for admission to it. Invention is essentially
different from reverie; if some fail to recognise the difference that is
because they have not themselves experienced both. Anyone who has will
understand me. In my day-dreams I was training myself to be a fool; in
mapping and chronicling Animal-Land I was training myself to be a
novelist. Note well, a novelist; not a poet. My invented world was full
(for me) of interest, bustle, humour, and character; but there was no
poetry, even no romance, in it. It was almost astonishingly prosaic.[1]
Thus if we use the word imagination in a third sense, and the highest
sense of all, this invented world was not imaginative. But certain other
experiences were, and I will now try to record them. The thing has been
much better done by Traherne and Wordsworth, but every man must tell his
own tale.

The first is itself the memory of a memory. As I stood beside a
flowering currant bush on a summer day there suddenly arose in me
without warning, and as if from a depth not of years but of centuries,
the memory of that earlier morning at the Old House when my brother had
brought his toy garden into the nursery. It is difficult to find words
strong enough for the sensation which came over me; Milton's "enormous
bliss" of Eden (giving the full, ancient meaning to "enormous") comes
somewhere near it. It was a sensation, of course, of desire; but desire
for what? not, certainly, for a biscuit-tin filled with moss, nor even
(though that came into it) for my own past. [Greek: Ioulian poth]
[2]--and before I knew what I desired, the desire itself was gone,
the whole glimpse withdrawn, the world turned commonplace again,
or only stirred by a longing for the longing that had just ceased.
It had taken only a moment of time; and in a certain sense everything
else that had ever happened to me was insignificant in comparison.

The second glimpse came through _Squirrel Nutkin_; through it only,
though I loved all the Beatrix Potter books. But the rest of them were
merely entertaining; it administered the shock, it was a trouble. It
troubled me with what I can only describe as the Idea of Autumn. It
sounds fantastic to say that one can be enamoured of a season, but that
is something like what happened; and, as before, the experience was one
of intense desire. And one went back to the book, not to gratify the
desire (that was impossible--how can one _possess_ Autumn?) but to
re-awake it. And in this experience also there was the same surprise and
the same sense of incalculable importance. It was something quite
different from ordinary life and even from ordinary pleasure; something,
as they would now say, "in another dimension".

The third glimpse came through poetry. I had become fond of Longfellow's
_Saga of King Olaf_: fond of it in a casual, shallow way for its story
and its vigorous rhythms. But then, and quite different from such
pleasures, and like a voice from far more distant regions, there came a
moment when I idly turned the pages of the book and found the unrhymed
translation of _Tegner's Drapa_ and read

  _I heard a voice that cried,_
  _Balder the beautiful_
  _Is dead, is dead_----

I knew nothing about Balder; but instantly I was uplifted into huge
regions of northern sky, I desired with almost sickening intensity
something never to be described (except that it is cold, spacious,
severe, pale, and remote) and then, as in the other examples, found
myself at the very same moment already falling out of that desire and
wishing I were back in it.

The reader who finds these three episodes of no interest need read this
book no further, for in a sense the central story of my life is about
nothing else. For those who are still disposed to proceed I will only
underline the quality common to the three experiences; it is that of an
unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other
satisfaction. I call it Joy, which is here a technical term and must be
sharply distinguished both from Happiness and from Pleasure. Joy (in my
sense) has indeed one characteristic, and one only, in common with them;
the fact that anyone who has experienced it will want it again. Apart
from that, and considered only in its quality, it might almost equally
well be called a particular kind of unhappiness or grief. But then it is
a kind we want. I doubt whether anyone who has tasted it would ever, if
both were in his power, exchange it for all the pleasures in the world.
But then Joy is never in our power and pleasure often is.

I cannot be absolutely sure whether the things I have just been speaking
of happened before or after the great loss which befell our family and
to which I must now turn. There came a night when I was ill and crying
both with headache and toothache and distressed because my mother did
not come to me. That was because she was ill too; and what was odd was
that there were several doctors in her room, and voices and comings and
goings all over the house and doors shutting and opening. It seemed to
last for hours. And then my father, in tears, came into my room and
began to try to convey to my terrified mind things it had never
conceived before. It was in fact cancer and followed the usual course;
an operation (they operated in the patient's house in those days), an
apparent convalescence, a return of the disease, increasing pain, and
death. My father never fully recovered from this loss.

Children suffer not (I think) less than their elders, but differently.
For us boys the real bereavement had happened before our mother died. We
lost her gradually as she was gradually withdrawn from our life into the
hands of nurses and delirium and morphia, and as our whole existence
changed into something alien and menacing, as the house became full of
strange smells and midnight noises and sinister whispered conversations.
This had two further results, one very evil and one very good. It
divided us from our father as well as our mother. They say that a shared
sorrow draws people closer together; I can hardly believe that it often
has that effect when those who share it are of widely different ages. If
I may trust my own experience, the sight of adult misery and adult
terror has an effect on children which is merely paralysing and
alienating. Perhaps it was our fault. Perhaps if we had been better
children we might have lightened our father's sufferings at this time.
We certainly did not. His nerves had never been of the steadiest and his
emotions had always been uncontrolled. Under the pressure of anxiety his
temper became incalculable; he spoke wildly and acted unjustly. Thus by
a peculiar cruelty of fate, during those months the unfortunate man, had
he but known it, was really losing his sons as well as his wife. We were
coming, my brother and I, to rely more and more exclusively on each
other for all that made life bearable; to have confidence only in each
other. I expect that we (or at any rate I) were already learning to lie
to him. Everything that had made the house a home had failed us;
everything except one another. We drew daily closer together (that was
the good result)--two frightened urchins huddled for warmth in a bleak
world.

Grief in childhood is complicated with many other miseries. I was taken
into the bedroom where my mother lay dead; as they said, "to see her",
in reality, as I at once knew, "to see it". There was nothing that a
grown-up would call disfigurement--except for that total disfigurement
which is death itself. Grief was overwhelmed in terror. To this day I do
not know what they mean when they call dead bodies beautiful. The
ugliest man alive is an angel of beauty compared with the loveliest of
the dead. Against all the subsequent paraphernalia of coffin, flowers,
hearse, and funeral I reacted with horror. I even lectured one of my
aunts on the absurdity of mourning clothes in a style which would have
seemed to most adults both heartless and precocious; but this was our
dear Aunt Annie, my maternal uncle's Canadian wife, a woman almost as
sensible and sunny as my mother herself. To my hatred for what I already
felt to be all the fuss and flummery of the funeral I may perhaps trace
something in me which I now recognise as a defect but which I have never
fully overcome--a distaste for all that is public, all that belongs to
the collective; a boorish inaptitude for formality.

My mother's death was the occasion of what some (but not I) might regard
as my first religious experience. When her case was pronounced hopeless
I remembered what I had been taught; that prayers offered in faith would
be granted. I accordingly set myself to produce by will-power a firm
belief that my prayers for her recovery would be successful; and, as I
thought, I achieved it. When nevertheless she died I shifted my ground
and worked myself into a belief that there was to be a miracle. The
interesting thing is that my disappointment produced no results beyond
itself. The thing hadn't worked, but I was used to things not working,
and I thought no more about it. I think the truth is that the belief
into which I had hypnotised myself was itself too irreligious for its
failure to cause any religious revolution. I had approached God, or my
idea of God, without love, without awe, even without fear. He was, in my
mental picture of this miracle, to appear neither as Saviour nor as
Judge, but merely as a magician; and when He had done what was required
of Him I supposed He would simply--well, go away. It never crossed my
mind that the tremendous contact which I solicited should have any
consequences beyond restoring the _status quo_. I imagine that a "faith"
of this kind is often generated in children and that its disappointment
is of no religious importance; just as the things believed in, if they
could happen and be only as the child pictures them, would be of no
religious importance either.

With my mother's death all settled happiness, all that was tranquil and
reliable, disappeared from my life. There was to be much fun, many
pleasures, many stabs of Joy; but no more of the old security. It was
sea and islands now; the great continent had sunk like Atlantis.




                         II. Concentration Camp


  _Arithmetic with Coloured Rods._
                             TIMES EDUCATIONAL SUPPLEMENT, Nov. 19, 1954

Clop-clop-clop-clop... we are in a four-wheeler rattling over the
uneven squaresets of the Belfast streets through the damp twilight of a
September evening, 1908; my father, my brother, and I. I am going to
school for the first time. We are in low spirits. My brother, who has
most reason to be so, for he alone knows what we are going to, shows his
feelings least. He is already a veteran. I perhaps am buoyed up by a
little excitement, but very little. The most important fact at the
moment is the horrible clothes I have been made to put on. Only this
morning--only two hours ago--I was running wild in shorts and blazer and
sandshoes. Now I am choking and sweating, itching too, in thick dark
stuff, throttled by an Eton collar, my feet already aching with
unaccustomed boots. I am wearing knickerbockers that button at the knee.
Every night for some forty weeks of every year and for many a year I am
to see the red, smarting imprint of those buttons in my flesh when I
undress. Worst of all is the bowler-hat, apparently made of iron, which
grasps my head. I have read of boys in the same predicament who welcomed
such things as signs of growing up; I had no such feeling. Nothing in my
experience had ever suggested to me that it was nicer to be a schoolboy
than a child or nicer to be a man than a schoolboy. My brother never
talked much about school in the holidays. My father, whom I implicitly
believed, represented adult life as one of incessant drudgery under the
continual threat of financial ruin. In this he did not mean to deceive
us. Such was his temperament that when he exclaimed, as he frequently
did, "There'll soon be nothing for it but the workhouse," he momentarily
believed, or at least felt, what he said. I took it all literally and
had the gloomiest anticipation of adult life. In the meantime, the
putting on of the school clothes was, I well knew, the assumption of a
prison uniform.

We reach the quay and go on board the old "Fleetwood boat"; after some
miserable strolling about the deck my father bids us goodbye. He is
deeply moved; I, alas, am mainly embarrassed and self-conscious. When he
has gone ashore we almost, by comparison, cheer up. My brother begins to
show me over the ship and tell me about all the other shipping in sight.
He is an experienced traveller and a complete man of the world. A
certain agreeable excitement steals over me. I like the reflected port
and starboard lights on the oily water, the rattle of winches, the warm
smell from the engine-room skylight. We cast off. The black space widens
between us and the quay; I feel the throb of screws underneath me. Soon
we are dropping down the Lough and there is a taste of salt on one's
lips, and that cluster of lights astern, receding from us, is everything
I have known. Later, when we have gone to our bunks, it begins to blow.
It is a rough night and my brother is sea-sick. I absurdly envy him this
accomplishment. He is behaving as experienced travellers should. By
great efforts I succeed in vomiting; but it is a poor affair--I was, and
am, an obstinately good sailor.

No Englishman will be able to understand my first impressions of
England. When we disembarked, I suppose at about six next morning (but
it seemed to be midnight), I found myself in a world to which I reacted
with immediate hatred. The flats of Lancashire in the early morning are
in reality a dismal sight; to me they were like the banks of Styx. The
strange English accents with which I was surrounded seemed like the
voices of demons. But what was worst was the English landscape from
Fleetwood to Euston. Even to my adult eye that main line still appears
to run through the dullest and most unfriendly strip in the island. But
to a child who had always lived near the sea and in sight of high ridges
it appeared as I suppose Russia might appear to an English boy. The
flatness! The interminableness! The miles and miles of featureless land,
shutting one in from the sea, imprisoning, suffocating! Everything was
wrong; wooden fences instead of stone walls and hedges, red brick
farmhouses instead of white cottages, the fields too big, haystacks the
wrong shape. Well does the _Kalevala_ say that in the stranger's house
the floor is full of knots. I have made up the quarrel since; but at
that moment I conceived a hatred for England which took many years to
heal.

Our destination was the little town of--let us call it Belsen--in
Hertfordshire. "Green Hertfordshire", Lamb calls it; but it was not
green to a boy bred in County Down. It was flat Hertfordshire, flinty
Hertfordshire, Hertfordshire of the yellow soil. There is the same
difference between the climate of Ireland and of England as between that
of England and the Continent. There was far more weather at Belsen than
I had ever met before; there I first knew bitter frost and stinging fog,
sweltering heat and thunderstorms on the great scale. There, through the
curtainless dormitory windows, I first came to know the ghastly beauty
of the full moon.

The school, as I first knew it, consisted of some eight or nine boarders
and about as many day-boys. Organised games, except for endless rounders
in the flinty playground, had long been moribund and were finally
abandoned not very long after my arrival. There was no bathing except
one's weekly bath in the bathroom. I was already doing Latin exercises
(as taught by my mother) when I went there in 1908, and I was still
doing Latin exercises when I left there in 1910; I had never got in
sight of a Roman author. The only stimulating element in the teaching
consisted of a few well-used canes which hung on the green iron
chimney-piece of the single schoolroom. The teaching staff consisted of
the headmaster and proprietor (we called him Oldie), his grown-up son
(Wee Wee), and an usher. The ushers succeeded one another with great
rapidity; one lasted for less than a week. Another was dismissed in the
presence of the boys, with a rider from Oldie to the effect that if he
were not in Holy Orders he would kick him downstairs. This curious scene
took place in the dormitory, though I cannot remember why. All these
ushers (except the one who stayed less than a week) were obviously as
much in awe of Oldie as we. But there came a time when there were no
more ushers, and Oldie's youngest daughter taught the junior pupils. By
that time there were only five boarders, and Oldie finally gave up his
school and sought a cure of souls. I was one of the last survivors, and
left the ship only when she went down under us.

Oldie lived in a solitude of power, like a sea-captain in the days of
sail. No man or woman in that house spoke to him as an equal. No one
except Wee Wee initiated conversation with him at all. At meal times we
boys had a glimpse of his family life. His son sat on his right hand;
they two had separate food. His wife and three grown-up daughters
(silent), the usher (silent), and the boys (silent) munched their
inferior messes. His wife, though I think she never addressed Oldie, was
allowed to make something of a reply to him; the girls--three tragic
figures, dressed summer and winter in the same shabby black--never went
beyond an almost whispered "Yes, Papa", or "No, Papa", on the rare
occasions when they were addressed. Few visitors entered the house.
Beer, which Oldie and Wee Wee drank regularly at dinner, was offered to
the usher but he was expected to refuse; the one who accepted got his
pint, but was taught his place by being asked a few moments later in a
voice of thunderous irony, "Perhaps you would like a little _more_ beer,
Mr. N.?" Mr. N., a man of spirit, replied casually, "Well, thank you,
Mr. C., I think I would." He was the one who did not stay till the end
of his first week; and the rest of that day was a black one for us boys.

I myself was rather a pet or mascot of Oldie's--a position which I swear
I never sought and of which the advantages were purely negative. Even my
brother was not one of his favourite victims. For he had his favourite
victims, boys who could do nothing right. I have known Oldie enter the
schoolroom after breakfast, cast his eyes round, and remark, "Oh, there
you are, Rees, you horrid boy. If I'm not too tired I shall give you a
good drubbing this afternoon." He was not angry, nor was he joking. He
was a big, bearded man with full lips like an Assyrian king on a
monument, immensely strong, physically dirty. Everyone talks of sadism
nowadays but I question whether his cruelty had any erotic element in
it. I half divined then, and seem to see clearly now, what all his
whipping-boys had in common. They were the boys who fell below a certain
social status, the boys with vulgar accents. Poor P.--dear, honest,
hard-working, friendly, healthily pious P.--was flogged incessantly, I
now think, for one offence only; he was the son of a dentist. I have
seen Oldie make that child bend down at one end of the schoolroom and
then take a run of the room's length at each stroke; but P. was the
trained sufferer of countless thrashings and no sound escaped him until,
towards the end of the torture, there came a noise quite unlike a human
utterance. That peculiar croaking or rattling cry, that, and the grey
faces of all the other boys, and their deathlike stillness, are among
the memories I could willingly dispense with.[3]

The curious thing is that despite all this cruelty we did surprisingly
little work. This may have been partly because the cruelty was
irrational and unpredictable; but it was partly because of the curious
methods employed. Except at geometry (which he really liked) it might be
said that Oldie did not teach at all. He called his class up and asked
questions. When the replies were unsatisfactory he said in a low, calm
voice, "Bring me my cane. I see I shall need it." If a boy became
confused Oldie flogged the desk, shouting in a crescendo,
"Think--Think--THINK!!" Then, as the prelude to execution, he muttered,
"Come out, come out, come out." When really angry he proceeded to
antics; worming for wax in his ear with his little finger and babbling,
"Aye, aye, aye, aye...". I have seen him leap up and dance round and
round like a performing bear. Meanwhile, almost in whispers, Wee Wee or
the usher, or (later) Oldie's youngest daughter, was questioning us
juniors at another desk. "Lessons" of this sort did not take very long;
what was to be done with the boys for the rest of the time? Oldie had
decided that they could, with least trouble to himself, be made to do
arithmetic. Accordingly, when you entered school at nine o'clock you
took your slate and began doing sums. Presently you were called up to
"say a lesson". When that was finished you went back to your place and
did more sums--and so forever. All the other arts and sciences thus
appeared as islands (mostly rocky and dangerous islands)

  _Which like to rich and various gems inlaid_
  _The unadorned bosom of the deep_

--the deep being a shoreless ocean of arithmetic. At the end of the
morning you had to say how many sums you had done; and it was not quite
safe to lie. But supervision was slack and very little assistance was
given. My brother--I have told you that he was already a man of the
world--soon found the proper solution. He announced every morning with
perfect truth that he had done five sums; he did not add that they were
the same five every day. It would be interesting to know how many
thousand times he did them.

I must restrain myself. I could continue to describe Oldie for many
pages; some of the worst is unsaid. But perhaps it would be wicked, and
it is certainly not obligatory, to do so. One good thing I can tell of
him. Impelled by conscience, a boy once confessed to him an otherwise
undetectable lie. The ogre was touched; he only patted the terrified
boy's back and said, "Always stick to the truth." I can also say that
though he taught geometry cruelly, he taught it well. He forced us to
reason, and I have been the better for those geometry lessons all my
life. For the rest, there is a possible explanation of his behaviour
which renders it more forgivable. Years after, my brother met a man who
had grown up in the house next door to Oldie's school. That man and his
family, and (I think) the neighbours in general, believed Oldie to be
insane. Perhaps they were right. And if he had fairly recently become
so, it would explain a thing which puzzles me. At that school as I knew
it most boys learned nothing and no boy learned much. But Oldie could
boast an impressive record of scholarships in the past. His school
cannot always have been the swindle it was in our time.

You may ask how our father came to send us there. Certainly not because
he made a careless choice. The surviving correspondence shows that he
had considered many other schools before fixing on Oldie's; and I know
him well enough to be sure that in such a matter he would never have
been guided by his first thoughts (which would probably have been right)
nor even by his twenty-first (which would at least have been
explicable). Beyond doubt he would have prolonged deliberation till his
hundred-and-first; and they would be infallibly and invincibly wrong.
This is what always happens to the deliberations of a simple man who
thinks he is a subtle one. Like Earle's _Scepticke in Religion_ he "is
alwayes too hard for himself". My father piqued himself on what he
called "reading between the lines". The obvious meaning of any fact or
document was always suspect: the true and inner meaning, invisible to
all eyes except his own, was unconsciously created by the restless
fertility of his imagination. While he thought he was interpreting
Oldie's prospectus, he was really composing a school-story in his own
mind. And all this, I doubt not, with extreme conscientiousness and even
some anguish. It might, perhaps, have been expected that this story of
his would presently be blown away by the real story which we had to tell
after we had gone to Belsen. But this did not happen. I believe it
rarely happens. If the parents in each generation always or often knew
what really goes on at their sons' schools, the history of education
would be very different. At any rate, my brother and I certainly did not
succeed in impressing the truth on our father's mind. For one thing (and
this will become clearer in the sequel) he was a man not easily
informed. His mind was too active to be an accurate receiver. What he
thought he had heard was never exactly what you had said. We did not
even try very hard. Like other children, we had no standard of
comparison; we supposed the miseries of Belsen to be the common and
unavoidable miseries of all schools. Vanity helped to tie our tongues. A
boy home from school (especially during that first week when the
holidays seem eternal) likes to cut a dash. He would rather represent
his master as a buffoon than an ogre. He would hate to be thought a
coward and a cry-baby, and he cannot paint the true picture of his
concentration camp without admitting himself to have been for the last
thirteen weeks a pale, quivering, tear-stained, obsequious slave. We all
like showing scars received in battle; the wounds of the _ergastulum_,
less. My father must not bear the blame for our wasted and miserable
years at Oldie's; and now, in Dante's words, "to treat of the good that
I found there".

First, I learned, if not friendship, at least gregariousness. There had
been bullying at the school when my brother first went there. I had my
brother's protection for my first few terms (after which he left to go
to a school we may call Wyvern) but I doubt if it was necessary. During
those last declining years of the school we boarders were too few and
too badly treated to do or suffer much in that way. Also, after a
certain time, there were no new boys. We had our quarrels, which seemed
serious enough at the time; but long before the end we had known one
another too long and suffered too much together not to be, at the least,
very old acquaintance. That, I think, is why Belsen did me, in the long
run, so little harm. Hardly any amount of oppression from above takes
the heart out of a boy like oppression from his fellows. We had many
pleasant hours alone together, we five remaining boarders. The
abandonment of organised games, though a wretched preparation for the
public school life to which most of us were destined, was at the time a
great blessing. We were sent out for walks alone on half holidays. We
did not do much walking. We bought sweets in drowsy village shops and
pottered about on the canal bank or sat at the brow of a railway cutting
watching a tunnel-mouth for trains. Hertfordshire came to look less
hostile. Our talk was not bound down to the narrow interests which
satisfy public school boys; we still had the curiosity of children. I
can even remember from those days what must have been the first
metaphysical argument I ever took part in. We debated whether the future
was like a line you can't see or like a line that is not yet drawn. I
have forgotten which side I took though I know that I took it with great
zeal. And always there was what Chesterton calls "the slow maturing of
old jokes".

The reader will notice that school was thus coming to reflect a pattern
I had already encountered in my home life. At home, the bad times had
drawn my brother and me closer together; here, where the times were
always bad, the fear and hatred of Oldie had something the same effect
upon us all. His school was in some ways very like Dr. Grimstone's
school in _Vice Versa_; but unlike Dr. Grimstone's it contained no
informer. We stood foursquare against the common enemy. I suspect that
this pattern, occurring twice and so early in my life, has unduly
biassed my whole outlook. To this day the vision of the world which
comes most naturally to me is one in which "we two" or "we few" (and in
a sense "we happy few") stand together against something stronger and
larger. England's position in 1940 was to me no surprise; it was the
sort of thing that I always expect. Hence while friendship has been by
far the chief source of my happiness, acquaintance or general society
has always meant little to me, and I cannot quite understand why a man
should wish to know more people than he can make real friends of. Hence,
too, a very defective, perhaps culpably defective, interest in large
impersonal movements, causes and the like. The concern aroused in me by
a battle (whether in story or in reality) is almost in an inverse ratio
to the number of the combatants.

In another way too Oldie's school presently repeated my home experience.
Oldie's wife died; and in term time. He reacted to bereavement by
becoming more violent than before; so much so that Wee Wee made a kind
of apology for him to the boys. You will remember that I had already
learned to fear and hate emotion; here was a fresh reason to do so.

But I have not yet mentioned the most important thing that befell me at
Oldie's. There first I became an effective believer. As far as I know,
the instrument was the church to which we were taken twice every Sunday.
This was high "Anglo-Catholic". On the conscious level I reacted
strongly against its peculiarities--was I not an Ulster Protestant, and
were not these unfamiliar rituals an essential part of the hated English
atmosphere? Unconsciously, I suspect, the candles and incense, the
vestments and the hymns sung on our knees, may have had a considerable,
and opposite, effect on me. But I do not think they were the important
thing. What really mattered was that I here heard the doctrines of
Christianity (as distinct from general "uplift") taught by men who
obviously believed them. As I had no scepticism, the effect was to bring
to life what I would already have said that I believed. In this
experience there was a great deal of fear. I do not think there was more
than was wholesome or even necessary; but if in my books I have spoken
too much of Hell, and if critics want a historical explanation of the
fact, they must seek it not in the supposed Puritanism of my Ulster
childhood but in the Anglo-Catholicism of the church at Belsen. I feared
for my soul; especially on certain blazing moonlit nights in that
curtainless dormitory--how the sound of other boys breathing in their
sleep comes back! The effect, so far as I can judge, was entirely good.
I began seriously to pray and to read my Bible and to attempt to obey my
conscience. Religion was among the subjects which we often discussed;
discussed, if my memory serves me, in an entirely healthy and profitable
way, with great gravity and without hysteria, and without the
shamefacedness of older boys. How I went back from this beginning you
shall hear later.

Intellectually, the time I spent at Oldie's was almost entirely wasted;
if the school had not died, and if I had been left there two years more,
it would probably have sealed my fate as a scholar for good. Geometry
and some pages in West's _English Grammar_ (but even those I think I
found for myself) are the only items on the credit side. For the rest,
all that rises out of the sea of arithmetic is a jungle of dates,
battles, exports, imports and the like, forgotten as soon as learned and
perfectly useless had they been remembered. There was also a great
decline in my imaginative life. For many years Joy (as I have defined
it) was not only absent but forgotten. My reading was now mainly
rubbish; but as there was no library at the school we must not make
Oldie responsible for that. I read twaddling school-stories in _The
Captain_. The pleasure here was, in the proper sense, mere
wish-fulfilment and fantasy; one enjoyed vicariously the triumphs of the
hero. When the boy passes from nursery literature to school-stories he
is going down, not up. _Peter Rabbit_ pleases a disinterested
imagination, for the child does not want to be a rabbit, though he may
like pretending to be a rabbit as he may later like acting Hamlet; but
the story of the unpromising boy who became captain of the First Eleven
exists precisely to feed his real ambitions. I also developed a great
taste for all the fiction I could get about the ancient world: _Quo
Vadis_, _Darkness and Dawn_, _The Gladiators_, _Ben Hur_. It might be
expected that this arose out of my new concern for my religion, but I
think not. Early Christians came into many of these stories, but they
were not what I was after. I simply wanted sandals, temples, togas,
slaves, emperors, galleys, amphitheatres; the attraction, as I now see,
was erotic, and erotic in rather a morbid way. And they were mostly, as
literature, rather bad books. What has worn better, and what I took to
at the same time, is the work of Rider Haggard; and also the
"scientifiction" of H. G. Wells. The idea of other planets exercised
upon me then a peculiar, heady attraction, which was quite different
from any other of my literary interests. Most emphatically it was not
the romantic spell of _Das Ferne_. "Joy" (in my technical sense) never
darted from Mars or the Moon. This was something coarser and stronger.
The interest, when the fit was upon me, was ravenous, like a lust. This
particular coarse strength I have come to accept as a mark that the
interest which has it is psychological, not spiritual; behind such a
fierce tang there lurks, I suspect, a psychoanalytical explanation. I
may perhaps add that my own planetary romances have been not so much the
gratification of that fierce curiosity as its exorcism. The exorcism
worked by reconciling it with, or subjecting it to, the other, the more
elusive, and genuinely imaginative, impulse. That the ordinary interest
in scientifiction is an affair for psychoanalysts is borne out by the
fact that all who like it, like it thus ravenously, and equally by the
fact that those who do not, are often nauseated by it. The repulsion of
the one sort has the same coarse strength as the fascinated interest of
the other and is equally a tell-tale.

So much for Oldie's; but the year was not all term. Life at a vile
boarding-school is in this way a good preparation for the Christian
life, that it teaches one to five by hope. Even, in a sense, by faith;
for at the beginning of each term, home and the holidays are so far off
that it is as hard to realise them as to realise heaven. They have the
same pitiful unreality when confronted with immediate horrors.
To-morrow's geometry blots out the distant end of term as to-morrow's
operation may blot out the hope of Paradise. And yet, term after term,
the unbelievable happened. Fantastical and astronomical figures like
"This time six weeks" shrank into practicable figures like "This time
next week", and then "This time to-morrow", and the almost supernatural
bliss of the Last Day punctually appeared. It was a delight that almost
demanded to be stayed with flagons and comforted with apples; a delight
that tingled down the spine and troubled the belly and at moments went
near to stopping the breath. Of course this had a terrible and equally
relevant reverse side. In the first week of the holidays we might
acknowledge that term would come again--as a young man, in peace time, in
full health, acknowledges that he will one day die. But like him we
could not even by the grimmest _memento mori_ be brought to realise it.
And there too, each time, the unbelievable happened. The grinning skull
finally peered through all disguises; the last hour, held at bay by
every device our will and imaginations knew, came in the end, and once
more it was the bowler-hat, the Eton collar, the knickerbockers, and
(clop-clop-clop-clop) the evening drive to the quay. In all seriousness
I think that the life of faith is easier to me because of these
memories. To think, in sunny and confident times, that I shall die and
rot, or to think that one day all this universe will slip away and
become memory (as Oldie slipped away into memory three times a year, and
with him the canes and the disgusting food, the stinking sanitation and
the cold beds)--this is easier to us if we have seen just that sort of
thing happening before. We have learned not to take present things at
their face value.

In attempting to give an account of our home life at this time I am
troubled by doubts about chronology. School affairs can to some extent
be dated by surviving records, but the slow, continuous unfolding of
family life escapes them. Our slight alienation from our father
imperceptibly increased. In part no one was to blame; in a very great
part we were to blame. A temperamental widower, still prostrated by the
loss of his wife, must be a very good and wise man indeed if he makes no
mistakes in bringing up two noisy and mischievous schoolboys who reserve
their confidence wholly for each other. And my father's good qualities
as well as his weaknesses incapacitated him for the task. He was far too
manly and generous to strike a child for the gratification of his anger;
and he was too impulsive ever to punish a child in cold blood and on
principle. He therefore relied wholly on his tongue as the instrument of
domestic discipline. And here that fatal bent towards dramatisation and
rhetoric (I speak of it the more freely since I inherit it) produced a
pathetic yet comic result. When he opened his mouth to reprove us he no
doubt intended a short well-chosen appeal to our common sense and
conscience. But alas, he had been a public speaker long before he became
a father. He had for many years been a public prosecutor. Words came to
him and intoxicated him as they came. What actually happened was that a
small boy who had walked on damp grass in his slippers or left a
bathroom in a pickle found himself attacked with something like Cicero
on Catiline, or Burke on Warren Hastings; simile piled on simile,
rhetorical question on rhetorical question, the flash of an orator's eye
and the thundercloud of an orator's brow, the gestures, the cadences and
the pauses. The pauses might be the chief danger. One was so long that
my brother, quite innocently supposing the denunciation to have ended,
humbly took up his book and resumed his reading; a gesture which my
father (who had after all only made a rhetorical miscalculation of about
a second and a half) not unnaturally took for "cool, premeditated
insolence". The ludicrous disproportion between such harangues and their
occasions puts me in mind of the advocate in Martial who thunders about
all the villains of Roman history while meantime _lis est de tribus
capellis_--

  _This case, I beg the court to note,_
  _Concerns a trespass by a goat._

My poor father, while he spoke, forgot not only the offence, but the
capacities, of his audience. All the resources of his immense vocabulary
were poured forth. I can still remember such words as "abominable",
"sophisticated" and "surreptitious". You will not get the full flavour
unless you know an angry Irishman's energy in explosive consonants and
the rich growl of his R's. A worse treatment could hardly have been
applied. Up to a certain age these invectives filled me with boundless
terror and dismay. From the wilderness of the adjectives and the welter
of the unintelligible, emerged ideas which I thought I understood only
too well, as I heard with implicit and literal belief that our Father's
ruin was approaching, that we should all soon beg our bread in the
streets, that he would shut up the house and keep us at school all the
year round, that we should be sent to the colonies and there end in
misery the career of crime on which we had, it seemed, already embarked.
All security seemed to be taken from me; there was no solid ground
beneath my feet. It is significant that at this time if I woke in the
night and did not immediately hear my brother's breathing from the
neighbouring bed, I often suspected that my father and he had secretly
risen while I slept and gone off to America--that I was finally
abandoned. Such was the effect of my father's rhetoric up to a certain
age; then, quite suddenly, it became ridiculous. I can even remember the
moment of the change, and the story well illustrates both the justice of
my father's anger and the unhappy way in which he expressed it. One day
my brother decided it would be a good thing to make a tent. Accordingly
we procured a dust-sheet from one of the attics. The next step was to
find uprights; the step-ladder in the wash-house suggested itself. For a
boy with a hatchet it was the work of a moment to reduce this to a
number of disconnected poles. Four of these were then planted in the
earth and the sheet draped over them. To make sure that the whole
structure was really reliable my brother then tried sitting on the top
of it. We remembered to put away the ragged remains of the sheet but
quite forgot about the uprights. That evening, when my father had come
home from work and dined, he went for a stroll in the garden,
accompanied by us. The sight of four slender wooden posts rising from
the grass moved in him a pardonable curiosity. Interrogation followed;
on this occasion we told the truth. Then the lightnings flashed and the
thunder roared; and all would have gone now as it had gone on a dozen
previous occasions, but for the climax--"Instead of which I find you have
cut up the step-ladder. And what for, forsooth? To make a thing like an
abortive Punch-and-Judy show." At that moment we both hid our faces;
not, alas, to cry.

As will be seen from this anecdote one dominant factor in our life at
home was the daily absence of our father from about nine in the morning
till six at night. For the rest of the day we had the house to
ourselves, except for the cook and housemaid with whom we were sometimes
at war and sometimes in alliance. Everything invited us to develop a
life that had no connection with our father. The most important of our
activities was the endless drama of Animal-Land and India, and this of
itself isolated us from him.

But I must not leave the reader under the impression that all the happy
hours of the holidays occurred during our father's absence. His
temperament was mercurial, his spirits rose as easily as they fell, and
his forgiveness was as thorough-going as his displeasure. He was often
the most jovial and companionable of parents. He could "play the fool"
as well as any of us, and had no regard for his own dignity, "conned no
state". I could not, of course, at that age see what good company (by
adult standards) he was, his humour being of the sort that requires at
least some knowledge of life for its full appreciation; I merely basked
in it as in fine weather. And all the time there was the sensuous
delight of being at home, the delight of luxury--"civilisation", as we
called it. I spoke just now of _Vice Versa_. Its popularity was surely
due to something more than farce. It is the only truthful school story
in existence. The machinery of the Garuda Stone really serves to bring
out in their true colours (which would otherwise seem exaggerated) the
sensations which every boy had on passing from the warmth and softness
and dignity of his home life to the privations, the raw and sordid
ugliness, of school. I say "had" not "has"; for perhaps homes have gone
down in the world and schools gone up since then.

It will be asked whether we had no friends, no neighbours, no relatives.
We had. To one family in particular our debt is so great that it had
better be left, with some other matters, to the next chapter.




                     III. Mountbracken and Campbell


  _For all these fair people in hall were in their first age; none
  happier under the heaven; their king, the man of noblest temper. It
  would be a hard task to-day to find so brave a fellowship in any
  castle._
                                             GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT

To speak of my nearer relatives is to remind myself how the contrast of
Lewis and Hamilton dominated my whole early life. It began, for me, with
the grandparents. Grandfather Lewis, deaf, slow-moving, humming his
psalm chants, much concerned for his health and prone to remind the
family that he would not be with them long, is contrasted with
Grandmother Hamilton, the sharp-tongued, sharp-witted widow, full of
heterodox opinions (even, to the scandal of the whole connection, a Home
Ruler), every inch a Warren, indifferent to convention as only an old
Southern Irish aristocrat could be, living alone in a large tumble-down
house with half a hundred cats for company. To how many an innocent
conversational gambit did she reply, "You're talking great nonsense"?
Born a little later, she would, I think, have been a Fabian. She met
vague small talk with ruthless statements of ascertainable fact and
well-worn maxims with a tart demand for evidence. Naturally, people
called her eccentric. Coming down a generation I find the same
opposition. My father's elder brother "Uncle Joe", with his family of
two boys and three girls, lived very close to us while we were at the
Old House. His younger son was my earliest friend, but we drifted apart
as we grew older. Uncle Joe was both a clever man and a kind, and
especially fond of me. But I remember nothing that was said by our
elders in that house; it was simply "grown up" conversation--about
people, business, politics, and health, I suppose. But "Uncle Gussie"--my
mother's brother, A. W. Hamilton--talked to me as if we were of an age.
That is, he talked about Things. He told me all the science I could then
take in, clearly, eagerly, without silly jokes and condescensions,
obviously liking it as much as I did. He thus provided the intellectual
background for my reading of H. G. Wells. I do not suppose he cared for
me as a person half so much as Uncle Joe did; and that (call it an
injustice or not) was what I liked. During these talks our attention was
fixed not on one another but on the subject. His Canadian wife I have
already mentioned. In her also I found what I liked best--an unfailing,
kindly welcome without a hint of sentimentality, unruffled good sense,
the unobtrusive talent for making all things at all times as cheerful
and comfortable as circumstances allowed. What one could not have one
did without and made the best of it. The tendency of the Lewises to
re-open wounds and to rouse sleeping dogs was unknown to her as to her
husband.

But we had other kin who mattered to us far more than our aunts and
uncles. Less than a mile from our home stood the largest house I then
knew, which I will here call Mountbracken, and there lived Sir W. E.
Lady E. was my mother's first cousin and perhaps my mother's dearest
friend, and it was no doubt for my mother's sake that she took upon
herself the heroic work of civilising my brother and me. We had a
standing invitation to lunch at Mountbracken whenever we were at home;
to this, almost entirely, we owe it that we did not grow up savages. The
debt is not only to Lady E. ("Cousin Mary") but to her whole family;
walks, motor-drives (in those days an exciting novelty), picnics, and
invitations to the theatre were showered on us, year after year, with a
kindness which our rawness, our noise, and our unpunctuality never
seemed to weary. We were at home there almost as much as in our own
house, but with this great difference, that a certain standard of
manners had to be kept up. Whatever I know (it is not much) of courtesy
and _savoir faire_ I learned at Mountbracken.

Sir W. ("Cousin Quartus") was the eldest of several brothers who owned
between them one of the most important industrial concerns in Belfast.
He belonged in fact to just that class and generation of which the
modern man gets his impressions through Galsworthy's Forsytes. Unless
Cousin Quartus was very untrue to type (as he may well have been) that
impression is grossly unjust. No one less like a Galsworthian character
ever existed. He was gracious, childlike, deeply and religiously humble,
and abounding in charity. No man could feel more fully his
responsibility to dependants. He had a good deal of boyish gaiety about
him; at the same time I always felt that the conception of duty
dominated his life. His stately figure, his grey beard, and his
strikingly handsome profile make up one of the most venerable images in
my memory. Physical beauty was indeed common to most of the family.
Cousin Mary was the very type of the beautiful old lady, with her silver
hair and her sweet Southern Irish voice; foreigners must be warned that
this resembles what they call a "brogue" about as little as the speech
of a Highland gentleman resembles the jargon of the Glasgow slums. But
it was the three daughters whom we knew best. All three were "grown up"
but in fact much nearer to us in age than any other grown-ups we knew,
and all three were strikingly handsome. H., the eldest and the gravest,
was a Juno, a dark queen who at certain moments looked like a Jewess. K.
was more like a Valkyrie (though all, I think, were good horse-women)
with her father's profile. There was in her face something of the
delicate fierceness of a thoroughbred horse, an indignant fineness of
nostril, the possibility of an excellent disdain. She had what the
vanity of my own sex calls a "masculine" honesty; no man ever was a
truer friend. As for the youngest, G., I can only say that she was the
most beautiful woman I have ever seen, perfect in shape and colour and
voice and every movement--but who can describe beauty? The reader may
smile at this as the far-off echo of a precocious calf-love, but he will
be wrong. There are beauties so unambiguous that they need no lens of
that kind to reveal them; they are visible even to the careless and
objective eyes of a child. (The first woman who ever spoke to my blood
was a dancing mistress at a school that will come in a later chapter.)

In some ways Mountbracken was like our Father's house. There too we
found the attics, the indoor silences, the endless bookshelves. In the
early days, when we were still only a quarter tamed, we often neglected
our hostesses and rummaged on our own; it was there that I found
Lubbock's _Ants, Bees and Wasps_. But it was also very different. Life
there was more spacious and considered than with us, glided like a barge
where ours bumped like a cart.

Friends of our own age--boy and girl friends--we had none. In part this is
a natural result of boarding school; children grow up strangers to their
next-door neighbours. But much more it was the result of our own
obstinate choice. One boy who lived near us attempted every now and then
to get to know us. We avoided him by every means in our power. Our lives
were already full, and the holidays too short for all the reading,
writing, playing, cycling, and talking that we wanted to get through. We
resented the appearance of any third party as an infuriating
interruption. We resented even more bitterly all attempts (excepting the
great and successful attempt made by Mountbracken) to show us
hospitality. At the period that I am now speaking of this had not yet
become a serious nuisance, but as it became gradually and steadily more
serious throughout our schooldays I may be allowed to say a word about
it here and to get the subject out of our way. It was the custom of the
neighbourhood to give parties which were really dances for adults but to
which, none the less, mere schoolboys and schoolgirls were asked. One
sees the advantages of this arrangement from the hostess's point of
view; and when the junior guests know each other well and are free from
self-consciousness perhaps they enjoy themselves. To me these dances
were a torment--of which ordinary shyness made only a part. It was the
false position (which I was well able to realise) that tormented me; to
know that one was regarded as a child and yet be forced to take part in
an essentially grown-up function, to feel that all the adults present
were being half-mockingly kind and pretending to treat you as what you
were not. Add to this the discomfort of one's Eton suit and stiff shirt,
the aching feet and burning head, and the mere weariness of being kept
up so many hours after one's usual bedtime. Even adults, I fancy, would
not find an evening party very endurable without the attraction of sex
and the attraction of alcohol; and how a small boy who can neither flirt
nor drink should be expected to enjoy prancing about on a polished floor
till the small hours of the morning, is beyond my conception. I had of
course no notion of the social nexus. I never realised that certain
people were in civility obliged to ask me because they knew my father or
had known my mother. To me it was all inexplicable, unprovoked
persecution; and when, as often happened, such engagements fell in the
last week of the holidays and wrested from us a huge cantle of hours in
which every minute was worth gold, I positively felt that I could have
torn my hostess limb from limb. Why should she thus pester me? I had
never done her any harm, never asked _her_ to a party.

My discomforts were aggravated by the totally unnatural behaviour which
I thought it my duty to adopt at a dance; and that had come about in a
sufficiently amusing way. Reading much and mixing little with children
of my own age, I had, before I went to school, developed a vocabulary
which must (I now see) have sounded very funny from the lips of a chubby
urchin in an Eton jacket. When I brought out my "long words" adults not
unnaturally thought I was showing off. In this they were quite mistaken.
I used the only words I knew. The position was indeed the exact reverse
of what they supposed; my pride would have been gratified by using such
schoolboy slang as I possessed, not at all by using the bookish language
which (inevitably in my circumstances) came naturally to my tongue. And
there were not lacking adults who would egg me on with feigned interest
and feigned seriousness--on and on till the moment at which I suddenly
knew I was being laughed at. Then, of course, my mortification was
intense; and after one or two such experiences I made it a rigid rule
that at "social functions" (as I secretly called them) I must never on
any account speak of any subject in which I felt the slightest interest
nor in any words that naturally occurred to me. And I kept my rule only
too well; a giggling and gurgling imitation of the vapidest grown-up
chatter, a deliberate concealment of all that I really thought and felt
under a sort of feeble jocularity and enthusiasm, was henceforth my
party manner, assumed as consciously as an actor assumes his role,
sustained with unspeakable weariness, and dropped with a groan of relief
the moment my brother and I at last tumbled into our cab and the drive
home (the only pleasure of the evening) began. It took me years to make
the discovery that any real human intercourse could take place at a
mixed assembly of people in their good clothes.

I am here struck by the curious mixture of justice and injustice in our
lives. We are blamed for our real faults but usually not on the right
occasions. I was, no doubt, and was blamed for being, a conceited boy;
but the blame was usually attached to something in which no conceit was
present. Adults often accuse a child of vanity without pausing to
discover on what points children in general, or that child in
particular, are likely to be vain. Thus it was for years a complete
mystery to me that my father should stigmatise as "affectation" my
complaints about the itching and tickling of new underclothes. I see it
all now; he had in mind a social legend associating delicacy of skin
with refinement and supposed that I was claiming to be unusually
refined. In reality I was in simple ignorance of that social legend, and
if vanity had come into the matter would have been much prouder of
having a skin like a sailor. I was being accused of an offence which I
lacked resources to commit. I was on another occasion called "affected"
for asking what "stirabout" was. It is, in fact, a "low" Irish word for
porridge. To certain adults it seems obvious that he who claims not to
know the Low must be pretending to be High. Yet the real reason why I
asked was that I had never happened to hear the word; had I done so I
should have piqued myself on using it.

Oldie's school, you will remember, sank unlamented in summer 1910; new
arrangements had to be made for my education. My father now hit upon a
plan which filled me with delight. About a mile from the New House rose
the large red-brick walls and towers of Campbell College, which had been
founded for the express purpose of giving Ulster boys all the advantages
of a public school education without the trouble of crossing the Irish
Sea. My clever cousin, Uncle Joe's boy, was already there and doing
well. It was decided that I should go as a boarder, but I could get an
_exeat_ to come home every Sunday. I was enchanted. I did not believe
that anything Irish, even a school, could be bad; certainly not so bad
as all I yet knew of England. To "Campbell" I accordingly went.

I was at this school for so short a time that I shall attempt no
criticism of it. It was very unlike any English public school that I
have ever heard of. It had indeed prefects, but the prefects were of no
importance. It was nominally divided into "houses" on the English
pattern, but they were mere legal fictions; except for purposes of games
(which were not compulsory) no one took any notice of them. The
population was socially much more "mixed" than at most English schools;
I rubbed shoulders there with farmers' sons. The boy I most nearly made
a friend of was the son of a tradesman who had recently been going the
rounds with his father's van because the driver was illiterate and could
not keep "the books". I much envied him this pleasant occupation, and
he, poor fellow, looked back on it as a golden age. "This time last
month, Lewis," he used to say, "I wouldn't have been going in to
Preparation. I'd have been coming home from my rounds and a wee teacloth
laid for me at one end of the table and sausages to my tea."

I am always glad, as a historian, to have known Campbell, for I think it
was very much what the great English schools had been before Arnold.
There were real fights at Campbell, with seconds, and (I think) betting,
and a hundred or more roaring spectators. There was bullying, too,
though no serious share of it came my way, and there was no trace of the
rigid hierarchy which governs a modern English school; every boy held
just the place which his fists and mother-wit could win for him. From my
point of view the great drawback was that one had, so to speak, no home.
Only a few very senior boys had studies. The rest of us, except when
seated at table for meals or in a huge "preparation room" for evening
"Prep", belonged nowhere. In out-of-school hours one spent one's time
either evading or conforming to all those inexplicable movements which a
crowd exhibits as it thins here and thickens there, now slackens its
pace and now sets like a tide in one particular direction, now seems
about to disperse and then clots again. The bare brick passages echoed
to a continual tramp of feet, punctuated with cat-calls, scrimmages,
gusty laughter. One was always "moving on" or "hanging about"--in
lavatories, in store rooms, in the great hall. It was very like living
permanently in a large railway station.

The bullying had this negative merit that it was honest bullying; not
bullying conscience-salved and authorised in the _maison tolre_ of the
prefectorial system. It was done mainly by gangs; parties of eight or
ten boys each who scoured those interminable corridors for prey. Their
sorties, though like a whirlwind, were not perceived by the victim till
too late; the general, endless confusion and clamour, I suppose, masked
them. Sometimes capture involved serious consequences; two boys whom I
knew were carried off and flogged in some backwater--flogged in the most
disinterested fashion, for their captors had no personal acquaintance
with them; art for art's sake. But on the only occasion when I was
caught myself my fate was much milder and perhaps odd enough to be worth
recording. When I had come to myself after being dragged at headlong
speed through a labyrinth of passages which took me beyond all usual
landmarks, I found that I was one of several prisoners in a low, bare
room, half-lit (I think) by a single gas-jet. After a pause to recover
their breath two of the brigands led out the first captive. I now
noticed that a horizontal row of pipes ran along the opposite wall,
about three feet from the floor. I was alarmed but not surprised when
the prisoner was forced into a bending position with his head under the
lowest pipe, in the very posture for execution. But I was very much
surprised a moment later. You will remember that the room was half dark.
The two gangsters gave their victim a shove; and instantly no victim was
there. He vanished; without trace, without sound. It appeared to be
sheer black magic. Another victim was led out; again the posture for a
flogging was assumed; again, instead of flogging,--dissolution,
atomisation, annihilation. At last my own turn came. I too received the
shove from behind, and found myself falling through a hole or hatch in
the wall into what turned out to be a coal-cellar. Another small boy
came hurtling in after me, the door was slammed and bolted behind us,
and our captors with a joyous whoop rushed away for more booty. They
were, no doubt, playing against a rival gang with whom they would
presently compare "bags". We were let out again presently, very dirty
and rather cramped, but otherwise none the worse.

Much the most important thing that happened to me at Campbell was that I
there read _Sohrab and Rustum_ in form under an excellent master whom we
called Octie. I loved the poem at first sight and have loved it ever
since. As the wet fog, in the first line, rose out of the Oxus stream,
so out of the whole poem there rose and wrapped me round an exquisite,
silvery coolness, a delightful quality of distance and calm, a grave
melancholy. I hardly appreciated then, as I have since learned to do,
the central tragedy; what enchanted me was the artist in Pekin with his
ivory forehead and pale hands, the cypress in the queen's garden, the
backward glance at Rustum's youth, the pedlars from Khabul, the hushed
Chorasmian waste. Arnold gave me at once (and the best of Arnold gives
me still) a sense, not indeed of passionless vision, but of a
passionate, silent gazing at things a long way off. And here observe how
literature actually works. Parrot critics say that _Sohrab_ is a poem
for classicists, to be enjoyed only by those who recognise the Homeric
echoes. But I, in Octie's form-room (and on Octie be peace) knew nothing
of Homer. For me the relation between Arnold and Homer worked the other
way; when I came, years later, to read the _Iliad_ I liked it partly
because it was for me reminiscent of _Sohrab_. Plainly, it does not
matter at what point you first break into the system of European poetry.
Only keep your ears open and your mouth shut and everything will lead
you to everything else in the end--_ogni parte ad ogni parte splende_.

About half-way through my first and only term at Campbell I fell ill and
was taken home. My father, for reasons I do not quite know, had become
dissatisfied with the school. He had also been attracted by accounts of
a preparatory school in the town of Wyvern, though quite unconnected
with Wyvern College; especially by the convenience that if I went there
my brother and I could still do the journey together. Accordingly I had
a blessed six weeks at home, with the Christmas holidays to look forward
to at the end and, after that, a new adventure. In a surviving letter my
father writes to my brother that I think myself lucky but he "fears I
shall be very lonely before the end of the week". It is strange that
having known me all my life he should have known me so little. During
these weeks I slept in his room and was thus freed from solitude during
most of those dark hours in which alone solitude was dreadful to me. My
brother being absent, he and I could not lead one another into mischief;
there was therefore no friction between my father and myself. I remember
no other time in my life of such untroubled affection; we were famously
snug together. And in the days, when he was out, I entered with complete
satisfaction into a deeper solitude than I had ever known. The empty
house, the empty, silent rooms, were like a refreshing bath after the
crowded noise of Campbell. I could read, write, and draw to my heart's
content. Curiously enough it is at this time, not in earlier childhood,
that I chiefly remember delighting in fairy tales. I fell deeply under
the spell of Dwarfs--the old bright-hooded, snowy-bearded dwarfs we had
in those days before Arthur Rackham sublimed, or Walt Disney vulgarised,
the earthmen. I visualised them so intensely that I came to the very
frontiers of hallucination; once, walking in the garden, I was for a
second not quite sure that a little man had not run past me into the
shrubbery. I was faintly alarmed, but it was not like my night-fears. A
fear that guarded the road to Faerie was one I could face. No one is a
coward at all points.




                         IV. I Broaden my Mind


  _I struck the board, and cry'd, 'No more;_
                      _I will abroad.'_
  _What? shall I ever sigh and pine?_
  _My lines and life are free: free as the rode,_
  _Loose as the winde, as large as store._
                                                                 HERBERT

In January 1911, just turned thirteen, I set out with my brother to
Wyvern, he for the College and I for a preparatory school which we will
call Chartres. Thus began what may be called the classic period of our
schooldays, the thing we both think of first when boyhood is mentioned.
The joint journeys back to school with a reluctant parting at Wyvern
station, the hilarious reunion at the same station for the joint journey
home, were now the great structural pillars of each year. Growing
maturity is marked by the increasing liberties we take with our
travelling. At first, on being landed early in the morning at Liverpool,
we took the next train south; soon we learned that it was pleasanter to
spend the whole morning in the lounge of the Lime Street Hotel with our
magazines and cigarettes and to proceed to Wyvern by an afternoon train
which brought us there at the latest permitted moment. Soon too we gave
up the magazines; we made the discovery (some people never make it) that
real books can be taken on a journey and that hours of golden reading
can so be added to its other delights. (It is important to acquire early
in life the power of reading sense wherever you happen to be. I first
read _Tamburlaine_ while travelling from Larne to Belfast in a
thunderstorm, and first read Browning's _Paracelsus_ by a candle which
went out and had to be re-lit whenever a big battery fired in a pit
below me, which I think it did every four minutes all that night.) The
homeward journey was even more festal. It had an invariable routine:
first the supper at a restaurant--it was merely poached eggs and tea but
to us the tables of the gods--then the visit to the old Empire (there
were still music halls in those days)--and after that the journey to the
Landing Stage, the sight of great and famous ships, the departure, and
once more the blessed salt on our lips.

The smoking was of course, as my father would have said,
"surreptitious"; not so the visit to the Empire. He was no Puritan about
such matters, and often of a Saturday night would take us to the Belfast
Hippodrome. I recognise now that I never had the taste for vaudeville
which he shared with my brother. At the time I supposed myself to be
enjoying the show, but I was mistaken. All those antics lie dead in my
memory and are incapable of rousing the least vibration even of
reminiscent pleasure; whereas the pain of sympathy and vicarious
humiliation which I felt when a "turn" failed is still vivid. What I
enjoyed was merely the etcetera of the show, the bustle and lights, the
sense of having a night out, the good spirits of my father in his
holiday mood, and--above all--the admirable cold supper to which we came
back at about ten o'clock. For this was also the classical age of our
domestic cookery, the age of one Annie Strahan. There were certain
"raised pies" set on that table of which a modern English boy has no
conception, and which even then would have astonished those who knew
only the poor counterfeits sold in shops.

Chartres, a tall, white building further up the hill than the College,
was a smallish school with less than twenty boarders; but it was quite
unlike Oldie's. Here indeed my education really began. The Headmaster,
whom we called Tubbs, was a clever and patient teacher; under him I
rapidly found my feet in Latin and English and even began to be looked
on as a promising candidate for a scholarship at the College. The food
was good (though of course we grumbled at it) and we were well cared
for. On the whole I got on well with my school-fellows, though we had
our full share of those lifelong friendships and irreconcilable factions
and deadly quarrels and final settlements and glorious revolutions which
made up so much of the life of a small boy, and in which I came out
sometimes at the bottom and sometimes at the top.

Wyvern itself healed my quarrel with England. The great blue plain below
us and, behind, those green, peaked hills, so mountainous in form and
yet so manageably small in size, became almost at once my delight. And
Wyvern Priory was the first building that I ever perceived to be
beautiful. And at Chartres I made my first real friends. But there, too,
something far more important happened to me: I ceased to be a Christian.

The chronology of this disaster is a little vague, but I know for
certain that it had not begun when I went there and that the process was
complete very shortly after I left. I will try to set down what I know
of the conscious causes and what I suspect of the unconscious.

Most reluctantly, venturing no blame, and as tenderly as I would at need
reveal some error in my own mother, I must begin with dear Miss C., the
Matron. No school ever had a better Matron, more skilled and comforting
to boys in sickness, or more cheery and companionable to boys in health.
She was one of the most selfless people I have ever known. We all loved
her; I, the orphan, especially. Now it so happened that Miss C., who
seemed old to me, was still in her spiritual immaturity, still hunting,
with the eagerness of a soul that had a touch of angelic quality in it,
for a truth and a way of life. Guides were even rarer then than now. She
was (as I should now put it) floundering in the mazes of Theosophy,
Rosicrucianism, Spiritualism; the whole Anglo-American Occultist
tradition. Nothing was further from her intention than to destroy my
faith; she could not tell that the room into which she brought this
candle was full of gunpowder. I had never heard of such things before;
never, except in a nightmare or a fairy tale, conceived of spirits other
than God and men. I had loved to read of strange sights and other worlds
and unknown modes of being, but never with the slightest belief; even
the phantom dwarf had only flashed on my mind for a moment. It is a
great mistake to suppose that children believe the things they imagine;
and I, long familiar with the whole imaginary world of Animal-Land and
India (which I could not possibly believe in since I knew I was one of
its creators) was as little likely as any child to make that mistake.
But now, for the first time, there burst upon me the idea that there
might be real marvels all about us, that the visible world might be only
a curtain to conceal huge realms uncharted by my very simple theology.
And that started in me something with which, on and off, I have had
plenty of trouble since--the desire for the preternatural, simply as
such, the passion for the Occult. Not everyone has this disease; those
who have will know what I mean. I once tried to describe it in a novel.
It is a spiritual lust; and like the lust of the body it has the fatal
power of making everything else in the world seem uninteresting while it
lasts. It is probably this passion, more even than the desire for power,
which makes magicians. But the result of Miss C.'s conversation did not
stop there. Little by little, unconsciously, unintentionally, she
loosened the whole framework, blunted all the sharp edges, of my belief.
The vagueness, the merely speculative character, of all this Occultism
began to spread--yes, and to spread _deliciously_--to the stern truths of
the creed. The whole thing became a matter of speculation: I was soon
(in the famous words) "altering 'I believe' to 'one does feel'". And oh,
the relief of it! Those moonlit nights in the dormitory at Belsen faded
far away. From the tyrannous noon of revelation I passed into the cool
evening twilight of Higher Thought, where there was nothing to be
obeyed, and nothing to be believed except what was either comforting or
exciting. I do not mean that Miss C. did this; better say that the Enemy
did this in me, taking occasion from things she innocently said.

One reason why the Enemy found this so easy was that, without knowing
it, I was already desperately anxious to get rid of my religion; and
that for a reason worth recording. By a sheer mistake--and I still
believe it to have been an honest mistake--in spiritual technique I had
rendered my private practice of that religion a quite intolerable
burden. It came about in this way. Like everyone else I had been told as
a child that one must not only say one's prayers but think about what
one was saying. Accordingly, when (at Oldie's) I came to a serious
belief, I tried to put this into practice. At first it seemed plain
sailing. But soon the false conscience (St. Paul's "Law", Herbert's
"prattler") came into play. One had no sooner reached "Amen" than it
whispered, "Yes. But are you sure you were really thinking about what
you said?"; then, more subtly, "Were you, for example, thinking about it
as well as you did last night?" The answer, for reasons I did not then
understand, was nearly always No. "Very well," said the voice, "hadn't
you, then, better try it over again?" And one obeyed; but of course with
no assurance that the second attempt would be any better.

To these nagging suggestions my reaction was, on the whole, the most
foolish I could have adopted. I set myself a standard. No clause of my
prayer was to be allowed to pass muster unless it was accompanied by
what I called a "realisation", by which I meant a certain vividness of
the imagination and the affections. My nightly task was to produce; by
sheer will-power a phenomenon which will-power could never produce,
which was so ill-defined that I could never say with absolute confidence
whether it had occurred, and which, even when it did occur, was of very
mediocre spiritual value. If only someone had read to me old Walter
Hilton's warning that we must never in prayer strive to extort "by
maistry" what God does not give! But no one did; and night after night,
dizzy with desire for sleep and often in a kind of despair, I
endeavoured to pump up my "realisations". The thing threatened to become
an infinite regress. One began of course by praying for good
"realisations". But had that preliminary prayer itself been "realised"?
This question I think I still had enough sense to dismiss; otherwise it
might have been as difficult to begin my prayers as to end them. How it
all comes back! The cold oil-cloth, the quarters chiming, the night
slipping past, the sickening, hopeless weariness. This was the burden
from which I longed with soul and body to escape. It had already brought
me to such a pass that the nightly torment projected its gloom over the
whole evening, and I dreaded bedtime as if I were a chronic sufferer
from insomnia. Had I pursued the same road much further I think I should
have gone mad.

This ludicrous burden of false duties in prayer provided, of course, an
unconscious motive for wishing to shuffle off the Christian faith; but
about the same time, or a little later, conscious causes of doubt arose.
One came from reading the classics. Here, especially in Virgil, one was
presented with a mass of religious ideas; and all teachers and editors
took it for granted from the outset that these religious ideas were
sheer illusion. No one ever attempted to show in what sense Christianity
fulfilled Paganism or Paganism prefigured Christianity. The accepted
position seemed to be that religions were normally a mere farrago of
nonsense, though our own, by a fortunate exception, was exactly true.
The other religions were not even explained, in the earlier Christian
fashion, as the work of devils. That I might, conceivably, have been
brought to believe. But the impression I got was that religion in
general, though utterly false, was a natural growth, a kind of endemic
nonsense into which humanity tended to blunder. In the midst of a
thousand such religions stood our own, the thousand and first, labelled
True. But on what grounds could I believe in this exception? It
obviously was in some general sense the same kind of thing as all the
rest. Why was it so differently treated? Need I, at any rate, continue
to treat it differently? I was very anxious not to.

In addition to this, and equally working against my faith, there was in
me a deeply ingrained pessimism; a pessimism, by that time, much more of
intellect than of temper. I was now by no means unhappy; but I had very
definitely formed the opinion that the universe was, in the main, a
rather regrettable institution. I am well aware that some will feel
disgust and some will laugh, at the idea of a loutish, well-fed boy in
an Eton collar, passing an unfavourable judgement on the cosmos. They
may be right in either reaction, but no more right because I wore an
Eton collar. They are forgetting what boyhood felt like from within.
Dates are not so important as people believe. I fancy that most of those
who think at all have done a great deal of their thinking in the first
fourteen years. As to the sources of my pessimism, the reader will
remember that, though in many ways most fortunate, yet I had very early
in life met a great dismay. But I am now inclined to think that the
seeds of pessimism were sown before my mother's death. Ridiculous as it
may sound, I believe that the clumsiness of my hands was at the root of
the matter. How could this be? Not, certainly, that a child says, "I
can't cut a straight line with a pair of scissors, therefore the
universe is evil." Childhood has no such power of generalisation and is
not (to do it justice) so silly. Nor did my clumsiness produce what is
ordinarily called an Inferiority Complex. I was not comparing myself
with other boys; my defeats occurred in solitude. What they really bred
in me was a deep (and, of course, inarticulate) sense of resistance or
opposition on the part of inanimate things. Even that makes it too
abstract and adult. Perhaps I had better call it a settled expectation
that everything would do what you did not want it to do. Whatever you
wanted to remain straight, would bend; whatever you tried to bend would
fly back to the straight; all knots which you wished to be firm would
come untied; all knots you wanted to untie would remain firm. It is not
possible to put it into language without making it comic, and I have
indeed no wish to see it (now) except as something comic. But it is
perhaps just these early experiences which are so fugitive and, to an
adult, so grotesque, that give the mind its earliest bias, its habitual
sense of what is or is not plausible.

There was another predisposing factor. Though the son of a prosperous
man--a man by our present tax-ridden standards almost incredibly
comfortable and secure--I had heard ever since I could remember, and
believed, that adult life was to be an unremitting struggle in which the
best I could hope for was to avoid the workhouse by extreme exertion. My
father's highly coloured statements on such matters had sunk deeply into
my mind; and I never thought to check them by the very obvious fact that
most of the adults I actually knew seemed to be living very comfortable
lives. I remember summing up what I took to be our destiny, in
conversation with my best friend at Chartres, by the formula, "Term,
holidays, term, holidays, till we leave school, and then work, work,
work till we die." Even if I had been free from this delusion, I think I
should still have seen grounds for pessimism. One's views, even at that
age, are not wholly determined by one's own momentary situation; even a
boy can recognise that there is desert all round him though he, for the
nonce, sits in an oasis. I was, in my ineffective way, a tender-hearted
creature; perhaps the most murderous feelings I ever entertained were
towards an under master at Chartres who forbade me to give to a beggar
at the school gate. Add to this that my early reading--not only Wells but
Sir Robert Ball--had lodged very firmly in my imagination the vastness
and cold of space, the littleness of Man. It is not strange that I
should feel the universe to be a menacing and unfriendly place. Several
years before I read Lucretius I felt the force of his argument (and it
is surely the strongest of all) for atheism--

  _Nequaquam nobis divinitus esse paratam_
  _Naturam rerum; tanta stat praedita culpa_

  _Had God designed the world, it would not be_
  _A world so frail and faulty as we see._

You may ask how I combined this directly Atheistical thought, this great
"Argument from Undesign" with my Occultist fancies. I do not think I
achieved any logical connection between them. They swayed me in
different moods, and had only this in common, that both made against
Christianity. And so, little by little, with fluctuations which I cannot
now trace, I became an apostate, dropping my faith with no sense of loss
but with the greatest relief.

My stay at Chartres lasted from the spring term of 1911 till the end of
the summer term 1913, and, as I have said, I cannot give an accurate
chronology, between those dates, of my slow apostasy. In other respects
the period is divided into two; about half-way through it a much loved
under master, and the even more loved Matron, left at the same time.
From that day onwards there was a sharp decline; not, indeed, in
apparent happiness but in solid good. Dear Miss C. had been the occasion
of much good to me as well as of evil. For one thing, by awakening my
affections, she had done something to defeat that anti-sentimental
inhibition which my early experience had bred in me. Nor would I deny
that in all her "Higher Thought", disastrous though its main effect on
me was, there were elements of real and disinterested spirituality by
which I benefited. Unfortunately, once her presence was withdrawn, the
good effects withered and the bad ones remained. The change of masters
was even more obviously for the worse. "Sirrah", as we called him, had
been an admirable influence. He was what I would now describe as a wise
madcap: a boisterous, boyish, hearty man, well able to keep his
authority while yet mixing with us almost as one of ourselves, an
untidy, rollicking man without a particle of affectation. He
communicated (what I very much needed) a sense of the gusto with which
life ought, wherever possible, to be taken. I fancy it was on a run with
him in the sleet that I first discovered how bad weather is to be
treated--as a rough joke, a romp. He was succeeded by a young gentleman
just down from the University whom we may call Pogo. Pogo was a very
minor edition of a Saki, perhaps even a Wodehouse, hero. Pogo was a wit,
Pogo was a dressy man, Pogo was a man about town, Pogo was even a lad.
After a week or so of hesitation (for his temper was uncertain) we fell
at his feet and adored. Here was sophistication, glossy all over, and
(dared one believe it?) ready to impart sophistication to us.

We became--at least I became--dressy. It was the age of the "knut": of
"spread" ties with pins in them, of very low cut coats and trousers worn
very high to show startling socks, and brogue shoes with immensely wide
laces. Something of all this had already trickled to me from the College
through my brother, who was now becoming sufficiently senior to aspire
to knuttery. Pogo completed the process. A more pitiful ambition for a
lout of an overgrown fourteen-year-old with a shilling a week pocket
money could hardly be imagined; the more so since I am one of those on
whom Nature has laid the doom that whatever they buy and whatever they
wear they will always look as if they had come out of an old clothes
shop. I cannot even now remember without embarrassment the concern that
I then felt about pressing my trousers and (filthy habit) plastering my
hair with oil. A new element had entered my life: Vulgarity. Up till now
I had committed nearly every other sin and folly within my power, but I
had not yet been flashy.

These hobble-de-hoy fineries were, however, only a small part of our new
sophistication. Pogo was a great theatrical authority. We soon knew all
the latest songs. We soon knew all about the famous actresses of that
age--Lily Elsie, Gertie Millar, Zena Dare. Pogo was a fund of information
about their private lives. We learned from him all the latest jokes;
where we did not understand he was ready to give us help. He explained
many things. After a term of Pogo's society one had the feeling of being
not twelve weeks but twelve years older.

How gratifying, and how edifying, it would be if I could trace to Pogo
all my slips from virtue and wind up by pointing the moral; how much
harm a loose-talking young man can do to innocent boys! Unfortunately
this would be false. It is quite true that at this time I underwent a
violent, and wholly successful, assault of sexual temptation. But this
is amply accounted for by the age I had then reached and by my recent,
in a sense my deliberate, withdrawal of myself from Divine protection. I
do not believe Pogo had anything to do with it. The mere facts of
generation I had learned long ago, from another boy, when I was too
young to feel much more than a scientific interest in them. What
attacked me through Pogo was not the Flesh (I had that of my own) but
the World: the desire for glitter, swagger, distinction, the desire to
be in the know. He gave little help, if any, in destroying my chastity,
but he made sad work of certain humble and childlike and self-forgetful
qualities which (I think) had remained with me till that moment. I began
to labour very hard to make myself into a fop, a cad, and a snob.

Pogo's communications, however much they helped to vulgarise my mind,
had no such electric effect on my senses as the dancing mistress, nor as
Bekker's _Charicles_, which was given me for a prize. I never thought
that dancing mistress as beautiful as my cousin G., but she was the
first woman I ever "looked upon to lust after her"; assuredly through no
fault of her own. A gesture, a tone of the voice, may in these matters
have unpredictable results. When the schoolroom on the last night of the
winter term was decorated for a dance, she paused, lifted a flag, and,
remarking, "I love the smell of bunting," pressed it to her face--and I
was undone.

You must not suppose that this was a romantic passion. The passion of my
life, as the next chapter will show, belonged to a wholly different
region. What I felt for the dancing mistress was sheer appetite; the
prose and not the poetry of the Flesh. I did not feel at all like a
knight devoting himself to a lady; I was much more like a Turk looking
at a Circassian whom he could not afford to buy. I knew quite well what
I wanted. It is common, by the way, to assume that such an experience
produces a feeling of guilt, but it did not do so in me. And I may as
well say here that the feeling of guilt, save where a moral offence
happened also to break the code of honour or had consequences which
excited my pity, was a thing which at that time I hardly knew. It took
me as long to acquire inhibitions as others (they say) have taken to get
rid of them. That is why I often find myself at such cross-purposes with
the modern world: I have been a converted Pagan living among apostate
Puritans.

I would be sorry if the reader passed too harsh a judgement on Pogo. As
I now see it, he was not too old to have charge of boys but too young.
He was only an adolescent himself, still immature enough to be
delightedly "grown up" and naif enough to enjoy our greater navet. And
there was a real friendliness in him. He was moved partly by that to
tell us all he knew or thought he knew. And now, as Herodotus would say,
"Goodbye to Pogo."

Meanwhile, side by side with my loss of faith, of virtue, and of
simplicity, something quite different was going on. It will demand a new
chapter.




                             V. Renaissance


  _So is there in us a world of love to somewhat, though we know not
  what in the world that should be._
                                                                TRAHERNE

I do not much believe in the Renaissance as generally described by
historians. The more I look into the evidence the less trace I find of
that vernal rapture which is supposed to have swept Europe in the
fifteenth century. I half suspect that the glow in the historians' pages
has a different source, that each is remembering, and projecting, his
own personal Renaissance; that wonderful reawakening which comes to most
of us when puberty is complete. It is properly called a re-birth not a
birth, a reawakening not a wakening, because in many of us, besides
being a new thing, it is also the recovery of things we had in childhood
and lost when we became boys. For boyhood is very like the "dark ages"
not as they were but as they are represented in bad, short histories.
The dreams of childhood and those of adolescence may have much in
common; between them, often, boyhood stretches like an alien territory
in which everything (ourselves included) has been greedy, cruel, noisy,
and prosaic, in which the imagination has slept and the most un-ideal
senses and ambitions have been restlessly, even maniacally, awake.

In my own life it was certainly so. My childhood is at unity with the
rest of my life; my boyhood not so. Many of the books that pleased me as
a child, please me still; nothing but necessity would make me re-read
most of the books that I read at Oldie's or at Campbell. From that point
of view it is all a sandy desert. The authentic "Joy" (as I tried to
describe it in an earlier chapter) had vanished from my life: so
completely that not even the memory or the desire of it remained. The
reading of _Sohrab_ had not given it to me. Joy is distinct not only
from pleasure in general but even from aesthetic pleasure. It must have
the stab, the pang, the inconsolable longing.

This long winter broke up in a single moment, fairly early in my time at
Chartres. Spring is the inevitable image, but this was not gradual like
Nature's springs. It was as if the Arctic itself, all the deep layers of
secular ice, should change not in a week nor in an hour, but instantly,
into a landscape of grass and primroses and orchards in bloom, deafened
with bird songs and astir with running water. I can lay my hand on the
very moment; there is hardly any fact I know so well, though I cannot
date it. Someone must have left in the schoolroom a literary periodical:
_The Bookman_, perhaps, or the _Times Literary Supplement_. My eye fell
upon a headline and a picture, carelessly, expecting nothing. A moment
later, as the poet says, "The sky had turned round."

What I had read was the words _Siegfried and the Twilight of the Gods_.
What I had seen was one of Arthur Rackham's illustrations to that
volume. I had never heard of Wagner, nor of Siegfried. I thought the
Twilight of the Gods meant the twilight in which the gods lived. How did
I know, at once and beyond question, that this was no Celtic, or silvan,
or terrestrial twilight? But so it was. Pure "Northernness" engulfed me:
a vision of huge, clear spaces hanging above the Atlantic in the endless
twilight of Northern summer, remoteness, severity... and almost at
the same moment I knew that I had met this before, long, long ago (it
hardly seems longer now) in _Tegner's Drapa_, that Siegfried (whatever
it might be) belonged to the same world as Balder and the
sunward-sailing cranes. And with that plunge back into my own past there
arose at once, almost like heartbreak, the memory of Joy itself, the
knowledge that I had once had what I had now lacked for years, that I
was returning at last from exile and desert lands to my own country; and
the distance of the Twilight of the Gods and the distance of my own past
Joy, both unattainable, flowed together into a single, unendurable sense
of desire and loss, which suddenly became one with the loss of the whole
experience, which, as I now stared round that dusty schoolroom like a
man recovering from unconsciousness, had already vanished, had eluded me
at the very moment when I could first say _It is_. And at once I knew
(with fatal knowledge) that to "have it again" was the supreme and only
important object of desire.

After this everything played into my hands. One of my father's many
presents to us boys had been a gramophone. Thus at the moment when my
eyes fell on the words _Siegfried and the Twilight of the Gods_,
gramophone catalogues were already one of my favourite forms of reading;
but I had never remotely dreamed that the records from Grand Opera with
their queer German or Italian names could have anything to do with me.
Nor did I for a week or two think so now. But then I was assailed from a
new quarter. A magazine called _The Soundbox_ was doing synopses of
great operas week by week, and it now did the whole _Ring_. I read in a
rapture and discovered who Siegfried was and what was the "twilight" of
the gods. I could contain myself no longer--I began a poem, a heroic poem
on the Wagnerian version of the Niblung story. My only source was the
abstracts in _The Soundbox_, and I was so ignorant that I made Alberich
rhyme with _ditch_ and Mime with _time_. My model was Pope's _Odyssey_
and the poem began (with some mixture of mythologies)

  _Descend to earth, descend, celestial Nine_
  _And chant the ancient legends of the Rhine...._

Since the fourth book had carried me only as far as the last scene of
_The Rheingold_, the reader will not be surprised to hear that the poem
was never finished. But it was not a waste of time, and I can still see
just what it did for me and where it began to do it. The first three
books (I may, perhaps, at this distance of time, say it without vanity)
are really not at all bad for a boy. At the beginning of the unfinished
fourth it goes all to pieces; and that is exactly the point at which I
really began to try to make poetry. Up to then, if my lines rhymed and
scanned and got on with the story I asked no more. Now, at the beginning
of the fourth, I began to try to convey some of the intense excitement I
was feeling, to look for expressions which would not merely state but
suggest. Of course I failed, lost my prosaic clarity, spluttered,
gasped, and presently fell silent; but I had learned what writing means.

All this time I had still not heard a note of Wagner's music, though the
very shape of the printed letters of his name had become to me a magical
symbol. Next holidays, in the dark, crowded shop of T. Edens Osborne (on
whom be peace), I first heard a record of the _Ride of the Valkyries_.
They laugh at it nowadays, and, indeed, wrenched from its context to
make a concert piece, it may be a poor thing. But I had this in common
with Wagner, that I was thinking not of concert pieces but of heroic
drama. To a boy already crazed with "the Northernness", whose highest
musical experience had been Sullivan, the _Ride_ came like a
thunderbolt. From that moment Wagnerian records (principally from the
_Ring_, but also from _Lohengrin_ and _Parsifal_) became the chief drain
on my pocket money and the presents I invariably asked for. My general
appreciation of music was not, at first, much altered. "Music" was one
thing, "Wagnerian music" quite another, and there was no common measure
between them; it was not a new pleasure but a new kind of pleasure, if
indeed "pleasure" is the right word, rather than trouble, ecstasy,
astonishment, "a conflict of sensations without name".

That summer our cousin H. (you remember, I hope, Cousin Quartus's eldest
daughter, the dark Juno, the queen of Olympus) who was now married,
asked us to spend some weeks with her on the outskirts of Dublin, in
Dundrum. There, on her drawing-room table, I found the very book which
had started the whole affair and which I had never dared to hope I
should see, _Siegfried and the Twilight of the Gods_ illustrated by
Arthur Rackham. His pictures, which seemed to me then to be the very
music made visible, plunged me a few fathoms deeper into my delight. I
have seldom coveted anything as I coveted that book; and when I heard
that there was a cheaper edition at fifteen shillings (though the sum
was to me almost mythological) I knew I could never rest till it was
mine. I got it in the end, largely because my brother went shares with
me, purely through kindness, as I now see and then more than half
suspected, for he was not enslaved by the Northernness. With a
generosity which I was even then half ashamed to accept, he sank in what
must have seemed to him a mere picture-book seven and sixpence for which
he knew a dozen better uses.

Although this affair will already seem to some readers undeserving of
the space I have given it, I cannot continue my story, at all without
noting some of its bearings on the rest of my life.

First, you will misunderstand everything unless you realise that, at the
time, Asgard and the Valkyries seemed to me incomparably more important
than anything else in my experience--than the Matron Miss C., or the
dancing mistress, or my chances of a scholarship. More shockingly, they
seemed much more important than my steadily growing doubts about
Christianity. This may have been--in part, no doubt was--penal blindness;
yet that might not be the whole story. If the Northernness seemed then a
bigger thing than my religion, that may partly have been because my
attitude towards it contained elements which my religion ought to have
contained and did not. It was not itself a new religion, for it
contained no trace of belief and imposed no duties. Yet unless I am
greatly mistaken there was in it something very like adoration, some
kind of quite disinterested self-abandonment to an object which securely
claimed this by simply being the object it was. We are taught in the
Prayer Book to "give thanks to God for His great glory", as if we owed
Him more thanks for being what He necessarily is than for any particular
benefit He confers upon us; and so indeed we do and to know God is to
know this. But I had been far from any such experience; I came far
nearer to feeling this about the Norse gods whom I disbelieved in than I
had ever done about the true God while I believed. Sometimes I can
almost think that I was sent back to the false gods there to acquire
some capacity for worship against the day when the true God should
recall me to Himself. Not that I might not have learned this sooner and
more safely, in ways I shall now never know, without apostasy, but that
Divine punishments are also mercies, and particular good is worked out
of particular evil, and the penal blindness made sanative.

Secondly, this imaginative Renaissance almost at once produced a new
appreciation of external nature. At first, I think, this was parasitic
on the literary and musical experiences. On that holiday at Dundrum,
cycling among the Wicklow mountains, I was always involuntarily looking
for scenes that might belong to the Wagnerian world, here a steep
hillside covered with firs where Mime might meet Sieglinde, there a
sunny glade where Siegfried might listen to the bird, or presently a dry
valley of rocks where the lithe scaly body of Fafner might emerge from
its cave. But soon (I cannot say how soon) nature ceased to be a mere
reminder of the books, became herself the medium of the real joy. I do
not say she ceased to be a reminder. All Joy reminds. It is never a
possession, always a desire for something longer ago or further away or
still "about to be". But Nature and the books now became equal
reminders, joint reminders, of--well, of whatever it is. I came no nearer
to what some would regard as the only genuine love of nature, the
studious love which will make a man a botanist or an ornithologist. It
was the mood of a scene that mattered to me; and in tasting that mood my
skin and nose were as busy as my eyes.

Thirdly, I passed on from Wagner to everything else I could get hold of
about Norse mythology, _Myths of the Norsemen_, _Myths and Legends of
the Teutonic Race_, Mallet's _Northern Antiquities_. I became
knowledgeable. From these books again and again I received the stab of
Joy. I did not yet notice that it was, very gradually, becoming rarer. I
did not yet reflect on the difference between it and the merely
intellectual satisfaction of getting to know the Eddaic universe. If I
could at this time have found anyone to teach me Old Norse I believe I
would have worked at it hard.

And finally, the change I had undergone introduces a new difficulty into
the writing of this present book. From that first moment in the
schoolroom at Chartres my secret, imaginative life began to be so
important and so distinct from my outer life that I almost have to tell
two separate stories. The two lives do not seem to influence each other
at all. Where there are hungry wastes, starving for Joy, in the one, the
other may be full of cheerful bustle and success; or again, where the
outer life is miserable, the other may be brimming over with ecstasy. By
the imaginative life I here mean only my life as concerned with
Joy--including in the outer life much that would ordinarily be called
imagination, as, for example, much of my reading, and all my erotic or
ambitious fantasies; for these are self-regarding. Even Animal-Land and
India belong to the "Outer".

But they were no longer Animal-Land and India; some time in the late
eighteenth century (their eighteenth century, not ours) they had been
united into the single state of Boxen, which yields, oddly, an adjective
_Boxonian_, not _Boxenian_ as you might expect. By a wise provision they
retained their separate kings but had a common legislative assembly, the
Damerfesk. The electoral system was democratic, but this mattered very
much less than in England, for the Damerfesk was never doomed to one
fixed meeting place. The joint sovereigns could summon it anywhere, say
at the tiny fishing village of Danphabel (the Clovelly of Northern
Animal-Land, nestling at the foot of the mountains) or in the island of
Piscia; and since the Court knew the sovereigns' choice earlier than
anyone else, all local accommodation would be booked before a private
member got wind of the matter, nor, if he reached the session, had he
the least assurance that it would not be moved elsewhere as soon as he
arrived. Hence we hear of a certain member who had never actually sat in
the Damerfesk at all except on one fortunate occasion when it met in his
home town. The records sometimes call this assembly the Parliament, but
that is misleading. It had only a single chamber, and the kings
presided. At the period which I know best the effective control,
however, was not in their hands but in those of an all-important
functionary known as the Littlemaster (you must pronounce this all as
one word with the accent on the first syllable--like _Jerrybuilder_). The
Littlemaster was a Prime Minister, a judge, and if not always
Commander-in-Chief (the records waver on this point) certainly always a
member of the General Staff. Such at least were the powers he wielded
when I last visited Boxen. They may have been encroachments, for the
office was held at that time by a man--or to speak more accurately, a
Frog--of powerful personality. Lord Big brought to his task one rather
unfair advantage; he had been the tutor of the two young kings and
continued to hold over them a quasi-parental authority. Their spasmodic
efforts to break his yoke were, unhappily, more directed to the evasion
of his inquiry into their private pleasures than to any serious
political end. As a result Lord Big, immense in size, resonant of voice,
chivalrous (he was the hero of innumerable duels), stormy, eloquent, and
impulsive, almost was the state. The reader will divine a certain
resemblance between the life of the two kings under Lord Big and our own
life under our father. He will be right. But Big was not, in origin,
simply our Father first batrachised and then caricatured in some
directions and glorified in others. He was in many ways a prophetic
portrait of Sir Winston Churchill as Sir Winston Churchill came to be
during the last war; I have indeed seen photographs of that great
statesman in which, to anyone who has known Boxen, the frog element was
unmistakable. This was not our only anticipation of the real world. Lord
Big's most consistent opponent, the gadfly that always got inside his
armour, was a certain small brown bear, a lieutenant in the Navy; and
believe me or believe me not, Lieutenant James Bar was almost exactly
like Mr. John Betjeman, whose acquaintance I could not then have made.
Ever since I have done so, I have been playing Lord Big to his James
Bar.

The interesting thing about the resemblance between Lord Big and my
father is that such reflections of the real world had not been the germ
out of which Boxen grew. They were more numerous as it drew nearer to
its end, a sign of over-ripeness or even the beginning of decay. Go back
a little and you will not find them. The two sovereigns who allowed
themselves to be dominated by Lord Big were King Benjamin VIII of
Animal-Land and Rajah Hawki (I think, VI) of India. They had much in
common with my brother and myself. But their fathers, the elder Benjamin
and the elder Hawki, had not. The Fifth Hawki is a shadowy figure; but
the Seventh Benjamin (a rabbit, as you will have guessed) is a rounded
character. I can see him still--the heaviest-jowled and squarest-builded
of all rabbits, very fat in his later years, most shabbily and unroyally
clad in his loose brown coat and baggy checked trousers, yet not without
a certain dignity which could, on occasion, take disconcerting forms.
His earlier life had been dominated by the belief that he could be both
a king and an amateur detective. He never succeeded in the latter role,
partly because the chief enemy whom he was pursuing (Mr. Baddlesmere)
was not really a criminal at all but a lunatic--a complication which
would have thrown out the plans of Sherlock Holmes himself. But he very
often got himself kidnapped, sometimes for longish periods, and caused
great anxiety to his court (we do not learn that his colleague, Hawki V,
shared this). Once, on his return from such a misadventure, he had great
difficulty in establishing his identity; Baddlesmere had dyed him and
the familiar brown figure reappeared as a piebald rabbit. Finally (what
will not boys think of?) he was a very early experimenter with what has
since been called artificial insemination. The judgement of history
cannot pronounce him either a good rabbit or a good King; but he was not
a nonentity. He ate prodigiously.

And now that I have opened the gate, all the Boxonians, like the ghosts
in Homer, come clamouring for mention. But they must be denied it.
Readers who have built a world would rather tell of their own than hear
of mine; those who have not would perhaps be bewildered and repelled.
Nor had Boxen any connection with Joy. I have mentioned it at all only
because to omit it would have been to misrepresent this period of my
life.

One caution must here be repeated. I have been describing a life in
which, plainly, imagination of one sort or another played the dominant
part. Remember that it never involved the least grain of belief; I never
mistook imagination for reality. About the Northernness no such question
could arise: it was essentially a desire and implied the absence of its
object. And Boxen we never could believe in, for we had made it. No
novelist (in that sense) believes in his own characters.

At the end of the Summer Term 1913 I won a classical entrance
scholarship to Wyvern College.




                              VI. Bloodery


                    _Any way for Heaven sake_
  _So I were out of your whispering._
                                                                 WEBSTER

Now that we have done with Chartres we may call Wyvern College simply
Wyvern, or more simply still, as Wyvernians themselves call it, The
Coll.

Going to the Coll was the most exciting thing that had yet happened in
my outer life. At Chartres we had lived under the shadow of the Coll. We
were often taken there to see matches or sports or the finish of the
great Goldbury Run. These visits turned our heads. The crowd of boys
older than oneself, their dazzling air of sophistication, scraps of
their esoteric talk overheard, were like Park Lane in the old "Season"
to a girl who is to be a _dbutante_ next year. Above all, the Bloods,
the adored athletes and prefects, were an embodiment of all worldly
pomp, power, and glory. Beside them Pogo shrank into insignificance;
what is a Master compared with a Blood? The whole school was a great
temple for the worship of these mortal gods; and no boy ever went there
more prepared to worship them than I.

If you have not been at such a school as Wyvern, you may ask what a
_Blood_ is. He is a member of the school aristocracy. Foreign readers
must clearly understand that this aristocracy has nothing whatever to do
with the social position of the boys in the outer world. Boys of good,
or wealthy, family are no more likely to be in it than anyone else; the
only nobleman in my House at Wyvern never became a Blood. Shortly before
my time there the son of a very queer customer had been at least on the
fringe of Bloodery. The qualifying condition for Bloodery is that one
should have been at the school for a considerable time. This by itself
will not get you in, but newness will certainly exclude you. The most
important qualification is athletic prowess. Indeed if this is
sufficiently brilliant it makes you a Blood automatically. If it is a
little less brilliant, then good looks and personality will help. So, of
course, will fashion, as fashion is understood at your school. A wise
candidate for Bloodery will wear the right clothes, use the right slang,
admire the right things, laugh at the right jokes. And of course, as in
the outer world, those on the fringes of the privileged class can, and
do, try to worm their way into it by all the usual arts of pleasing.

At some schools, I am told, there is a sort of dyarchy. An aristocracy
of Bloods, supported or at least tolerated by popular sentiment, stands
over against an official ruling class of prefects appointed by the
Masters. I believe they usually appoint it from the highest form, so
that it has some claim to be an intelligentsia. It was not so at the
Coll. Those who were made prefects were nearly all Bloods and they did
not have to be in any particular form. Theoretically (though I do not
suppose this would ever happen) the dunce at the bottom of the lowest
form could have been made the captain--in our language, the Head--of the
Coll. We thus had only a single governing class, in whom every kind of
power, privilege, and prestige were united. Those to whom the
hero-worship of their juniors would in any case have gone, and those
whose astuteness and ambition would under any system have enabled them
to rise, were the same whom the official power of the Masters supported.
Their position was emphasised by special liberties, clothes, priorities,
and dignities which affected every side of school life. This, you will
see, makes a pretty strong class. But it was strengthened still further
by a factor which distinguishes school from ordinary life. In a country
governed by an oligarchy, huge numbers of people, and among them some
very stirring spirits, know they can never hope to get into that
oligarchy; it may therefore be worth their while to attempt a
revolution. At the Coll the lowest social class of all were too young,
therefore too weak, to dream of revolt. In the middle class--boys who
were no longer fags but not yet Bloods--those who alone had physical
strength and popularity enough to qualify them as leaders of a
revolution were already beginning to hope for Bloodery themselves. It
suited them better to accelerate their social progress by courting the
existing Bloods than to risk a revolt which, in the unlikely event of
its succeeding, would destroy the very prize they were longing to share.
And if at last they despaired of ever doing so--why, by that time their
schooldays were nearly over. Hence the Wyvernian constitution was
unbreakable. Schoolboys have often risen against their Masters; I doubt
if there has ever been or ever can be a revolt against Bloods.

It is not, then, surprising if I went to the Coll prepared to worship.
Can any adult aristocracy present the World to us in quite such an
alluring form as the hierarchy of a public school? Every motive for
prostration is brought to bear at once on the mind of the New Boy when
he sees a Blood; the natural respect of the thirteen-year-old for the
nineteen-year-old, the fan's feeling for a film-star, the suburban
woman's feeling for a duchess, the newcomer's awe in the presence of the
Old Hand, the street urchin's dread of the police.

One's first hours at a public school are unforgettable. Our House was a
tall, narrow stone building (and, by the way, the only house in the
place which was not an architectural nightmare) rather like a ship. The
deck on which we chiefly lived consisted of two very dark stone
corridors at right angles to one another. The doors off them opened into
the studies--little rooms about six feet square, each shared by two or
three boys. The very sight of them was ravishing to a boy from a Prep.
school who had never before had a _pied--terre_ of his own. As we were
still living (culturally) in the Edwardian period, each study imitated
as closely as possible the cluttered appearance of an Edwardian
drawing-room; the aim was to fill the tiny cell as full as it could hold
with bookcases, corner cupboards, knick-knacks, and pictures. There were
two larger rooms on the same floor; one the "Pres' Room", the synod of
Olympus, and the other the New Boys' Study. It was not like a study at
all. It was larger, darker, and undecorated; an immovable bench ran
round a clamped table. But we knew, we ten or twelve recruits, that not
all of us would be left in the New Boys' Study. Some of us would be
given "real" studies; the residue would occupy the opprobrious place for
a term or so. That was the great hazard of our first evening; one was to
be taken and another left.

As we sat round our clamped table, silent for the most part and speaking
in whispers when we spoke, the door would be opened at intervals; a boy
would look in, smile (not at us but to himself) and withdraw. Once, over
the shoulder of the smiler there came another face, and a chuckling
voice said, "Ho-ho! I know what _you're_ looking for." Only I knew what
it was all about, for my brother had played Chesterfield to my Stanhope
and instructed me in the manners of the Coll. None of the boys who
looked in and smiled was a Blood; they were all quite young and there
was something common to the faces of them all. They were, in fact, the
reigning or fading Tarts of the House, trying to guess which of us were
their destined rivals or successors.

It is possible that some readers will not know what a House Tart was.
First, as to the adjective. All life at Wyvern was lived, so to speak,
in the two concentric circles of Coll and House. You could be a Coll
pre. or merely a House pre. You could be a Coll Blood or merely a House
Blood, a Coll Punt (i.e. a pariah, an unpopular person) or merely a
House Punt; and of course a Coll Tart or merely a House Tart. A Tart
is[4] a pretty and effeminate-looking small boy who acts as a catamite
to one or more of his seniors, usually Bloods. Usually, not always.
Though our oligarchy kept most of the amenities of life to themselves,
they were, on this point, liberal; they did not impose chastity on the
middle-class boy in addition to all his other disabilities. Pederasty
among the lower classes was not "side", or at least not serious side;
not like putting one's hands in one's pockets or wearing one's coat
unbuttoned. The gods had a sense of proportion.

The Tarts had an important function to play in making school (what it
was advertised to be) a preparation for public life. They were not like
slaves, for their favours were (nearly always) solicited, not compelled.
Nor were they exactly like prostitutes, for the _liaison_ often had some
permanence and, far from being merely sensual, was highly
sentimentalised. Nor were they paid (in hard cash, I mean) for their
services; though of course they had all the flattery, unofficial
influence, favour, and privileges which the mistresses of the great have
always enjoyed in adult society. That was where the Preparation for
Public Life came in. It would appear from Mr. Arnold Lunn's _Harrovians_
that the Tarts at his school acted as informers. None of ours did. I
ought to know, for one of my friends shared a study with a minor Tart;
and except that he was sometimes turned out of the study when one of the
Tart's lovers came in (and that, after all, was only natural) he had
nothing to complain of. I was not shocked by these things. For me, at
that age, the chief drawback to the whole system was that it bored me
considerably. For you will have missed the atmosphere of our House
unless you picture the whole place from week's end to week's end
buzzing, tittering, hinting, whispering about this subject. After games,
gallantry was the principal topic of polite conversation; who had "a
case with" whom, whose star was in the ascendant, who had whose photo,
who and when and how often and what night and where.... I suppose it
might be called the Greek Tradition. But the vice in question is one to
which I had never been tempted, and which, indeed, I still find opaque
to the imagination. Possibly, if I had only stayed longer at the Coll, I
might, in this respect as in others, have been turned into a Normal Boy,
as the system promises. As things were, I was bored.

Those first days, like your first days in the army, were spent in a
frantic endeavour to find out what you had to do. One of my first duties
was to find out what "Club" I was in. Clubs were the units to which we
were assigned for compulsory games; they belonged to the Coll
organisation, not the House organisation, so I had to go to a
notice-board "Up Coll" to get my facts. And first to find the place--and
then to dare to squeeze oneself into the crowd of more important boys
around the notice-board--and then to begin reading through five hundred
names, but always with one eye on your watch, for of course there is
something else to be done within ten minutes. I was forced away from the
board before I had found my name, and so, sweating, back to the House,
in a flurry of anxiety, wondering how I could find time to do the job
to-morrow and what unheard-of disaster might follow if I could not.
(Why, by the way, do some writers talk as if care and worry were the
special characteristics of adult life? It appears to me that there is
more _atra cura_ in an average schoolboy's week than in a grown man's
average year.)

When I reached the House something gloriously unexpected happened. At
the door of the Pres' Room stood one Fribble; a mere House Blood, it is
true, even a minor House Blood, but to me a sufficiently exalted figure;
a youth of the lean, laughing type. I could hardly believe it when he
actually addressed me. "Oh, I say, Lewis," he bawled, "I can tell you
your Club. You're in the same one as me, B6." What a transition from all
but despair to elation I underwent! All my anxiety was laid to rest. And
then the graciousness of Fribble, the condescension! If a reigning
monarch had asked me to dine, I could hardly have been more flattered.
But there was better to follow. On every half-holiday I went dutifully
to the B6 notice-board to see whether my name was down to play that
afternoon or not. And it never was. This was pure joy, for of course I
hated games. My native clumsiness, combined with the lack of early
training for which Belsen was responsible, had ruled out all possibility
of my ever playing well enough to amuse myself, let alone to satisfy
other players. I accepted games (quite a number of boys do) as one of
the necessary evils of life, comparable to Income Tax or the Dentist.
And so, for a week or two, I was in clover.

Then the blow fell. Fribble had lied. I was in a totally different Club.
My name had more than once appeared on a notice-board I had never seen.
I had committed the serious crime of "skipping Clubs". The punishment
was a flogging administered by the Head of the Coll in the presence of
the assembled Coll Pres. To the Head of the Coll himself--a red-headed,
pimply boy with a name like Borage or Porridge--I can bear no grudge; it
was to him a routine matter. But I must give him a name because the real
point of the story requires it. The emissary (some Blood a little lower
than the Head himself) who summoned me to execution attempted to reveal
to me the heinousness of my crime by the words, "Who are you? Nobody.
Who is Porridge? THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON THERE IS."

I thought then, and I still think, that this rather missed the point.
There were two perfectly good morals he could have drawn. He might have
said, "We are going to teach you never to rely on second-hand
information when first-hand is available"--a very profitable lesson. Or
he might have said, "What made you think that a Blood could not be a
liar?" But, "Who are you? Nobody," however just, seems hardly relevant.
The implication is that I have skipped Club in arrogance or defiance.
And I puzzle endlessly over the question whether the speaker really
believed that. Did he really think it likely that an utterly helpless
stranger in a new society, a society governed by an irresistible class
on whose favour all his hopes of happiness depended, had set himself in
the first week to pull the nose of The Most Important Person There Is?
It is a problem which has met me many times in later life. What does a
certain type of examiner mean when he says, "To show up work like this
is an insult to the examiners"? Does he really think that the ploughed
candidate has insulted him?

Another problem is Fribble's share in my little catastrophe. Was his lie
to me a hoax, a practical joke? Was he paying off some old score against
my brother? Or was he (as I now think most likely) simply what our
ancestors called a Rattle, a man from whose mouth information, true and
false, flows out all day long without consideration, almost without
volition? Some might think that, whatever his motive had originally
been, he might have come forward and confessed his part when he saw what
I was in for. But that, you know, was hardly to be expected. He was a
very minor Blood, still climbing up the social stair; Burradge was
almost as far above Fribble as Fribble was above me. By coming forward
he would have imperilled his social position, in a community where
social advancement was the one thing that mattered; school is a
preparation for public life.

In justice to Wyvern, I must add that Fribble was not, by our standards,
quite a fair representative of Bloodery. He had offended against the
rules of gallantry in a manner which (my brother tells me) would have
been impossible in his day. I said just now that the Tarts were
solicited, not compelled. But Fribble did use all his prefectorial
powers for a whole term to persecute a boy called, let us say, Parsley
who had refused his suit. This was quite easy for Fribble to do. The
innumerable small regulations which a junior boy could break almost
unawares enabled a prefect to make sure that a given boy was nearly
always in trouble, while the fagging system made it easy to see that he
had no leisure at all at any hour of any day. So Parsley learned what it
was to refuse even a minor Blood. The story would be more impressive if
Parsley had been a virtuous boy and had refused on moral grounds.
Unfortunately he was "as common as a barber's chair", had been a
reigning toast in my brother's day, and was now almost past his bloom.
He drew the line at Fribble. But Fribble's attempt at coercion was the
only instance of its kind I ever knew.

Indeed, taking them by and large, and considering the temptations of
adolescents, so privileged, so flattered, our Bloods were not a bad lot.
The Count was even kindly. The Parrot was nothing worse than a grave
fool: "Yards-of-Face" they called him. Stopfish, whom some thought
cruel, even had moral principles; in his younger days many (I'm told)
had desired him as a Tart, but he had kept his virtue. "Pretty, but no
good to anyone; he's _pie_," would be the Wyvernian comment. The hardest
to defend, perhaps, is Tennyson. We did not much mind his being a
shoplifter; some people thought it rather clever of him to come back
from a tour of the town with more ties and socks than he had paid for.
We minded more his favourite punishment for us rabble, "a clip". Yet he
could truly have pleaded to the authorities that it meant merely a box
on the ear. He would not have added that the patient was made to stand
with his left ear, temple and cheek almost, but not quite, touching the
jamb of a doorway, and then struck with full force on the right. We also
grumbled a little in secret when he got up a tournament (either
explicitly or virtually compulsory, I think) in a game called Yard
Cricket, collected subscriptions, and neither held the tournament nor
returned the cash. But you will remember that this happened in the
Marconi period, and to be a prefect is a Preparation for Public Life.
And for all of them, even Tennyson, one thing can be said; they were
never drunk. I was told that their predecessors, a year before I came,
were sometimes very drunk indeed in the House corridor at mid-day. In
fact, odd as it would have sounded to an adult, I joined the House when
it was in a stern mood of moral rearmament. That was the point of a
series of speeches which the prefects addressed to us all in the House
Library during my first week. It was explained with a wealth of
threatenings that we were to be pulled Up or Together or wherever
decadents are pulled by moral reformers. Tennyson was very great on that
occasion. He had a fine bass voice and sang solos in the choir. I knew
one of his Tarts.

Peace to them all. A worse fate awaited them than the most vindictive
fag among us could have wished. Ypres and the Somme ate up most of them.
They were happy while their good days lasted.

My flogging by pimply old Ullage was no unmerciful affair in itself. The
real trouble was that I think I now became, thanks to Fribble, a marked
man; the sort of dangerous New Boy who skips Clubs. At least I think
that must have been the main reason why I was an object of dislike to
Tennyson. There were probably others. I was big for my age, a great lout
of a boy, and that sets one's seniors against one. I was also useless at
games. Worst of all, there was my face. I am the kind of person who gets
told, "And take that look off your face too." Notice, once more, the
mingled justice and injustice of our lives. No doubt in conceit or
ill-temper I have often intended to look insolent or truculent; but on
those occasions people don't appear to notice it. On the other hand, the
moments at which I was told to "take that look off" were usually those
when I intended to be most abject. Can there have been a freeman
somewhere among my ancestors whose expression, against my will, looked
out?

As I have hinted before, the fagging system is the chief medium by which
the Bloods, without breaking any rule, can make a junior boy's life a
weariness to him. Different schools have different kinds of fagging. At
some of them, individual Bloods have individual fags. This is the system
most often depicted in school stories; it is sometimes represented
as--and, for all I know, sometimes really is--a fruitful relation as of
knight and squire, in which service on the one part is rewarded with
some degree of countenance and protection on the other. But whatever its
merits may be, we never experienced them at Wyvern. Fagging with us was
as impersonal as the labour-market in Victorian England; in that way,
too, the Coll was a preparation for public life. All boys under a
certain seniority constituted a labour pool, the common property of all
the Bloods. When a Blood wanted his O.T.C. kit brushed and polished, or
his boots cleaned, or his study "done out", or his tea made, he shouted.
We all came running, and of course the Blood gave the work to the boy he
most disliked. The kit-cleaning--it took hours, and then, when you had
finished it, your own kit was still to do--was the most detested
_corve_. Shoe-cleaning was a nuisance not so much in itself as in its
attendant circumstances. It came at an hour which was vital for a boy
like me who, having won a scholarship, had been placed in a high form
and could hardly, by all his best efforts, keep up with the work. Hence
the success of one's whole day in Form might depend on the precious
forty minutes between breakfast and Morning School, when one went over
the set passages of translation with other boys in the same Form. This
could be done only if one escaped being fagged as a shoeblack. Not, of
course, that it takes forty minutes to clean a pair of shoes. What takes
the time is waiting in the queue of other fags in the "boot-hole" to get
your turn at the brushes and blacking. The whole look of that cellar,
the darkness, the smell, and (for most of the year) the freezing cold,
are a vivid memory. You must not of course suppose that, in those
spacious days, we lacked servants. There were two official "bootboys"
paid by the Housemaster for cleaning all boots and shoes, and everyone,
including us fags who had cleaned both our own shoes and the Bloods'
shoes daily, tipped the bootboys at the end of each term for their
services.

For a reason which all English readers will understand (others will hear
something of it in the next chapter) I am humiliated and embarrassed at
having to record that as time went on I came to dislike the fagging
system. No true defender of the Public Schools will believe me if I say
that I was tired. But I was--dog-tired, cab-horse tired, tired (almost)
like a child in a factory. Many things besides fagging contributed to
it. I was big and had possibly outgrown my strength. My work in Form was
almost beyond me. I was having a good deal of dental trouble at the
time, and many nights of clamorous pain. Never, except in the front line
trenches (and not always there) do I remember such aching and continuous
weariness as at Wyvern. Oh, the implacable day, the horror of waking,
the endless desert of hours that separated one from bed-time! And
remember that, even without fagging, a school day contains hardly any
leisure for a boy who does not like games. For him, to pass from the
form-room to the playing field is simply to exchange work in which he
can take some interest for work in which he can take none, in which
failure is more severely punished, and in which (worst of all) he must
feign an interest.

I think that this feigning, this ceaseless pretence of interest in
matters to me supremely boring, was what wore me out more than anything
else. If the reader will picture himself, unarmed, shut up for thirteen
weeks on end, night and day, in a society of fanatical golfers--or, if he
is a golfer himself, let him substitute fishermen, theosophists,
bimetallists, Baconians, or German undergraduates with a taste for
autobiography--who all carry revolvers and will probably shoot him if he
ever seems to lose interest in their conversation, he will have an idea
of my school life. Even the hardy Chowbok (in _Erewhon_) quailed at such
a destiny. For games (and gallantry) were the only subjects, and I cared
for neither. But I must seem to care for both, for a boy goes to a
Public School precisely to be made a normal, sensible boy--a good
mixer--to be taken out of himself; and eccentricity is severely
penalised.

You must not, from this, hastily conclude that most boys liked _playing_
games any better than I did. To escape Clubs was considered by dozens of
boys an obvious good. Leave off Clubs required the Housemaster's
signature, and that harmless Merovingian's signature was imitable. A
competent forger (I knew one member of the profession) by manufacturing
and selling forged signatures could make a steady addition to his pocket
money. The perpetual talk about games depended on three things. First,
on the same sort of genuine (though hardly practical) enthusiasm which
sends the crowds to the League Football Matches. Few wanted to play, but
many wanted to watch, to participate vicariously in the triumphs of the
Coll, or the House, team. Secondly, this natural feeling had the
vigilant backing of all the Bloods and nearly all the Masters. To be
lukewarm on such matters was the supreme sin. Hence enthusiasm had to be
exaggerated where it existed and simulated where it did not. At cricket
matches minor Bloods patrolled the crowd of spectators to detect and
punish any "slackness" in the applause; it reminds one of the
precautions taken when Nero sang. For of course the whole structure of
Bloodery would collapse if the Bloods played in the spirit of play, for
their recreation; there must be audience and limelight. And this brings
us to the third reason. For boys who were not yet Bloods but who had
some athletic promise, Games were essentially a _moyen de parvenir_.
There was nothing recreational about Clubs for them any more than for
me. They went to the playing fields not as men go to the tennis-club but
as stage-struck girls go to an Audition; tense and anxious, racked with
dazzling hopes and sickening fears, never in peace of mind till they had
won some notice which would set their feet on the first rung of the
social ladder. And not then at peace either; for not to advance is to
fall back.

The truth is that organised and compulsory games had, in my day,
banished the element of play from school life almost entirely. There was
no time to play (in the proper sense of the word). The rivalry was too
fierce, the prizes too glittering, the "hell of failure" too severe.

The only boy, almost, who "played" (but not at games) was our Irish
earl. But then he was an exception to all rules; not because of his
earldom but because he was an untamable Irishman, anarch in grain, whom
no society could iron out. He smoked a pipe in his first term. He went
off by night on strange expeditions to a neighbouring city; not, I
believe, for women, but for harmless rowdyism, low life, and adventure.
He always carried a revolver. I remember it well, for he had a habit of
loading one chamber only, rushing into your study, and then firing off
(if that is the right word) all the others at you, so that your life
depended on his counting accurately. I felt at the time, and I feel
still, that this (unlike the fagging) was the sort of thing no sensible
boy could object to. It was done in defiance both of masters and Bloods,
it was wholly useless, and there was no malice in it. I liked
Ballygunnian; he, too, was killed in France. I do not think he ever
became a Blood; if he had, he wouldn't have noticed it. He cared nothing
for the limelight or for social success. He passed through the Coll
without paying it any attention.

I suppose Popsy--the pretty red-head who was housemaid on "the Private
side"--might also rank as an element making for "play". Popsy, when
caught and carried bodily into our part of the House (I think by the
Count), was all giggles and screams. She was too sensible a girl to
surrender her "virtue" to any Blood; but it was rumoured that those who
found her in the right time and place might induce her to give certain
lessons in anatomy. Perhaps they lied.

I have hardly mentioned a Master yet. One master, dearly loved and
reverenced, will appear in the next chapter. But other masters are
hardly worth speaking of. It is difficult for parents (and more
difficult, perhaps, for schoolmasters) to realise the unimportance of
most masters in the life of a school. Of the good and evil which is done
to a schoolboy masters, in general, do little, and know less. Our own
Housemaster must have been an upright man, for he fed us excellently.
For the rest, he treated his House in a very gentlemanly, uninquisitive
way. He sometimes walked round the dormitories of a night, but he always
wore boots, trod heavily and coughed at the door. He was no spy and no
kill-joy, honest man. Live and let live.

As I grew more and more tired, both in body and mind, I came to hate
Wyvern. I did not notice the real harm it was doing to me. It was
gradually teaching me to be a prig; that is, an intellectual prig or (in
the bad sense) a High Brow. But that subject must wait for another
chapter. At the tail-end of this I must repeat (for this is the overall
impression left by Wyvern) that I was tired. Consciousness itself was
becoming the supreme evil; sleep, the prime good. To lie down, to be out
of the sound of voices, to pretend and grimace and evade and slink no
more, that was the object of all desire--if only there were not another
morning ahead--if only sleep could last for ever!




                          VII. Light and Shade


  _No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of comfort
  attending it._
                                                               GOLDSMITH

Here's a fellow, you say, who used to come before us as a moral and
religious writer, and now, if you please, he's written a whole chapter
describing his old school as a very furnace of impure loves without one
word on the heinousness of the sin. But there are two reasons. One you
shall hear before this chapter ends. The other is that, as I have said,
the sin in question is one of the two (gambling is the other) which I
have never been tempted to commit. I will not indulge in futile
philippics against enemies I never met in battle.

("This means, then, that all the other vices you have so largely written
about..." Well, yes, it does, and more's the pity; but it's nothing
to our purpose at the moment.)

I have now to tell you how Wyvern made me a prig. When I went there,
nothing was further from my mind than the idea that my private taste for
fairly good books, for Wagner, for mythology, gave me any sort of
superiority to those who read nothing but magazines and listened to
nothing but the (then fashionable) Rag-time. The claim might seem
unbelievable if I did not add that I had been protected from this sort
of conceit by downright ignorance. Mr. Ian Hay somewhere draws a picture
of the reading minority at a Public School in his day as boys who talked
about "G. B. S. and G. K. C." in the same spirit in which other boys
secretly smoked; both sets were inspired by the same craving for
forbidden fruit and the same desire to be grown-up. And I suppose boys
such as he describes might come from Chelsea or Oxford or Cambridge
homes where they heard things about contemporary literature. But my
position was wholly different. I was, for example, a great reader of
Shaw about the time I went to Wyvern, but I had never dreamed that
reading Shaw was anything to be proud of. Shaw was an author on my
father's shelves like any other author. I began reading him because his
_Dramatic Opinions_ contained a good deal about Wagner and Wagner's very
name was then a lure to me. Thence I went on to read most of the other
Shaws we had. But how his reputation stood in the literary world I
neither knew nor cared; I didn't know there was "a literary world". My
father told me Shaw was "a mountebank" but that there were some laughs
in _John Bull's Other Island_. It was the same with all my other
reading; no one (thank God) had ever admired or encouraged it. (William
Morris, for some unfathomable reason, my father always referred to as
"that whistlepainter".) I might be--no doubt I was--conceited at Chartres
for being good at my Latin; this was something recognised as
meritorious. But "Eng. Lit." was blessedly absent from the official
syllabus, so I was saved from any possibility of conceit about it. Never
in my life had I read a work of fiction, poetry, or criticism in my own
language except because, after trying the first few pages, I liked the
taste of it. I could not help knowing that most other people, boys and
grown-ups alike, did not care for the books I read. A very few tastes I
could share with my father, a few more with my brother; apart from that,
there was no point of contact, and this I accepted as a sort of natural
law. If I reflected on it at all, it would have given me, I think, a
slight feeling, not of superiority, but of inferiority. The latest
popular novel was so obviously a more adult, a more normal, a more
sophisticated taste than any of mine. A certain shame or bashfulness
attached itself to whatever one deeply and privately enjoyed. I went to
the Coll far more disposed to excuse my literary tastes than to plume
myself on them.

But this innocence did not last. It was, from the first, a little shaken
by all that I soon began to learn from my form-master about the glories
of literature. I was at last made free of the dangerous secret that
others had, like me, found there "enormous bliss" and been maddened by
beauty. Among the other New Bugs of my year, too, I met a pair of boys
who came from the Dragon School at Oxford (where Naomi Mitchison in her
'teens had just produced her first play) and from them also I got the
dim impression that there was a world I had never dreamed of, a world in
which poetry, say, was a thing public and accepted, just as Games and
Gallantry were accepted at Wyvern; nay, a world in which a taste for
such things was almost meritorious. I felt as Siegfried felt when it
first dawned on him that he was not Mime's son. What had been "my" taste
was apparently "our" taste (if only I could ever meet the "we" to whom
that "our" belonged). And if "our" taste, then--by a perilous
transition--perhaps "good" taste or "the right taste". For that
transition involves a kind of Fall. The moment good taste knows itself,
some of its goodness is lost. Even then, however, it is not necessary to
take the further downward step of despising the "philistines" who do not
share it. Unfortunately I took it. Hitherto, though increasingly
miserable at Wyvern, I had been half ashamed of my own misery, still
ready (if I were only allowed) to admire the Olympians, still a little
overawed, cowed rather than resentful. I had, you see, no standing place
against the Wyvernian _ethos_, no side for which I could play against
it; it was a bare "I" against what seemed simply the world. But the
moment that "I" became, however vaguely, a _we_--and Wyvern not _the_
world but _a_ world--the whole thing changed. It was now possible, at
least in thought, to retaliate. I can remember what may well have been
the precise moment of this transition. A prefect called Blugg or Glubb
or some such name stood opposite me, belching in my face, giving me some
order. The belching was not intended as an insult. You can't "insult" a
fag any more than an animal. If Bulb had thought of my reactions at all,
he would have expected me to find his eructations funny. What pushed me
over the edge into pure priggery was his face--the puffy bloated cheeks,
the thick, moist, sagging lower lip, the yokel blend of drowsiness and
cunning. "The lout!" I thought. "The clod! The dull, crass clown! For
all his powers and privileges, I would not be he." I had become a Prig,
a High-Brow.

The interesting thing is that the Public School system had thus produced
the very thing which it was advertised to prevent or cure. For you must
understand (if you have not been dipped in that tradition yourself) that
the whole thing was devised to "knock the nonsense" out of the smaller
boys and "put them in their place". "If the junior boys weren't fagged,"
as my brother once said, "they would become insufferable." That is why I
felt so embarrassed, a few pages ago, when I had to confess that I got
rather tired of perpetual fagging. If you say this, every true defender
of the system will diagnose your case at once, and they will all
diagnose it in the same way. "Ho-ho!" they will cry, "so _that's_ the
trouble! Thought yourself too good to black your betters' boots, did
you? That just shows how badly you needed to be fagged. It's to cure
young prigs like you that the system exists." That any cause except
"thinking yourself too good for it" might awaken discontent with a fag's
lot will not be admitted. You have only to transfer the thing to adult
life and you will, apparently, see the full logic of the position. If
some neighbouring V.I.P. had irresistible authority to call on you for
any service he pleased at any hour when you were not in the office--if,
when you came home on a summer evening, tired from work and with more
work to prepare against the morrow, he could drag you to the links and
make you his caddy till the light failed--if at last he dismissed you
unthanked with a suitcase full of his clothes to brush and clean and
return to him before breakfast, and a hamper full of his foul linen for
your wife to wash and mend--and if, under this regime, you were not
always perfectly happy and contented; where could the cause lie except
in your own vanity? What else, after all, could it be? For, almost by
definition, every offence a junior boy commits must be due to "cheek" or
"side"; and to be miserable, even to fall short of rapturous enthusiasm,
is an offence.

Obviously a certain grave danger was ever-present to the minds of those
who built up the Wyvernian hierarchy. It seemed to them self-evident
that, if you left things to themselves, boys of nineteen who played
rugger for the county and boxed for the school would everywhere be
knocked down and sat on by boys of thirteen. And that, you know, would
be a very shocking spectacle. The most elaborate mechanism, therefore,
had to be devised for protecting the strong against the weak, the close
corporation of Old Hands against the parcel of new-comers who were
strangers to one another and to everyone in the place, the poor,
trembling lions against the furious and ravening sheep.

There is, of course, some truth in it. Small boys can be cheeky; and
half an hour in the society of a French thirteen-year-old makes most of
us feel that there is something to be said for fagging after all. Yet I
cannot help thinking that the bigger boys would have been able to hold
their own without all the complicated assurances, pattings on the back,
and encouragement which the authorities gave them. For, of course, these
authorities, not content with knocking the "nonsense" out of the sheep,
were always coaxing and petting an at least equal quantity of "nonsense"
into the lions; power and privilege and an applauding audience for the
games they play. Might not the mere nature of boys have done all, and
rather more than all, that needed doing in this direction without
assistance?

But whatever the rationality of the design, I contend that it did not
achieve its object. For the last thirty years or so England has been
filled with a bitter, truculent, sceptical, debunking, and cynical
_intelligentsia_. A great many of them were at public schools, and I
believe very few of them liked it. Those who defend the schools will, of
course, say that these Prigs are the cases which the system failed to
cure; they were not kicked, mocked, fagged, flogged, and humiliated
enough. But surely it is equally possible that they are the products of
the system? that they were not Prigs at all when they came to their
schools but were made Prigs by their first year, as I was? For, really,
that would be a very natural result. Where oppression does not
completely and permanently break the spirit, has it not a natural
tendency to produce retaliatory pride and contempt? We reimburse
ourselves for cuffs and toil by a double dose of self-esteem. No one is
more likely to be arrogant than a lately freed slave.

I write, of course, only to neutral readers. With the wholehearted
adherents of the system there is no arguing, for, as we have already
seen, they have maxims and logic which the lay mind cannot apprehend. I
have even heard them defend compulsory games on the ground that all boys
"except a few rotters" like the games; they have to be compulsory
because no compulsion is needed. (I wish I had never heard chaplains in
the Armed Forces produce a similar argument in defence of the wicked
institution of Church Parades.)

But the essential evil of public school life, as I see it, did not lie
either in the sufferings of the fags or in the privileged arrogance of
the Bloods. These were symptoms of something more all-pervasive,
something which, in the long run, did most harm to the boys who
succeeded best at school and were happiest there. Spiritually speaking,
the deadly thing was that school life was a life almost wholly dominated
by the social struggle; to get on, to arrive, or, having reached the
top, to remain there, was the absorbing preoccupation. It is often, of
course, the preoccupation of adult life as well; but I have not yet seen
any adult society in which the surrender to this impulse was so total.
And from it, at school as in the world, all sorts of meanness flow; the
sycophancy that courts those higher in the scale, the cultivation of
those whom it is well to know, the speedy abandonment of friendships
that will not help on the upward path, the readiness to join the cry
against the unpopular, the secret motive in almost every action. The
Wyvernians seem to me in retrospect to have been the least spontaneous,
in that sense the least boyish, society I have ever known. It would
perhaps not be too much to say that in some boys' lives everything was
calculated to the great end of advancement. For this games were played;
for this clothes, friends, amusements, and vices were chosen.

And that is why I cannot give pederasty anything like a first place
among the evils of the Coll. There is much hypocrisy on this theme.
People commonly talk as if every other evil were more tolerable than
this. But why? Because those of us who do not share the vice feel for it
a certain nausea, as we do, say, for necrophily? I think that of very
little relevance to moral judgement. Because it produces permanent
perversion? But there is very little evidence that it does. The Bloods
would have preferred girls to boys if they could have come by them;
when, at a later age, girls were obtainable, they probably took them. Is
it then on Christian grounds? But how many of those who fulminate on the
matter are in fact Christians? And what Christian, in a society so
worldly and cruel as that of Wyvern, would pick out the carnal sins for
special reprobation? Cruelty is surely more evil than lust and the World
at least as dangerous as the Flesh. The real reason for all the pother
is, in my opinion, neither Christian nor ethical. We attack this vice
not because it is the worst but because it is, by adult standards, the
most disreputable and unmentionable, and happens also to be a crime in
English law. The World will lead you only to Hell; but sodomy may lead
you to jail and create a scandal, and lose you your job. The World, to
do it justice, seldom does that.

If those of us who have known a school like Wyvern dared to speak the
truth, we should have to say that pederasty, however great an evil in
itself, was, in that time and place, the only foothold or cranny left
for certain good things. It was the only counterpoise to the social
struggle; the one oasis (though green only with weeds and moist only
with foetid water) in the burning desert of competitive ambition. In his
unnatural love-affairs, and perhaps only there, the Blood went a little
out of himself, forgot for a few hours that he was One of the Most
Important People There Are. It softens the picture. A perversion was the
only chink left through which something spontaneous and uncalculating
could creep in. Plato was right after all. Eros, turned upside down,
blackened, distorted, and filthy, still bore the traces of his divinity.

What an answer, by the by, Wyvern was to those who derive all the ills
of society from economics! For money had nothing to do with its class
system. It was not (thank Heaven) the boys with threadbare coats who
became Punts, nor the boys with plenty of pocket-money who became
Bloods. According to some theorists, therefore, it ought to have been
entirely free from bourgeois vulgarities and iniquities. Yet I have ever
seen a community so competitive, so full of snobbery and flunkeyism, a
ruling class so selfish and so class-conscious, or a proletariat so
fawning, so lacking in all solidarity and sense of corporate honour. But
perhaps one hardly needs to cite experience for a truth so obvious _a
priori_. As Aristotle remarked, men do not become dictators in order to
keep warm. If a ruling class has some other source of strength, why need
it bother about money? Most of what it wants will be pressed upon it by
emulous flatterers; the rest can be taken by force.

There were two blessings at Wyvern that wore no disguise; one of them
was my form master, Smewgy as we called him. I spell the name so as to
insure the right pronunciation--the first syllable should rhyme exactly
with _Fugue_--though the Wyvernian spelling was "Smugy".

Except at Oldie's I had been fortunate in my teachers ever since I was
born; but Smewgy was "beyond expectation, beyond hope". He was a
grey-head with large spectacles and a wide mouth which combined to give
him a froglike expression, but nothing could be less froglike than his
voice. He was honey-tongued. Every verse he read turned into music on
his lips: something midway between speech and song. It is not the only
good way of reading verse, but it is the way to enchant boys; more
dramatic and less rhythmical ways can be learned later. He first taught
me the right sensuality of poetry, how it should be savoured and mouthed
in solitude. Of Milton's "Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues,
Powers" he said, "That line made me happy for a week." It was not the
sort of thing I had heard anyone say before. Nor had I ever met before
perfect courtesy in a teacher. It had nothing to do with softness;
Smewgy could be very severe, but it was the severity of a judge, weighty
and measured, without taunting--

  _He never yet no vileinye ne sayde_
  _In all his lyf unto no maner wight._

He had a difficult team to drive, for our form consisted partly of
youngsters, New Bugs with scholarships, starting there like myself, and
partly of veterans who had arrived there at the end of their slow
journey up the school. He made us a unity by his good manners. He always
addressed us as "gentlemen" and the possibility of behaving otherwise
seemed thus to be ruled out from the beginning; and in that room at
least the distinction between fags and Bloods never raised its head. On
a hot day, when he had given us permission to remove our coats, he asked
our permission before removing his gown. Once for bad work I was sent by
him to the Headmaster to be threatened and rated. The Headmaster
misunderstood Smewgy's report and thought there had been some complaint
about my manners. Afterward Smewgy got wind of the Head's actual words
and at once corrected the mistake, drawing me aside and saying, "There
has been some curious misunderstanding. I said nothing of the sort about
you. You will have to be whipped if you don't do better at your Greek
Grammar next week, but naturally that has nothing to do with your
manners or mine." The idea that the tone of conversation between one
gentleman and another should be altered by a flogging (any more than by
a duel) was ridiculous. His manner was perfect: no familiarity, no
hostility, no threadbare humour; mutual respect; decorum. "Never let us
live with _amousia_," was one of his favourite maxims: _amousia_, the
absence of the Muses. And he knew, as Spenser knew, that courtesy was of
the Muses.

Thus, even had he taught us nothing else, to be in Smewgy's form was to
be in a measure ennobled. Amidst all the banal ambition and flashy
splendours of school life he stood as a permanent reminder of things
more gracious, more humane, larger and cooler. But his teaching, in the
narrower sense, was equally good. He could enchant but he could also
analyse. An idiom or a textual crux, once expounded by Smewgy, became
clear as day. He made us feel that the scholar's demand for accuracy was
not merely pedantic, still less an arbitrary moral discipline, but
rather a niceness, a delicacy, to lack which argued "a gross and
swainish disposition". I began to see that the reader who misses
syntactical points in a poem is missing aesthetic points as well.

In those days a boy on the classical side officially did almost nothing
but classics. I think this was wise; the greatest service we can do to
education to-day is to teach fewer subjects. No one has time to do more
than a very few things well before he is twenty, and when we force a boy
to be a mediocrity in a dozen subjects we destroy his standards, perhaps
for life. Smewgy taught us Latin and Greek, but everything else came in
incidentally. The books I liked best under his teaching were Horace's
Odes, Aeneid IV, and Euripides' _Bacchae_. I had always in one sense
"liked" my classical work, but hitherto this had only been the pleasure
that everyone feels in mastering a craft. Now I tasted the classics as
poetry. Euripides' picture of Dionysus was closely linked in my mind
with the whole mood of Mr. Stephens' _Crock of Gold_, which I had lately
read for the first time with great excitement. Here was something very
different from the Northernness. Pan and Dionysus lacked the cold,
piercing appeal of Odin and Frey. A new quality entered my imagination:
something Mediterranean and volcanic, the orgiastic drum-beat.
Orgiastic, but not, or not strongly, erotic. It was perhaps
unconsciously connected with my growing hatred of the public school
orthodoxies and conventions, my desire to break and tear it all.

The other undisguised blessing of the Coll was "the Gurney", the school
library; not only because it was a library, but because it was
sanctuary. As the negro used to become free on touching English soil, so
the meanest boy was "unfaggable" once he was inside the Gurney. It was
not, of course, easy to get there. In the winter terms if you were not
on the list for "Clubs" you had to go out for a run. In summer you could
reach sanctuary of an afternoon only under favourable conditions. You
might be put down for Clubs, and that excluded you. Or there might be
either a House match or a Coll match which you were compelled to watch.
Thirdly, and most probably, on your way to the Gurney you might be
caught and fagged for the whole afternoon. But sometimes one succeeded
in running the gauntlet of all these dangers; and then--books, silence,
leisure, the distant sound of bat and ball ("Oh the brave music of a
_distant_ drum"), bees buzzing at the open windows, and freedom. In the
Gurney I found _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_ and tried, vainly but happily,
to hammer out the originals from the translation at the bottom of the
page. There too I found Milton, and Yeats, and a book on Celtic
mythology, which soon became, if not a rival, yet a humble companion, to
Norse. That did me good; to enjoy two mythologies (or three, now that I
had begun to love the Greek), fully aware of their differing flavours,
is a balancing thing, and makes for catholicity. I felt keenly the
difference between the stony and fiery sublimity of Asgard, the green,
leafy, amorous, and elusive world of Cruachan and the Red Branch and
Tir-nan-Og, the harder, more defiant, sun-bright beauty of Olympus. I
began (presumably in the holidays) an epic on Cuchulain and another on
Finn, in English hexameters and in fourteeners respectively. Luckily
they were abandoned before these easy and vulgar metres had time to
spoil my ear.

But the Northernness still came first and the only work I completed at
this time was a tragedy, Norse in subject and Greek in form. It was
called _Loki Bound_ and was as classical as any Humanist could have
desired, with Prologos, Parodos, Epeisodia, Stasima, Exodos,
Stichomythia, and (of course) one passage in trochaic _septenarii_--with
rhyme. I never enjoyed anything more. The content is significant. My
Loki was not merely malicious. He was against Odin because Odin had
created a world though Loki had clearly warned him that this was a
wanton cruelty. Why should creatures have the burden of existence forced
on them without their consent? The main contrast in my play was between
the sad wisdom of Loki and the brutal orthodoxy of Thor. Odin was partly
sympathetic; he could at least see what Loki meant and there had been
old friendship between those two before cosmic politics forced them
apart. Thor was the real villain, Thor with his hammer and his threats,
who was always egging Odin on against Loki and always complaining that
Loki did not sufficiently respect the major gods; to which Loki replied

  _I pay respect to wisdom not to strength._

Thor was, in fact, the symbol of the Bloods; though I see that more
clearly now than I did at the time. Loki was a projection of myself; he
voiced that sense of priggish superiority whereby I was, unfortunately,
beginning to compensate myself for my unhappiness.

The other feature in _Loki Bound_ which may be worth commenting on is
the pessimism. I was at this time living, like so many Atheists or
Antitheists, in a whirl of contradictions. I maintained that God did not
exist. I was also very angry with God for not existing. I was equally
angry with Him for creating a world.

How far was this pessimism, this desire not to have been, sincere? Well,
I must confess that this desire quite slipped out of my mind during the
seconds when I was covered by the wild Earl's revolver. By the
Chestertonian test, then, the test of _Manalive_, it was not sincere at
all. But I am still not convinced by Chesterton's argument. It is true
that when a pessimist's life is threatened he behaves like other men;
his impulse to preserve life is stronger than his judgement that life is
not worth preserving. But how does this prove that the judgement was
insincere or even erroneous? A man's judgement that whisky is bad for
him is not invalidated by the fact that when the bottle is at hand he
finds desire stronger than reason and succumbs. Having once tasted life,
we are subjected to the impulse of self-preservation. Life, in other
words, is as habit-forming as cocaine. What then? If I still held
creation to be "a great injustice" I should hold that this impulse to
retain life aggravates the injustice. If it is bad to be forced to drink
the potion, how does it mend matters that the potion turns out to be an
addiction drug? Pessimism cannot be answered so. Thinking as I then
thought about the universe, I was reasonable in condemning it. At the
same time I now see that my view was closely connected with a certain
lop-sidedness of temperament. I had always been more violent in my
negative than in my positive demands. Thus, in personal relations, I
could forgive much neglect more easily than the least degree of what I
regarded as interference. At table I could forgive much insipidity in my
food more easily than the least suspicion of what seemed to me excessive
or inappropriate seasoning. In the course of life I could put up with
any amount of monotony far more patiently than even the smallest
disturbance, bother, bustle, or what the Scotch call _kurfuffle_. Never
at any age did I clamour to be amused; always and at all ages (where I
dared) I hotly demanded not to be interrupted. The pessimism, or
cowardice, which would prefer non-existence itself to even the mildest
unhappiness was thus merely the generalisation of all these
pusillanimous preferences. And it remains true that I have, almost all
my life, been quite unable to feel that horror of nonentity, of
annihilation, which, say, Dr. Johnson felt so strongly. I felt it for
the very first time only in 1947. But that was after I had long been
re-converted and thus begun to know what life really is and what would
have been lost by missing it.




                             VIII. Release


  _As Fortune is wont, at her chosen hour,_
  _Whether she sends us solace or sore,_
  _The wight to whom she shows her power_
  _Will find that he gets still more and more._
                                                                   PEARL

A few chapters ago I warned the reader that the return of Joy had
introduced into my life a duality which makes it difficult to narrate.
Reading through what I have just written about Wyvern, I find myself
exclaiming, "Lies, lies! This was really a period of ecstasy. It
consisted chiefly of moments when you were too happy to speak, when the
gods and heroes rioted through your head, when satyrs danced and Maenads
roared on the mountains, when Brynhild and Sieglinde, Deirdre, Maeve and
Helen were all about you, till sometimes you felt that it might break
you with mere richness." And all that is true. There were more
Leprechauns than fags in that House. I have seen the victories of
Cuchulain more often than those of the first eleven. Was Borage the Head
of the Coll? or was it Conachar MacNessa? And the world itself--can I
have been unhappy, living in Paradise? What keen, tingling sunlight
there was! The mere smells were enough to make a man tipsy--cut grass,
dew-dabbled mosses, sweet pea, autumn woods, wood burning, peat, salt
water. The sense ached. I was sick with desire; that sickness better
than health. All this is true, but it does not make the other version a
lie. I am telling a story of two lives. They have nothing to do with
each other: oil and vinegar, a river running beside a canal, Jekyll and
Hyde. Fix your eye on either and it claims to be the sole truth. When I
remember my outer life I see clearly that the other is but momentary
flashes, seconds of gold scattered in months of dross, each instantly
swallowed up in the old, familiar, sordid, hopeless weariness. When I
remember my inner life I see that everything mentioned in the last two
chapters was merely a coarse curtain which at any moment might be drawn
aside to reveal all the heavens I then knew. The same duality perplexes
the story of my home life, to which I must now turn.

Once my brother had left Wyvern and I had gone to it, the classic period
of our boyhood was at an end. Something not so good succeeded it, but
this had long been prepared by slow development within the classic age
itself. All began, as I have said, with the fact that our father was out
of the house from nine in the morning till six at night. From the very
first we built up for ourselves a life that excluded him. He on his part
demanded a confidence even more boundless, perhaps, than a father
usually, or wisely, demands. One instance of this, early in my life, had
far reaching effects. Once when I was at Oldie's and had just begun to
try to live as a Christian I wrote out a set of rules for myself and put
them in my pocket. On the first day of the holidays, noticing that my
pockets bulged with all sorts of papers and that my coat was being
pulled out of all shape, he plucked out the whole pile of rubbish and
began to go through it. Boylike, I would have died rather than let him
see my list of good resolutions. I managed to keep them out of his reach
and get them into the fire. I do not see that either of us was to blame;
but never from that moment until the hour of his death did I enter his
house without first going through my own pockets and removing anything
that I wished to keep private.

A habit of concealment was thus bred before I had anything guilty to
conceal. By now I had plenty. And even what I had no wish to hide I
could not tell. To have told him what Wyvern or even Chartres was really
like would have been risky (he might write to the Headmaster) and
intolerably embarrassing. It would also have been impossible; and here I
must touch on one of his strangest characteristics.

My father--but these words, at the head of a paragraph, will carry the
reader's mind inevitably to _Tristram Shandy_. On second thoughts I am
content that they should. It is only in a Shandean spirit that my matter
can be approached. I have to describe something as odd and whimsical as
ever entered the brain of Sterne; and if I could, I would gladly lead
you to the same affection for my father as you have for Tristram's. And
now for the thing itself. You will have grasped that my father was no
fool. He had even a streak of genius in him. At the same time he
had--when seated in his own arm chair after a heavy mid-day dinner on an
August afternoon with all the windows shut--more power of confusing an
issue or taking up a fact wrongly than any man I have ever known. As a
result it was impossible to drive into his head any of the realities of
our school life, after which (nevertheless) he repeatedly enquired. The
first and simplest barrier to communication was that, having earnestly
asked, he did not "stay for an answer" or forgot it the moment it was
uttered. Some facts must have been asked for and told him, on a moderate
computation, once a week, and were received by him each time as perfect
novelties. But this was the simplest barrier. Far more often he retained
something, but something very unlike what you had said. His mind so
bubbled over with humour, sentiment, and indignation that, long before
he had understood or even listened to your words, some accidental hint
had set his imagination to work, he had produced his own version of the
facts, and believed that he was getting it from you. As he invariably
got proper names wrong (no name seemed to him less probable than
another) his _textus receptus_ was often almost unrecognisable. Tell him
that a boy called Churchwood had caught a fieldmouse and kept it as a
pet, and a year, or ten years later, he would ask you, "Did you ever
hear what became of poor Chickweed who was so afraid of the rats?" For
his own version, once adopted, was indelible, and attempts to correct it
only produced an incredulous "Hm! Well, that's not the story you _used_
to tell." Sometimes, indeed, he took in the facts you had stated; but
truth fared none the better for that. What are facts without
interpretation? It was axiomatic to my father (in theory) that nothing
was said or done from an obvious motive. Hence he who in his real life
was the most honourable and impulsive of men, and the easiest victim
that any knave or impostor could hope to meet, became a positive
Machiavel when he knitted his brows and applied to the behaviour of
people he had never seen the spectral and labyrinthine operation which
he called "reading between the lines". Once embarked upon that, he might
make his landfill anywhere in the wide world: and always with unshakable
conviction. "I see it all"--"I understand it perfectly"--"It's as plain as
a pikestaff," he would say; and then, as we soon learned, he would
believe till his dying day in some deadly quarrel, some slight, some
secret sorrow or some immensely complex machination, which was not only
improbable but impossible. Dissent on our part was attributed, with
kindly laughter, to our innocence, gullibility, and general ignorance of
life. And besides all these confusions, there were the sheer _non
sequiturs_ when the ground seemed to open at one's feet. "Did
Shakespeare spell his name with an E at the end?" asked my brother. "I
believe," said I--but my father interrupted: "I very much doubt if he
used the Italian calligraphy _at all_." A certain church in Belfast has
both a Greek inscription over the door and a curious tower. "That church
is a great landmark," said I, "I can pick it out from all sorts of
places--even from the top of Cave Hill." "Such nonsense," said my father,
"how could you make out Greek letters three or four miles away?"

One conversation, held several years later, may be recorded as a
specimen of these continual cross-purposes. My brother had been speaking
of a re-union dinner for the officers of the Nth Division which he had
lately attended. "I suppose your friend Collins was there," said my
father.

B. Collins? Oh no. He wasn't in the Nth, you know.

F. (After a pause.) Did these fellows not like Collins then?

B. I don't quite understand. What fellows?

F. The Johnnies that got up the dinner.

B. Oh no, not at all. It was nothing to do with liking or not liking.
You see, it was a purely Divisional affair. There'd be no question of
asking anyone who hadn't been in the Nth.

F. (After a long pause.) Hm! Well, I'm sure poor Collins was very much
hurt.

There are situations in which the very genius of Filial Piety would find
it difficult not to let some sign of impatience escape him.

I would not commit the sin of Ham. Nor would I, as historian, reduce a
complex character to a false simplicity. The man who, in his armchair,
sometimes appeared not so much incapable of understanding anything as
determined to misunderstand everything, was formidable in the police
court and, I presume, efficient in his office. He was a humorist, even,
on occasion, a wit. When he was dying, the pretty nurse, rallying him,
said, "What an old pessimist you are! You're just like my father." "I
suppose," replied her patient, "he has _several_ daughters."

The hours my father spent at home were thus hours of perplexity for us
boys. After an evening of the sort of conversation I have been
describing one felt as if one's head were spinning like a top. His
presence put an end to all our innocent as well as to all our forbidden
occupations. It is a hard thing--nay, a wicked thing--when a man is felt
to be an intruder in his own house. And yet, as Johnson said, "Sensation
is sensation." I am sure it was not his fault, I believe much of it was
ours; what is certain is that I increasingly found it oppressive to be
with him. One of his most amiable qualities helped to make it so. I have
said before that he "conned no state"; except during his Philippics he
treated us as equals. The theory was that we lived together more like
three brothers than like a father and two sons. That, I say, was the
theory. But of course it was not and could not be so; indeed ought not
to have been so. That relation cannot really exist between schoolboys
and a middle-aged man of overwhelming personality and of habits utterly
unlike theirs. And the pretence that it does ends by putting a curious
strain on the juniors. Chesterton has laid his finger on the weak point
of all such factitious equality: "If a boy's aunts are his pals, will it
not soon follow that a boy needs no pals but his aunts?" That was not,
of course, the question for us; we wanted no pals. But we did want
liberty, if only liberty to walk about the house. And my father's theory
that we were three boys together actually meant that while he was at
home we were as closely bound to his presence as if the three of us had
been chained together; and all our habits were frustrated. Thus if my
father came home unexpectedly at midday, having allowed himself an extra
half-holiday, he might, if it were summer, find us with chairs and books
in the garden. An austere parent, of the formal school, would have gone
in to his own adult occupations. Not so my father. Sitting in the
garden? An excellent idea. But would not all three of us be better on
the summer-seat? Thither, after he had assumed one of his "light spring
overcoats", we would go. (I do not know how many overcoats he had; I am
still wearing two of them.) After sitting for a few minutes, thus clad,
on a shadeless seat where the noonday sun was blistering the paint, he
not unnaturally began to perspire. "I don't know what you two think," he
would say, "but I'm finding this almost _too_ hot. What about moving
indoors?" That meant an adjournment to the study, where even the
smallest chink of open window was rather grudgingly allowed. I say
"allowed", but there was no question of authority. In theory, everything
was decided by the general Will. "Liberty Hall, boys, Liberty Hall," as
he delighted to quote. "What time would you like lunch?" But we knew
only too well that the meal which would otherwise have been at one had
already been shifted, in obedience to his lifelong preference, to two or
even two-thirty; and that the cold meats which we liked had already been
withdrawn in favour of the only food our father ever voluntarily ate--hot
butcher's meat, boiled, stewed or roast... and this to be eaten in
mid-afternoon in a dining-room that faced south. For the whole of the
rest of the day, whether sitting or walking, we were inseparable; and
the speech (you see that it could hardly be called conversation), the
speech with its cross-purposes, with its tone (inevitably) always set by
him, continued intermittently till bedtime. I should be worse than a dog
if I blamed my lonely father for thus desiring the friendship of his
sons; or even if the miserable return I made him did not to this day lie
heavy on my conscience. But "sensation is sensation". It was
extraordinarily tiring. And in my own contributions to these endless
talks--which were indeed too adult for me, too anecdotal, too
prevailingly jocular--I was increasingly aware of an artificiality. The
anecdotes were, indeed, admirable in their kind: business stories,
Mahaffy stories (many of which I found attached to Jowett at Oxford),
stories of ingenious swindles, social blunders, police-court "drunks".
But I was acting when I responded to them. Drollery, whimsicality, the
kind of humour that borders on the fantastic, was my line. I had to act.
My father's geniality and my own furtive disobediences both helped to
drive me into hypocrisy. I could not "be myself" while he was at home.
God forgive me, I thought Monday morning, when he went back to his work,
the brightest jewel in the week.

Such was the situation which developed during the classic period. Now,
when I had gone to Wyvern and my brother to a tutor to prepare for
Sandhurst, there came a change. My brother had liked Wyvern as much as I
loathed it. There were many reasons for this: his more adaptable temper,
his face which bore no such smack-inviting signature as mine, but most
of all the fact that he had gone there straight from Oldie's and I from
a preparatory school where I had been happy. No school in England but
would have appeared a heaven on earth after Oldie's. Thus in one of his
first letters from Wyvern my brother communicated the startling fact
that you could really eat as much (or as little) as you wanted at table.
To a boy fresh from the school at Belsen, this alone would have
outweighed almost everything else. But by the time I went to Wyvern I
had learned to take decent feeding for granted. And now a terrible thing
happened. My reaction to Wyvern was perhaps the first great
disappointment my brother had ever experienced. Loving the place as he
did, he had looked forward to the days when this too could be shared
between us--an _idem sentire_ about Wyvern succeeding an _idem sentire_
about Boxen. Instead he heard, from me, blasphemies against all his
gods; from Wyvern, that his young brother looked like becoming a Coll
Punt. The immemorial league between us was strained, all but broken.

All this was cruelly complicated by the fact that relations between my
father and my brother were never before or since so bad as at this time;
and Wyvern was behind that too. My brother's reports had grown worse and
worse; and the tutor to whom he had now been sent confirmed them to the
extent of saying that he seemed to have learned almost nothing at
school. Nor was that all. Sentences savagely underlined in my father's
copy of _The Lanchester Tradition_ reveal his thoughts. They are
passages about a certain glazed insolence, an elaborate, heartless
flippancy, which the reforming Headmaster in that story encountered in
the Bloods of the school he wished to reform. That was how my father
envisaged my brother at this period: flippant, languid, emptied of the
intellectual interests which had appeared in his earlier boyhood,
immovable, indifferent to all real values, and urgent in his demand for
a motor-bicycle.

It was, of course, to turn us into public-school boys that my father had
originally sent us to Wyvern; the finished product appalled him. It is a
familiar tragi-comedy and you can study it in Lockhart; Scott laboured
hard to make his son a hussar, but when the actual hussar was presented
to him, Scott sometimes forgot the illusion of being an aristocrat and
became once more a respectable Edinburgh lawyer with strong views about
Puppyism. So in our family. Mispronunciation was one of my father's
favourite rhetorical weapons. He now always sounded the first syllable
of Wyvern wrongly. I can still hear him growl, "Wyvernian affectation."
In proportion as my brother's tone became languid and urbanely weary, so
my father's voice became more richly and energetically Irish, and all
manner of strange music from his boyhood in Cork and Dublin forced its
way up through the more recent Belfastian crust.

During these miserable debates I occupied a most unfortunate position.
To have been on my father's side and against my brother I should have
had to unmake myself; it was a state of parties outside my whole
philosophy of domestic politics. It was all very disagreeable.

Yet out of this "unpleasantness" (a favourite word of my father's) there
sprang what I still reckon, by merely natural standards, the most
fortunate thing that ever happened to me. The tutor (in Surrey) to whom
my brother had been sent was one of my father's oldest friends. He had
been headmaster of Lurgan when my father was a boy there. In a
surprisingly short time he so re-built and extended the ruins of my
brother's education that he not only passed into Sandhurst but was
placed among those very few candidates at the top of the list who
received prize cadetships. I do not think my father ever did justice to
my brother's achievement; it came at a time when the gulf between them
was too wide, and when they were friends again it had become ancient
history. But he saw very clearly what it proved about the exceptional
powers of his teacher. At the same time, he was almost as sick as I of
the very name of Wyvern. And I never ceased, by letter and by word of
mouth, to beg that I might be taken away. All these factors urged him to
the decision which he now made. Might it not after all be best to give
me my desire? to have done with school for good and send me also to
Surrey to read for the University with Mr. Kirkpatrick? He did not form
this plan without much doubt and hesitation. He did his best to put all
the risks before me: the dangers of solitude, the sudden change from the
life and bustle of a great school (which change I might not like so much
as I anticipated), the possibly deadening effect of living with only an
old man and his old wife for company. Should I really be happy with no
companions of my own age? I tried to look very grave at these questions.
But it was all imposture. My heart laughed. Happy without other boys?
Happy without toothache, without chilblains, happy without pebbles in my
shoes? And so the arrangement was made. If it had had nothing else to
recommend it, the mere thought, "Never, never, never, shall I have to
play games again," was enough to transport me. If you want to know how I
felt, imagine your own feelings on waking one morning to find that
income tax or unrequited love had somehow vanished from the world.

I should be sorry if I were understood to think, or if I encouraged any
reader in thinking, that this invincible dislike of doing things with a
bat or a ball were other than a misfortune. Not, indeed, that I allow to
games any of the moral and almost mystical virtue which schoolmasters
claim for them; they seem to me to lead to ambition, jealousy, and
embittered partisan feeling, quite as often as to anything else. Yet not
to like them is a misfortune, because it cuts you off from companionship
with many excellent people who can be approached in no other way. A
misfortune, not a vice; for it is involuntary. I had tried to like games
and failed. That impulse had been left out of my make-up; I was to
games, as the proverb has it, like an ass to the harp.

It is a curious truth, noticed by many writers, that good fortune is
nearly always followed by more good fortune, and bad, by more bad. About
the same time that my Father decided to send me to Mr. Kirkpatrick,
another great good came to me. Many chapters ago I mentioned a boy who
lived near us and who had tried, quite unsuccessfully, to make friends
with my brother and myself. His name was Arthur and he was my brother's
exact contemporary; he and I had been at Campbell together though we
never met. I think it was shortly before the beginning of my last term
at Wyvern that I received a message saying that Arthur was in bed,
convalescent, and would welcome a visit. I can't remember what led me to
accept this invitation, but for some reason I did.

I found Arthur sitting up in bed. On the table beside him lay a copy of
_Myths of the Norsemen_.

"Do _you_ like that?" said I.

"Do _you_ like that?" said he.

Next moment the book was in our hands, our heads were bent close
together, we were pointing, quoting, talking--soon almost
shouting--discovering in a torrent of questions that we liked not only
the same thing, but the same parts of it and in the same way; that both
knew the stab of Joy and that, for both, the arrow was shot from the
North. Many thousands of people have had the experience of finding the
first friend, and it is none the less a wonder; as great a wonder
(_pace_ the novelists) as first love, or even a greater. I had been so
far from thinking such a friend possible that I had never even longed
for one; no more than I longed to be King of England. If I had found
that Arthur had independently built up an exact replica of the Boxonian
world I should not really have been much more surprised. Nothing, I
suspect, is more astonishing in any man's life than the discovery that
there do exist people very, very like himself.

During my last few weeks at Wyvern strange stories began to appear in
the papers, for this was the summer of 1914. I remember how a friend and
I puzzled over a column that bore the headline "Can England keep out of
it?" "Keep out of it?" said he, "I don't see how she can get into it."
Memory paints the last hours of that term in slightly apocalyptic
colours, and perhaps memory lies. Or perhaps for me it was apocalyptic
enough to know that I was leaving, to see all those hated things for the
last time; yet not simply (at that moment) to hate them. There is a
"rumness", a ghostliness, about even a Windsor chair when it says, "You
will not see me again." Early in the holidays we declared war. My
brother, then on leave from Sandhurst, was recalled. Some weeks later I
went to Mr. Kirkpatrick at Great Bookham in Surrey.




                          IX. The Great Knock


  _You will often meet with characters in nature so extravagant that a
  discreet poet would not venture to set them upon the stage._
                                                       LORD CHESTERFIELD

On a September day, having crossed to Liverpool and reached London, I
made my way to Waterloo and ran down to Great Bookham. I had been told
that Surrey was "suburban", and the landscape that actually flitted past
the windows astonished me. I saw steep little hills, watered valleys,
and wooded commons which ranked by my Wyvernian and Irish standards as
forests; bracken everywhere; a world of red and russet and yellowish
greens. Even the sprinkling of suburban villas (much rarer then than
now) delighted me. These timbered and red-tiled houses, embosomed in
trees, were wholly unlike the stuccoed monstrosities which formed the
suburbs of Belfast. Where I had expected gravel drives and iron gates
and interminable laurels and monkey puzzlers, I saw crooked paths
running up or down hill from wicket gates, between fruit trees and
birches. By a severer taste than mine these houses would all be mocked
perhaps; yet I cannot help thinking that those who designed them and
their gardens achieved their object, which was to suggest Happiness.
They filled me with a desire for that domesticity which, in its full
development, I had never known; they set one thinking of tea trays.

At Bookham I was met by my new teacher--"Kirk" or "Knock" or the Great
Knock as my father, my brother, and I all called him. We had heard about
him all our lives and I therefore had a very clear impression of what I
was in for. I came prepared to endure a perpetual luke-warm shower bath
of sentimentality. That was the price I was ready to pay for the
infinite blessedness of escaping school; but a heavy price. One story of
my father's, in particular, gave me the most embarrassing forebodings.
He had loved to tell how once at Lurgan, when he was in some kind of
trouble or difficulty, the Old Knock, or the dear Old Knock, had drawn
him aside and there "quietly and naturally" slid his arm round him and
rubbed his dear old whiskers against my father's youthful cheek and
whispered a few words of comfort.... And here was Bookham at last,
and there was the arch-sentimentalist himself waiting to meet me.

He was over six feet tall, very shabbily dressed (like a gardener, I
thought), lean as a rake, and immensely muscular. His wrinkled face
seemed to consist entirely of muscles, so far as it was visible; for he
wore moustache and side whiskers with a clean-shaven chin like the
Emperor Franz Joseph. The whiskers, you will understand, concerned me
very much at that moment. My cheek already tingled in anticipation.
Would he begin at once? There would be tears for certain; perhaps worse
things. It is one of my lifelong weaknesses that I never could endure
the embrace or kiss of my own sex. (An unmanly weakness, by the way;
Aeneas, Beowulf, Roland, Launcelot, Johnson, and Nelson knew nothing of
it.)

Apparently, however, the old man was holding his fire. We shook hands,
and though his grip was like iron pincers it was not lingering. A few
minutes later we were walking away from the station.

"You are now," said Kirk, "proceeding along the principal artery between
Great and Little Bookham."

I stole a glance at him. Was this geographical exordium a heavy joke? Or
was he trying to conceal his emotions? His face, however, showed only an
inflexible gravity. I began to "make conversation" in the deplorable
manner which I had acquired at those evening parties and indeed found
increasingly necessary to use with my father. I said I was surprised at
the "scenery" of Surrey; it was much "wilder" than I had expected.

"Stop!" shouted Kirk with a suddenness that made me jump. "What do you
mean by wildness and what grounds had you for not expecting it?"

I replied I don't know what, still "making conversation". As answer
after answer was torn to shreds it at last dawned upon me that he really
wanted to know. He was not making conversation, nor joking, nor snubbing
me; he wanted to know. I was stung into attempting a real answer. A few
passes sufficed to show that I had no clear and distinct idea
corresponding to the word "wildness", and that, in so far as I had any
idea at all, "wildness" was a singularly inept word. "Do you not see,
then," concluded the Great Knock, "that your remark was meaningless?" I
prepared to sulk a little, assuming that the subject would now be
dropped. Never was I more mistaken in my life. Having analysed my terms,
Kirk was proceeding to deal with my proposition as a whole. On what had
I based (but he pronounced it _baized_) my expectations about the Flora
and Geology of Surrey? Was it maps, or photographs, or books? I could
produce none. It had, heaven help me, never occurred to me that what I
called my thoughts needed to be "baized" on anything. Kirk once more
drew a conclusion--without the slightest sign of emotion, but equally
without the slightest concession to what I thought good manners: "Do you
not see, then, that you had no right to have any opinion whatever on the
subject?"

By this time our acquaintance had lasted about three and a half minutes;
but the tone set by this first conversation was preserved without a
single break during all the years I spent at Bookham. Anything more
grotesquely unlike the "dear Old Knock" of my father's reminiscences
could not be conceived. Knowing my father's invariable intention of
veracity and also knowing what strange transformations every truth
underwent when once it entered his mind, I am sure he did not mean to
deceive us. But if Kirk at any time of his life took a boy aside and
there "quietly and naturally" rubbed the boy's face with his whiskers, I
shall as easily believe that he sometimes varied the treatment by
quietly and naturally standing on his venerable and egg-bald head.

If ever a man came near to being a purely logical entity, that man was
Kirk. Born a little later, he would have been a Logical Positivist. The
idea that human beings should exercise their vocal organs for any
purpose except that of communicating or discovering truth was to him
preposterous. The most casual remark was taken as a summons to
disputation. I soon came to know the differing values of his three
openings. The loud cry of "Stop!" was flung in to arrest a torrent of
verbiage which could not be endured a moment longer; not because it
fretted his patience (he never thought of that) but because it was
wasting time, darkening counsel. The hastier and quieter "Excuse!" (i.e.
"Excuse me") ushered in a correction or distinction merely parenthetical
and betokened that, thus set right, your remark might still, without
absurdity, be allowed to reach completion. The most encouraging of all
was, "I hear you." This meant that your remark was significant and only
required refutation; it had risen to the dignity of error. Refutation
(when we got so far) always followed the same lines. Had I read this?
Had I studied that? Had I any statistical evidence? Had I any evidence
in my own experience? And so to the almost inevitable conclusion, "Do
you not see then that you had no right, etc."

Some boys would not have liked it; to me it was red beef and strong
beer. I had taken it for granted that my leisure hours at Bookham would
be passed in "grown-up conversation". And that, as you know already, I
had no taste for. In my experience it meant conversation about politics,
money, deaths, and digestion. I assumed that a taste for it, as for
eating mustard or reading newspapers, would develop in me when I grew
older (so far, all three expectations have been disappointed). The only
two kinds of talk I wanted were the almost purely imaginative and the
almost purely rational; such talk as I had about Boxen with my brother
or about Valhalla with Arthur, on the one hand, or such talk as I had
had with my uncle Gussie about astronomy on the other. I could never
have gone far in any science because on the path of every science the
lion Mathematics lies in wait for you. Even in Mathematics, whatever
could be done by mere reasoning (as in simple geometry) I did with
delight; but the moment calculation came in I was helpless. I grasped
the principles but my answers were always wrong. Yet though I could
never have been a scientist, I had scientific as well as imaginative
impulses, and I loved ratiocination. Kirk excited and satisfied one side
of me. Here was talk that was really about something. Here was a man who
thought not about you but about what you said. No doubt I snorted and
bridled a little at some of my tossings; but, taking it all in all, I
loved the treatment. After being knocked down sufficiently often I began
to know a few guards and blows, and to put on intellectual muscle. In
the end, unless I flatter myself, I became a not contemptible sparring
partner. It was a great day when the man who had so long been engaged in
exposing my vagueness at last cautioned me against the dangers of
excessive subtlety.

If Kirk's ruthless dialectic had been merely a pedagogic instrument I
might have resented it. But he knew no other way of talking. No age or
sex was spared the elenchus. It was a continuous astonishment to him
that anyone should not desire to be clarified or corrected. When a very
dignified neighbour, in the course of a Sunday call, observed with an
air of finality, "Well, well, Mr. Kirkpatrick, it takes all sorts to
make a world. You are a Liberal and I am a Conservative; we naturally
look at the facts from different angles," Kirk replied, "What do you
mean? Are you asking me to picture Liberals and Conservatives playing
peep-bo at a rectangular Fact from opposite sides of a table?" If an
unwary visitor, hoping to waive a subject, observed, "Of course, I know
opinions differ----" Kirk would raise both his hands and exclaim, "Good
heavens! I have no _opinions_ on any subject whatsoever." A favourite
maxim was, "You can have enlightenment for ninepence but you prefer
ignorance." The commonest metaphors would be questioned till some bitter
truth had been forced from its hiding place. "These fiendish German
atrocities----" "But are not fiends a figment of the imagination?"--"Very
well, then; these brutal atrocities----" "But none of the brutes does
anything of the kind!"--"Well, what am I to call them?" "Is it not plain
that we must call them simply _Human_?" What excited his supreme
contempt was the conversation of other Headmasters, which he had
sometimes had to endure at conferences when he himself was Head of
Lurgan. "They would come and ask me, 'What attitude do you adopt to a
boy who does so-and-so?' Good Heavens! As if I ever adopted an attitude
to anybody or anything!" Sometimes, but rarely, he was driven to irony.
On such occasions his voice became even weightier than usual and only
the distention of his nostrils betrayed the secret to those who knew
him. It was in such fashion that he produced his _dictum_, "The Master
of Balliol is one of the most important beings in the universe."

It will be imagined that Mrs. Kirkpatrick led a somewhat uneasy life:
witness the occasion on which her husband by some strange error found
himself in the drawing-room at the beginning of what his lady had
intended to be a bridge party. About half an hour later she was observed
to leave the room with a remarkable expression on her face; and many
hours later still the Great Knock was discovered sitting on a stool in
the midst of seven elderly ladies ("ful drery was hire chere") begging
them to clarify their terms.

I have said that he was almost wholly logical; but not quite. He had
been a Presbyterian and was now an Atheist. He spent Sunday, as he spent
most of his time on week-days, working in his garden. But one curious
trait from his Presbyterian youth survived. He always, on Sundays,
gardened in a different, and slightly more respectable, suit. An Ulster
Scot may come to disbelieve in God, but not to wear his week-day clothes
on the Sabbath.

Having said that he was an Atheist, I hasten to add that he was a
"Rationalist" of the old, high and dry nineteenth-century type. For
Atheism has come down in the world since those days, and mixed itself
with politics and learned to dabble in dirt. The anonymous donor who now
sends me anti-God magazines hopes, no doubt, to hurt the Christian in
me; he really hurts the ex-Atheist. I am ashamed that my old mates and
(which matters much more) Kirk's old mates should have sunk to what they
are now. It was different then; even McCabe wrote like a man. At the
time when I knew him, the fuel of Kirk's Atheism was chiefly of the
anthropological and pessimistic kind. He was great on _The Golden Bough_
and Schopenhauer.

The reader will remember that my own Atheism and Pessimism were fully
formed before I went to Bookham. What I got there was merely fresh
ammunition for the defence of a position already chosen. Even this I got
indirectly from the tone of his mind or independently from reading his
books. He never attacked religion in my presence. It is the sort of fact
that no one would infer from an outside knowledge of my life, but it is
a fact.

I arrived at Gastons (so the Knock's home was called) on a Saturday, and
he announced that we would begin Homer on Monday. I explained that I had
never read a word in any dialect but the Attic, assuming that when he
knew this he would approach Homer through some preliminary lessons on
the Epic language. He replied merely with a sound very frequent in his
conversation which I can only spell "Huh". I found this rather
disquieting; and I woke on Monday saying to myself, "Now for Homer.
Golly!" The name struck awe into my soul. At nine o'clock we sat down to
work in the little upstairs study which soon became so familiar to me.
It contained a sofa (on which we sat side by side when he was working
with me), a table and chair (which I used when I was alone), a bookcase,
a gas stove, and a framed photograph of Mr. Gladstone. We opened our
books at _Iliad_, Book I. Without a word of introduction Knock read
aloud the first twenty lines or so in the "new" pronunciation, which I
had never heard before. Like Smewgy, he was a chanter; less mellow in
voice, yet his frill gutturals and rolling R's and more varied vowels
seemed to suit the bronze-age epic as well as Smewgy's honey tongue had
suited Horace. For Kirk, even after years of residence in England, spoke
the purest Ulster. He then translated, with a few, a very few
explanations, about a hundred lines. I had never seen a classical author
taken in such large gulps before. When he had finished he handed me over
Crusius' _Lexicon_ and, having told me to go through again as much as I
could of what he had done, left the room. It seems an odd method of
teaching, but it worked. At first I could travel only a very short way
along the trail he had blazed, but every day I could travel further.
Presently I could travel the whole way. Then I could go a line or two
beyond his furthest North. Then it became a kind of game to see how far
beyond. He appeared at this stage to value speed more than absolute
accuracy. The great gain was that I very soon became able to understand
a great deal without (even mentally) translating it; I was beginning to
think in Greek. That is the great Rubicon to cross in learning any
language. Those in whom the Greek word lives only while they are hunting
for it in the lexicon, and who then substitute the English word for it,
are not reading the Greek at all; they are only solving a puzzle. The
very formula, "_Naus_ means a ship," is wrong. _Naus_ and _ship_ both
mean a thing, they do not mean one another. Behind _Naus_, as behind
_navis_ or _naca_, we want to have a picture of a dark, slender mass
with sail or oars, climbing the ridges, with no officious English word
intruding.

We now settled into a routine which has ever since served in my mind as
an archtype, so that what I still mean when I speak of a "normal" day
(and lament that normal days are so rare) is a day of the Bookham
pattern. For if I could please myself I would always live as I lived
there. I would choose always to breakfast at exactly eight and to be at
my desk by nine, there to read or write till one. If a cup of good tea
or coffee could be brought me about eleven, so much the better. A step
or so out of doors for a pint of beer would not do quite so well; for a
man does not want to drink alone and if you meet a friend in the
tap-room the break is likely to be extended beyond its ten minutes. At
one precisely lunch should be on the table; and by two at the latest I
would be on the road. Not, except at rare intervals, with a friend.
Walking and talking are two very great pleasures, but it is a mistake to
combine them. Our own noise blots out the sounds and silences of the
out-door world; and talking leads almost inevitably to smoking, and then
farewell to nature as far as one of our senses is concerned. The only
friend to walk with is one (such as I found, during the holidays, in
Arthur) who so exactly shares your taste for each mood of the
countryside that a glance, a halt, or at most a nudge, is enough to
assure us that the pleasure is shared. The return from the walk, and the
arrival of tea, should be exactly coincident, and not later than a
quarter past four. Tea should be taken in solitude, as I took it at
Bookham on those (happily numerous) occasions when Mrs. Kirkpatrick was
out; the Knock himself disdained this meal. For eating and reading are
two pleasures that combine admirably. Of course not all books are
suitable for meal-time reading. It would be a kind of blasphemy to read
poetry at table. What one wants is a gossipy, formless book which can be
opened anywhere. The ones I learned so to use at Bookham were Boswell,
and a translation of Herodotus, and Lang's _History of English
Literature_. _Tristram Shandy_, _Elia_ and the _Anatomy of Melancholy_
are all good for the same purpose. At five a man should be at work
again, and at it till seven. Then, at the evening meal and after, comes
the time for talk, or, failing that, for lighter reading; and unless you
are making a night of it with your cronies (and at Bookham I had none)
there is no reason why you should ever be in bed later than eleven. But
when is a man to write his letters? You forget that I am describing the
happy life I led with Kirk or the ideal life I would live now if I
could. And it is an essential of the happy life that a man would have
almost no mail and never dread the postman's knock. In those blessed
days I received, and answered, only two letters a week; one from my
father, which was a matter of duty, and one from Arthur which was the
high light of the week, for we poured out to each other on paper all the
delight that was intoxicating us both. Letters from my brother, now on
active service, were longer and rarer, and so were my replies.

Such is my ideal, and such then (almost) was the reality, of "settled,
calm, Epicurean life". It is no doubt for my own good that I have been
so generally prevented from leading it, for it is a life almost entirely
selfish. Selfish, not self centred: for in such a life my mind would be
directed towards a thousand things, not one of which is myself. The
distinction is not unimportant. One of the happiest men and most
pleasing companions I have ever known was intensely selfish. On the
other hand I have known people capable of real sacrifice whose lives
were nevertheless a misery to themselves and to others, because
self-concern and self-pity filled all their thoughts. Either condition
will destroy the soul in the end. But till the end, give me the man who
takes the best of everything (even at my expense) and then talks of
other things, rather than the man who serves me and talks of himself,
and whose very kindnesses are a continual reproach, a continual demand
for pity, gratitude, and admiration.

Kirk did not, of course, make me read nothing but Homer. The Two Great
Bores (Demosthenes and Cicero) could not be avoided. There were (oh
glory!) Lucretius, Catullus, Tacitus, Herodotus. There was Virgil, for
whom I still had no true taste. There were Greek and Latin compositions.
(It is a strange thing that I have contrived to reach my late fifties
without ever reading one word of Caesar.) There were Euripides,
Sophocles, Aeschylus. In the evenings there was French with Mrs.
Kirkpatrick, treated much as her husband treated Homer. We got through a
great many good novels in this way and I was soon buying French books on
my own. I had hoped there would be English essays, but whether because
he felt he could not endure mine or because he soon guessed that I was
already only too proficient in that art (which he almost certainly
despised) Kirk never set me one. For the first week or so he gave me
directions about my English reading, but when he discovered that, left
to myself, I was not likely to waste my time, he gave me absolute
freedom. Later in my career we branched out into German and Italian.
Here his methods were the same. After the very briefest contact with
Grammars and Exercises I was plunged into _Faust_ and the _Inferno_. In
Italian we succeeded. In German I have little doubt that we should
equally have succeeded if I had stayed with him a little longer. But I
left too soon and my German has remained all my life that of a
schoolboy. Whenever I have set about rectifying this, some other and
more urgent task has always interrupted me.

But Homer came first. Day after day and month after month we drove
gloriously onward, tearing the whole _Achilleid_ out of the _Iliad_ and
tossing the rest on one side, and then reading the _Odyssey_ entire,
till the music of the thing and the clear, bitter brightness that lives
in almost every formula had become part of me. Of course my appreciation
was very romanticised--the appreciation of a boy soaked in William
Morris. But this slight error saved me from that far deeper error of
"classicism" with which the Humanists have hoodwinked half the world. I
cannot therefore deeply regret the days when I called Circe a
"wise-wife" and every marriage a "high-tide". That has all burned itself
out and left no snuff, and I can now enjoy the _Odyssey_ in a maturer
way. The wanderings mean as much as ever they did; the great moment of
"eucatastrophe" (as Professor Tolkien would call it) when Odysseus
strips off his rags and bends the bow, means more; and perhaps what now
pleases me best of all is those exquisite, Charlotte M. Yonge families
at Pylos and elsewhere. How rightly Sir Maurice Powicke says, "There
have been civilised people in all ages." And let us add, "In all ages
they have been surrounded by barbarism."

Meanwhile, on afternoons and on Sundays, Surrey lay open to me. County
Down in the holidays and Surrey in the term--it was an excellent
contrast. Perhaps, since their beauties were such that even a fool could
not force them into competition, this cured me once and for all of the
pernicious tendency to compare and to prefer--an operation that does
little good even when we are dealing with works of art and endless harm
when we are dealing with nature. Total surrender is the first step
towards the fruition of either. Shut your mouth; open your eyes and
ears. Take in what is there and give no thought to what might have been
there or what is somewhere else. That can come later, if it must come at
all. (And notice here how the true training for anything whatever that
is good always prefigures and, if submitted to, will always help us in,
the true training for the Christian life. That is a school where they
can always use your previous work whatever subject it was on.) What
delighted me in Surrey was its intricacy. My Irish walks commanded large
horizons and the general lie of land and sea could be taken in at a
glance; I will try to speak of them later. But in Surrey the contours
were so tortuous, the little valleys so narrow, there was so much
timber, so many villages concealed in woods or hollows, so many field
paths, sunk lanes, dingles, copses, such an unpredictable variety of
cottage, farmhouse, villa, and country seat, that the whole thing could
never lie clearly in my mind, and to walk in it daily gave one the same
sort of pleasure that there is in the labyrinthine complexity of Malory
or the _Faerie Queene_. Even where the prospect was tolerably open, as
when I sat looking down on the Leatherhead and Dorking valley from
Polesdan Lacey, it always lacked the classic comprehensibility of the
Wyvern landscape. The valley twisted away southward into another valley,
a train thudded past invisible in a wooded cutting, the opposite ridge
concealed its bays and promontories. This, even on a summer morning. But
I remember more dearly autumn afternoons in bottoms that lay intensely
silent under old and great trees, and especially the moment, near Friday
Street, when our party (that time I was not alone) suddenly discovered,
from recognising a curiously shaped stump, that we had travelled round
in a circle for the last half-hour; or one frosty sunset over the Hog's
Back at Guildford. On a Saturday afternoon in winter, when nose and
fingers might be pinched enough to give an added relish to the
anticipation of tea and fireside, and the whole week-end's reading lay
ahead, I suppose I reached as much happiness as is ever to be reached on
earth. And especially if there were some new, long-coveted book awaiting
me.

For I had forgotten. When I spoke of the post I forgot to tell you that
it brought parcels as well as letters. Every man of my age has had in
his youth one blessing for which our juniors may well envy him: we grew
up in a world of cheap and abundant books. Your _Everyman_ was then a
bare shilling, and, what is more, always in stock; your _World's
Classic_, _Muses' Library_, _Home University Library_, _Temple Classic_,
Nelson's French series, Bohn, and Longman's Pocket Library, at
proportionate prices. All the money I could spare went in postal orders
to Messrs. Denny of the Strand. No days, even at Bookham, were happier
than those on which the afternoon post brought me a neat little parcel
in dark grey paper. Milton, Spenser, Malory, _The High History of the
Holy Grail_, the _Laxdale Saga_, Ronsard, Chnier, Voltaire, _Beowulf_
and _Gawain and the Green Knight_ (both in translations), Apuleius, the
_Kalevala_, Herrick, Walton, Sir John Mandeville, Sidney's _Arcadia_,
and nearly all of Morris, came volume by volume into my hands. Some of
my purchases proved disappointments and some went beyond my hopes, but
the undoing of the parcel always remained a delicious moment. On my rare
visits to London I looked at Messrs. Denny in the Strand with a kind of
awe; so much pleasure had come from it.

Smewgy and Kirk were my two greatest teachers. Roughly, one might say
(in medieval language) that Smewgy taught me Grammar and Rhetoric and
Kirk taught me Dialectic. Each had, and gave me, what the other lacked.
Kirk had none of Smewgy's graciousness or delicacy, and Smewgy had less
humour than Kirk. It was a saturnine humour. Indeed he was very like
Saturn--not the dispossessed King of Italian legend, but grim old Cronos,
Father Time himself with scythe and hour-glass. The bitterest, and also
funniest, things came out when he had risen abruptly from table (always
before the rest of us) and stood ferreting in a villainous old tobacco
jar on the mantelpiece for the dottles of former pipes which it was his
frugal habit to use again. My debt to him is very great, my reverence to
this day undiminished.




                           X. Fortune's Smile


  _The fields, the floods, the heavens, with one consent_
  _Did seeme to laugh on me, and favour mine intent._
                                                                 SPENSER

At the same time that I exchanged Wyvern for Bookham I also exchanged my
brother for Arthur as my chief companion. My brother, as you know, was
serving in France. From 1914 to 1916, which is the Bookham period, he
becomes a figure that at rare intervals appears unpredicted on leave, in
all the glory of a young officer, with what then seemed unlimited wealth
at his command, and whisks me off to Ireland. Luxuries hitherto unknown
to me, such as first-class railway carriages and sleeping cars, glorify
these journeys. You will understand that I had been crossing the Irish
sea six times a year since I was nine. My brother's leaves now often
added journeys extraordinary. That is why my memory is stored with
ship's-side images to a degree unusual for such an untravelled man. I
have only to close my eyes to see if I choose, and sometimes whether I
choose or no, the phosphorescence of a ship's wash, the mast unmoving
against the stars though the water is rushing past us, the long
salmon-coloured rifts of dawn or sunset on the horizon of cold
grey-green water, or the astonishing behaviour of land as you approach
it, the promontories that walk out to meet you, the complex movements
and final disappearance of the mountains further inland.

These leaves were of course a great delight. The strains that had been
developing (thanks to Wyvern) before my brother went to France were
forgotten. There was a tacit determination on both sides to revive, for
the short time allowed us, the classic period of our boyhood. As my
brother was in the R.A.S.C., which in those days was reckoned a safe
place to be, we did not feel that degree of anxiety about him which most
families were suffering at this time. There may have been more anxiety
in the unconscious than came out in fully waking thought. That, at
least, would explain an experience I had, certainly once, and perhaps
more often; not a belief, nor quite a dream, but an impression, a mental
image, a haunting, which on a bitter winter night at Bookham represented
my brother hanging about the garden and calling--or rather trying to
call, but as in Virgil's Hell _inceptus clamor frustratur hiantem_, a
bat's cry is all that comes. There hung over this image an atmosphere
which I dislike as much as any I ever breathed, a blend of the macabre
and the weakly, wretchedly, hopelessly pathetic--the dreary miasma of the
Pagan Hades.

Though my friendship with Arthur began from an identity of taste on a
particular point, we were sufficiently different to help one another.
His home-life was almost the opposite of mine. His parents were members
of the Plymouth Brothers, and he was the youngest of a large family; his
home, nevertheless, was almost as silent as ours was noisy. He was at
this time working in the business of one of his brothers, but his health
was delicate and after an illness or two he was withdrawn from it. He
was a man of more than one talent: a pianist and, in hope, a composer,
and also a painter. One of our earliest schemes was that he should make
an operatic score for _Loki Bound_--a project which, of course, after an
extremely short and happy life, died a painless death. In literature he
influenced me more, or more permanently, than I did him. His great
defect was that he cared very little for verse. Something I did to mend
this, but less than I wished. He, on the other hand, side by side with
his love for myth and marvel, which I fully shared, had another taste
which I lacked till I met him and with which, to my great good, he
infected me for life. This was the taste for what he called "the good,
solid, old books", the classic English novelists. It is astonishing how
I had avoided them before I met Arthur. I had been persuaded by my
father to read _The Newcomes_ when I was rather too young for it and
never tried Thackeray again till I was at Oxford. He is still
antipathetic to me, not because he preaches but because he preaches
badly. Dickens I looked upon with a feeling of horror, engendered by
long poring over the illustrations before I had learned to read. I still
think them depraved. Here, as in Walt Disney, it is not the ugliness of
the ugly figures but the simpering dolls intended for our sympathy which
really betray the secret (not that Walt Disney is not far superior to
the illustrators of Dickens). Of Scott I knew only a few of the
medieval, that is, the weakest, novels. Under Arthur's influence I read
at this time all the best Waverleys, all the Bronts, and all the Jane
Austens. They provided an admirable complement to my more fantastic
reading, and each was the more enjoyed for its contrast to the other.
The very qualities which had previously deterred me from such books
Arthur taught me to see as their charm. What I would have called their
"stodginess" or "ordinariness" he called "Homeliness"--a key word in his
imagination. He did not mean merely Domesticity, though that came into
it. He meant the rooted quality which attaches them to all our simple
experiences, to weather, food, the family, the neighbourhood. He could
get endless enjoyment out of the opening sentence of _Jane Eyre_, or
that other opening sentence in one of Hans Andersen's stories, "How it
did rain, to be sure." The mere word "beck" in the Bronts was a feast
to him; and so were the schoolroom and kitchen scenes. This love of the
"Homely" was not confined to literature; he looked for it in out-of-door
scenes as well and taught me to do the same.

Hitherto my feelings for nature had been too narrowly romantic. I
attended almost entirely to what I thought awe-inspiring, or wild, or
eerie, and above all to distance. Hence mountains and clouds were my
especial delight; the sky was, and still is, to me one of the principal
elements in any landscape, and long before I had seen them all named and
sorted out in _Modern Painters_ I was very attentive to the different
qualities, and different heights, of the cirrus, the cumulus, and the
rain-cloud. As for the Earth, the country I grew up in had everything to
encourage a romantic bent, had indeed done so ever since I first looked
at the unattainable Green Hills through the nursery window. For the
reader who knows those parts it will be enough to say that my main haunt
was the Holywood Hills-the irregular polygon you would have described if
you drew a line from Stormont to Comber, from Comber to Newtownards,
from Newtownards to Scrabo, from Scrabo to Craigantlet, from Craigantlet
to Holywood, and thence through Knocknagonney back to Stormont. How to
suggest it all to a foreigner I hardly know.

First of all, it is by Southern English standards bleak. The woods, for
we have a few, are of small trees, rowan and birch and small fir. The
fields are small, divided by ditches with ragged sea-nipped hedges on
top of them. There is a good deal of gorse and many outcroppings of
rock. Small abandoned quarries, filled with cold-looking water, are
surprisingly numerous. There is nearly always a wind whistling through
the grass. Where you see a man ploughing there will be gulls following
him and pecking at the furrow. There are no field-paths or rights of
way, but that does not matter for everyone knows you--or if they do not
know you, they know your kind and understand that you will shut gates
and not walk over crops. Mushrooms are still felt to be common property,
like the air. The soil has none of the rich chocolate or ochre you find
in parts of England: it is pale--what Dyson calls "the ancient, bitter
earth". But the grass is soft, rich, and sweet, and the cottages, always
whitewashed and single storeyed and roofed with blue slate, light up the
whole landscape.

Although these hills are not very high, the expanse seen from them is
huge and various. Stand at the north-eastern extremity where the slopes
go steeply down to Holywood. Beneath you is the whole expanse of the
Lough. The Antrim coast twists sharply to the north and out of sight;
green, and humble in comparison, Down curves away southward. Between the
two the Lough merges into the sea, and if you look carefully on a good
day you can even see Scotland, phantom-like on the horizon. Now come
further to the south and west. Take your stand at the isolated cottage
which is visible from my father's house and overlooks our whole suburb,
and which everyone calls The Shepherd's Hut, though we are not really a
shepherd country. You are still looking down on the Lough, but its mouth
and the sea are now hidden by the shoulder you have just come from, and
it might (for all you see) be a landlocked lake. And here we come to one
of those great contrasts which have bitten deeply into my mind--Niflheim
and Asgard, Britain and Logres, Handramit and Harandra, air and ether,
the low world and the high. Your horizon from here is the Antrim
Mountains, probably a uniform mass of greyish blue, though if it is a
sunny day you may just trace on the Cave Hill the distinction between
the green slopes that climb two-thirds of the way to the summit and the
cliff wall that perpendicularly accomplishes the rest. That is one
beauty; and here where you stand is another, quite different and even
more dearly loved--sunlight and grass and dew, crowing cocks and gaggling
ducks. In between them, on the flat floor of the Valley at your feet, a
forest of factory chimneys, gantries, and giant cranes rising out of a
welter of mist, lies Belfast. Noises come up from it continually,
whining and screeching of trams, clatter of horse traffic on uneven
sets, and, dominating all else, the continual throb and stammer of the
great shipyards. And because we have heard this all our lives it does
not, for us, violate the peace of the hill-top; rather, it emphasises
it, enriches the contrast, sharpens the dualism. Down in that "smoke and
stir" is the hated office to which Arthur, less fortunate than I, must
return to-morrow: for it is only one of his rare holidays that allows us
to stand here together on a weekday morning. And down there too are the
barefoot old women, the drunken men stumbling in and out of the "spirit
grocers" (Ireland's horrible substitute for the kindly English "pub"),
the straining, overdriven horses, the hard-faced rich women--all the
world which Alberich created when he cursed love and twisted the gold
into a ring.

Now step a little way--only two fields and across a lane and up to the
top of the bank on the far side--and you will see, looking south with a
little east in it, a different world. And having seen it, blame me if
you can for being a romantic. For here is the thing itself, utterly
irresistible, the way to the world's end, the land of longing, the
breaking and blessing of hearts. You are looking across what may be
called, in a certain sense, the plain of Down, and seeing beyond it the
Mourne Mountains.

It was K.--that is, Cousin Quartus' second daughter, the Valkyrie--who
first expounded to me what this plain of Down is really like. Here is
the recipe for imagining it. Take a number of medium-sized potatoes and
lay them down (one layer of them only) in a flat-bottomed tin basin. Now
shake loose earth over them till the potatoes themselves, but not the
shape of them, is hidden; and of course the crevices between them will
now be depressions of earth. Now magnify the whole thing till those
crevices are large enough to conceal each its stream and its huddle of
trees. And then, for colouring, change your brown earth into the
chequered pattern of fields, always small fields (a couple of acres
each), with all their normal variety of crop, grass, and plough. You
have now got a picture of the "plain" of Down, which is a plain only in
this sense that if you were a very large giant you would regard it as
level but very ill to walk on--like cobbles. And now remember that every
cottage is white. The whole expanse laughs with these little white dots;
it is like nothing so much as the assembly of white foam-caps when a
fresh breeze is on a summer sea. And the roads are white too; there is
no tarmac yet. And because the whole country is a turbulent democracy of
little hills, these roads shoot in every direction, disappearing and
reappearing. But you must not spread over this landscape your hard
English sunlight; make it paler, make it softer, blur the edges of the
white cumuli, cover it with watery gleams, deepening it, making all
unsubstantial. And beyond all this, so remote that they seem
fantastically abrupt, at the very limit of your vision, imagine the
mountains. They are no stragglers. They are steep and compact and
pointed and toothed and jagged. They seem to have nothing to do with the
little hills and cottages that divide you from them. And sometimes they
are blue, sometimes violet; but quite often they look transparent--as if
huge sheets of gauze had been cut out into mountainous shapes and hung
up there, so that you could see through them the light of the invisible
sea at their backs.

I number it among my blessings that my father had no car, while yet most
of my friends had, and sometimes took me for a drive. This meant that
all these distant objects could be visited just enough to clothe them
with memories and not impossible desires, while yet they remained
ordinarily as inaccessible as the Moon. The deadly power of rushing
about wherever I pleased had not been given me. I measured distances by
the standard of man, man walking on his two feet, not by the standard of
the internal combustion engine. I had not been allowed to deflower the
very idea of distance; in return I possessed "infinite riches" in what
would have been to motorists "a little room". The truest and most
horrible claim made for modern transport is that it "annihilates space".
It does. It annihilates one of the most glorious gifts we have been
given. It is a vile inflation which lowers the value of distance, so
that a modern boy travels a hundred miles with less sense of liberation
and pilgrimage and adventure than his grandfather got from travelling
ten. Of course if a man hates space and wants it to be annihilated, that
is another matter. Why not creep into his coffin at once? There is
little enough space there.

Such were my outdoor delights before I met Arthur, and all these he
shared and confirmed. And in his search for the Homely he taught me to
see other things as well. But for him I should never have known the
beauty of the ordinary vegetables that we destine to the pot. "Drills,"
he used to say. "Just ordinary drills of cabbages--what can be better?"
And he was right. Often he recalled my eyes from the horizon just to
look through a hole in a hedge, to see nothing more than a farmyard in
its mid-morning solitude, and perhaps a grey cat squeezing its way under
a barn door, or a bent old woman with a wrinkled, motherly face coming
back with an empty bucket from the pigstye. But best of all we liked it
when the Homely and the unhomely met in sharp juxtaposition; if a little
kitchen garden ran steeply up a narrowing _enclave_ of fertile ground
surrounded by outcroppings and furze, or some shivering quarry pool
under a moonrise could be seen on our left, and on our right the smoking
chimney and lamplit window of a cottage that was just settling down for
the night.

Meanwhile, on the continent, the unskilled butchery of the first German
War went on. As it did so and as I began to foresee that it would
probably last till I reached military age, I was compelled to make a
decision which the law had taken out of the hands of English boys of my
own age; for in Ireland we had no conscription. I did not much plume
myself even then for deciding to serve, but I did feel that the decision
absolved me from taking any further notice of the war. For Arthur, whose
heart hopelessly disqualified him, there was no such question.
Accordingly I put the war on one side to a degree which some people will
think shameful and some incredible. Others will call it a flight from
reality. I maintain that it was rather a treaty with reality, the fixing
of a frontier. I said to my country, in effect, "You shall have me on a
certain date, not before. I will die in your wars if need be, but till
then I shall live my own life. You may have my body, but not my mind. I
will take part in battles but not read about them." If this attitude
needs excusing I must say that a boy who is unhappy at school inevitably
learns the habit of keeping the future in its place; if once he began to
allow infiltrations from the coming term into the present holidays he
would despair. Also, the Hamilton in me was always on guard against the
Lewis; I had seen enough of the self-torturing temperament.

No doubt, even if the attitude was right, the quality in me which made
it so easy to adopt is somewhat repellent. Yet, even so, I can hardly
regret having escaped the appalling waste of time and spirit which would
have been involved in reading the war news or taking more than an
artificial and formal part in conversations about the war. To read
without military knowledge or good maps accounts of fighting which were
distorted before they reached the Divisional general and further
distorted before they left him and then "written up" out of all
recognition by journalists, to strive to master what will be
contradicted the next day, to fear and hope intensely on shaky evidence,
is surely an ill use of the mind. Even in peacetime I think those are
very wrong who say that schoolboys should be encouraged to read the
newspapers. Nearly all that a boy reads there in his teens will be known
before he is twenty to have been false in emphasis and interpretation,
if not in fact as well, and most of it will have lost all importance.
Most of what he remembers he will therefore have to unlearn; and he will
probably have acquired an incurable taste for vulgarity and
sensationalism and the fatal habit of fluttering from paragraph to
paragraph to learn how an actress has been divorced in California, a
train derailed in France, and quadruplets born in New Zealand.

I was now happier than I had ever been. All the sting had been drawn
from the beginning of term. Yet the homecoming at its end remained
almost as joyful as before. The holidays grew better and better. Our
grown-up friends, and especially my cousins at Mountbracken, now seemed
less grown up--for one's immediate elders grow downwards or backwards to
meet one at that age. There were many merry meetings, much good talk. I
discovered that other people besides Arthur loved books that I loved.
The horrible old "social functions", the dances, were at an end, for my
father now allowed me to refuse the invitations. All my engagements were
now pleasant ones, within a small circle of people who were all
intermarried, or very old neighbours, or (the women anyway) old
school-fellows. I am shy of mentioning them. Of Mountbracken I have had
to speak because the story of my life could not be told without it;
beyond that I hesitate to go. Praise of one's friends is near
impertinence. I cannot tell you here of Janie M. nor of her mother, nor
of Bill and Mrs. Bill. In novels, provincial-suburban society is usually
painted grey to black. I have not found it so. I think we Strandtown and
Belmont people had among us as much kindness, wit, beauty, and taste as
any circle of the same size that I have ever known.

At home the real separation and apparent cordiality between my father
and myself continued. Every holidays I came back from Kirk with my
thoughts and my speech a little clearer, and this made it progressively
less possible to have any real conversation with my father. I was far
too young and raw to appreciate the other side of the account, to weigh
the rich (if vague) fertility, the generosity and humour of my father's
mind against the dryness, the rather death-like lucidity, of Kirk's.
With the cruelty of youth I allowed myself to be irritated by traits in
my father which, in other elderly men, I have since regarded as lovable
foibles. There were so many unbridgeable misunderstandings. Once I
received a letter from my brother in my father's presence which he
immediately demanded to see. He objected to some expressions in it about
a third person. In defence of them I pleaded that they had not been
addressed to him. "What nonsense!" answered my father. "He knew you
would show me the letter, and intended you to show me the letter." In
reality, as I well knew, my brother had foolishly gambled on the chance
that it would arrive when my father was out. But this my father could
not conceive. He was not overriding by authority a claim to privacy
which he disallowed; he could not imagine anyone making such a claim.

My relations to my father help to explain (I am not suggesting that they
excuse) one of the worst acts of my life. I allowed myself to be
prepared for confirmation, and confirmed, and to make my first
Communion, in total disbelief, acting a part, eating and drinking my own
condemnation. As Johnson points out, where courage is not, no other
virtue can survive except by accident. Cowardice drove me into hypocrisy
and hypocrisy into blasphemy. It is true that I did not and could not
then know the real nature of the thing I was doing: but I knew very well
that I was acting a lie with the greatest possible solemnity. It seemed
to me impossible to tell my father my real views. Not that he would have
stormed and thundered like the traditional orthodox parent. On the
contrary, he would (at first) have responded with the greatest kindness.
"Let's talk the whole thing over," he would have said. But it would have
been quite impossible to drive into his head my real position. The
thread would have been lost almost at once, and the answer implicit in
all the quotations, anecdotes, and reminiscences which would have poured
over me would have been one I then valued not a straw--the beauty of the
Authorised Version, the beauty of the Christian tradition and sentiment
and character. And later, when this failed, when I still tried to make
my exact points clear, there would have been anger between us, thunder
from him and a thin, peevish rattle from me. Nor could the subject, once
raised, ever have been dropped again. All this, of course, ought to have
been dared rather than the thing I did. But at the time it seemed to me
impossible. The Syrian captain was forgiven for bowing in the house of
Rimmon. I am one of many who have bowed in the house of the real God
when I believed Him to be no more than Rimmon.

During the week-ends and evenings I was closely tethered to my father
and felt this something of a hardship, since these were the times when
Arthur was most often accessible. My week-days continued to supply me
with a full ration of solitude. I had, to be sure, the society of Tim,
who ought to have been mentioned far sooner. Tim was our dog. He may
hold a record for longevity among Irish terriers since he was already
with us when I was at Oldie's and did not die till 1922. But Tim's
society did not amount to much. It had long since been agreed between
him and me that he should not be expected to accompany me on walks. I
went a good deal further than he liked, for his shape was already that
of a bolster, or even a barrel, on four legs. Also, I went to places
where other dogs might be met; and though Tim was no coward (I have seen
him fight like a demon on his home ground) he hated dogs. In his walking
days he had been known, on seeing a dog far ahead, to disappear behind
the hedge and re-emerge a hundred yards later. His mind had been formed
during our schooldays and he had perhaps learned his attitude to other
dogs from our attitude to other boys. By now he and I were less like
master and dog than like two friendly visitors in the same hotel. We met
constantly, passed the time of day, and parted with much esteem to
follow our own paths. I think he had one friend of his own species, a
neighbouring red setter; a very respectable, middle-aged dog. Perhaps a
good influence; for poor Tim, though I loved him, was the most
undisciplined, unaccomplished, and dissipated-looking creature that ever
went on four legs. He never exactly obeyed you; he sometimes agreed with
you.

The long hours in the empty house passed delightfully in reading and
writing. I was in the midst of the Romantics now. There was a humility
in me (as a reader) at that time which I shall never recapture. Some
poems I could not enjoy as well as others. It never occurred to me that
these might be the inferior ones; I merely thought that I was getting
tired of my author or was not in the right mood. The _longueurs_ of
Endymion I attributed wholly to myself. The "swoony" element in Keats'
sensuality (as when Porphyro grows "faint") I tried hard to like, and
failed. I thought--though I have forgotten why--that Shelley must be
better than Keats and was sorry I liked him less. But my great author at
this period was William Morris. I had met him first in quotation in
books on Norse Mythology; that led me to _Sigurd the Volsung_. I did not
really like this as much as I tried to, and I think I now know why: the
metre does not satisfy my ear. But then, in Arthur's bookcase, I found
_The Well at the World's End_. I looked--I read chapter headings--I
dipped--and next day I was off into town to buy a copy of my own. Like so
many new steps it appeared to be partly a revival--"Knights in Armour"
returning from a very early period of my childhood. After that I read
all the Morris I could get, _Jason_, _The Earthly Paradise_, the prose
romances. The growth of the new delight is marked by my sudden
realisation, almost with a sense of disloyalty, that the letters WILLIAM
MORRIS were coming to have at least as potent a magic in them as WAGNER.

One other thing that Arthur taught me was to love the bodies of books. I
had always respected them. My brother and I might cut up stepladders
without scruple; to have thumb-marked or dog's-eared a book would have
filled us with shame. But Arthur did not merely respect, he was
enamoured; and soon, I too. The set up of the page, the feel and smell
of the paper, the differing sounds that different papers make as you
turn the leaves, became sensuous delights. This revealed to me a flaw in
Kirk. How often have I shuddered when he took a new classical text of
mine in his gardener's hands, bent back the boards till they creaked,
and left his sign on every page.

"Yes, I remember," said my father. "That was old Knock's one fault."

"A bad one," said I.

"An all but unforgivable one," said my father.




                               XI. Check


  _When bale is at highest, boote is at next._
                                                            SIR ALDINGAR

The history of Joy, since it came riding back to me on huge waves of
Wagnerian music and Norse and Celtic mythology several chapters ago,
must now be brought up to date.

I have already hinted how my first delight in Valhalla and Valkyries
began to turn itself imperceptibly into a scholar's interest in them. I
got about as far as a boy who knew no old Germanic language could get. I
could have faced a pretty stiff examination in my subject. I would have
laughed at popular bunglers who confused the late mythological Sagas
with the classic Sagas, or the Prose with the Verse Edda, or even, more
scandalously, Edda with Saga. I knew my way about the Eddaic cosmos,
could locate each of the roots of the Ash and knew who ran up and down
it. And only very gradually did I realise that all this was something
quite different from the original Joy. And I went on adding detail to
detail, progressing towards the moment when "I should know most and
should least enjoy". Finally I woke from building the temple to find
that the God had flown. Of course I did not put it that way. I would
have said simply that I didn't get the old thrill. I was in the
Wordsworthian predicament, lamenting that "a glory" had passed away.

Thence arose the fatal determination to recover the old thrill, and at
last the moment when I was compelled to realise that all such efforts
were failures. I had no lure to which the bird would come. And now,
notice my blindness. At that very moment there arose the memory of a
place and time at which I had tasted the lost Joy with unusual fullness.
It had been a particular hill-walk on a morning of white mist. The other
volumes of the _Ring_ (_The Rheingold_ and _The Valkyrie_) had just
arrived as a Christmas present from my father, and the thought of all
the reading before me, mixed with the coldness and loneliness of the
hillside, the drops of moisture on every branch, and the distant murmur
of the concealed town, had produced a longing (yet it was also fruition)
which had flowed over from the mind and seemed to involve the whole
body. That walk I now remembered. It seemed to me that I had tasted
heaven then. If only such a moment could return! But what I never
realised was that it had returned--that the remembering of that walk was
itself a new experience of just the same kind. True, it was desire, not
possession. But then what I had felt on the walk had also been desire,
and only possession in so far as that kind of desire is itself
desirable, is the fullest possession we can know on earth; or rather,
because the very nature of Joy makes nonsense of our common distinction
between having and wanting. There, to have is to want and to want is to
have. Thus, the very moment when I longed to be so stabbed again, was
itself again such a stabbing. The Desirable which had once alighted on
Valhalla was now alighting on a particular moment of my own past; and I
would not recognise him there because, being an idolater and a
formalist, I insisted that he ought to appear in the temple I had built
him; not knowing that he cares only for temples building and not at all
for temples built. Wordsworth, I believe, made this mistake all his
life. I am sure that all that sense of the loss of vanished vision which
fills _The Prelude_ was itself vision of the same kind, if only he could
have believed it.

In my scheme of thought it is not blasphemous to compare the error which
I was making with that error which the angel at the Sepulchre rebuked
when he said to the women, "Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is
not here, He is risen." The comparison is of course between something of
infinite moment and something very small; like comparison between the
Sun and the Sun's reflection in a dewdrop. Indeed, in my view, very like
it, for I do not think the resemblance between the Christian and the
merely imaginative experience is accidental. I think that all things, in
their way, reflect heavenly truth, the imagination not least. "Reflect"
is the important word. This lower life of the imagination is not[5] a
beginning of, nor a step towards, the higher life of the spirit, merely
an image. In me, at any rate, it contained no element either of belief
or of ethics; however far pursued, it would never have made me either
wiser or better. But it still had, at however many removes, the shape of
the reality it reflected.

If nothing else suggests this resemblance it is at least suggested by
the fact that we can make exactly the same mistakes on both levels. You
will remember how, as a schoolboy, I had destroyed my religious life by
a vicious subjectivism which made "realisations" the aim of prayer;
turning away from God to seek states of mind, and trying to produce
those states of mind by "maistry". With unbelievable folly I now
proceeded to make exactly the same blunder in my imaginative life; or
rather the same pair of blunders. The first was made at the very moment
when I formulated the complaint that the "old thrill" was becoming rarer
and rarer. For by that complaint I smuggled in the assumption that what
I wanted was a "thrill", a state of my own mind. And there lies the
deadly error. Only when your whole attention and desire are fixed on
something else--whether a distant mountain, or the past, or the gods of
Asgard--does the "thrill" arise. It is a by-product. Its very existence
presupposes that you desire not it but something other and outer. If by
any perverse askesis or the use of any drug it could be produced from
within, it would at once be seen to be of no value. For take away the
object, and what, after all, would be left?--a whirl of images, a
fluttering sensation in the diaphragm, a momentary abstraction. And who
could want that? This, I say, is the first and deadly error, which
appears on every level of life and is equally deadly on all, turning
religion into a self-caressing luxury and love into auto-eroticism. And
the second error is, having thus falsely made a state of mind your aim,
to attempt to produce it. From the fading of the Northernness I ought to
have drawn the conclusion that the Object, the Desirable, was further
away, more external, less subjective, than even such a comparatively
public and external thing as a system of mythology--had, in fact, only
shone through that system. Instead, I concluded that it was a mood or
state within myself which might turn up in any context. To "get it
again" became my constant endeavour; while reading every poem, hearing
every piece of music, going for every walk, I stood anxious sentinel at
my own mind to watch whether the blessed moment was beginning and to
endeavour to retain it if it did. Because I was still young and the
whole world of beauty was opening before me, my own officious
obstructions were often swept aside and, startled into
self-forgetfulness, I again tasted Joy. But far more often I frightened
it away by my greedy impatience to snare it, and, even when it came,
instantly destroyed it by introspection, and at all times vulgarised it
by my false assumption about its nature.

One thing, however, I learned, which has since saved me from many
popular confusions of mind. I came to know by experience that it is not
a disguise of sexual desire. Those who think that if adolescents were
all provided with suitable mistresses we should soon hear no more of
"immortal longings" are certainly wrong. I learned this mistake to be a
mistake by the simple, if discreditable, process of repeatedly making
it. From the Northernness one could not easily have slid into erotic
fantasies without noticing the difference; but when the world of Morris
became the frequent medium of Joy, this transition became possible. It
was quite easy to think that one desired those forests for the sake of
their female inhabitants, the garden of Hesperus for the sake of his
daughters, Hylas' river for the river nymphs. I repeatedly followed that
path--to the end. And at the end one found pleasure; which immediately
resulted in the discovery that pleasure (whether that pleasure or any
other) was not what you had been looking for. No moral question was
involved; I was at this time as nearly non-moral on that subject as a
human creature can be. The frustration did not consist in finding a
"lower" pleasure instead of a "higher". It was the irrelevance of the
conclusion that marred it. The hounds had changed scent. One had caught
the wrong quarry. You might as well offer a mutton chop to a man who is
dying of thirst as offer sexual pleasure to the desire I am speaking of.
I did not recoil from the erotic conclusion with chaste horror,
exclaiming, "Not that!" My feelings could rather have been expressed in
the words, "Quite. I see. But haven't we wandered from the real point?"
Joy is not a substitute for sex; sex is very often a substitute for Joy.
I sometimes wonder whether all pleasures are not substitutes for Joy.

Such, then, was the state of my imaginative life; over against it stood
the life of my intellect. The two hemispheres of my mind were in the
sharpest contrast. On the one side a many-islanded sea of poetry and
myth; on the other a glib and shallow "rationalism". Nearly all that I
loved I believed to be imaginary; nearly all that I believed to be real
I thought grim and meaningless. The exceptions were certain people (whom
I loved and believed to be real) and nature herself. That is, nature as
she appeared to the senses. I chewed endlessly on the problem: "How can
it be so beautiful and also so cruel, wasteful and futile?" Hence at
this time I could almost have said with Santayana, "All that is good is
imaginary; all that is real is evil." In one sense nothing less like a
"flight from reality" could be conceived. I was so far from wishful
thinking that I hardly thought anything true unless it contradicted my
wishes.

Hardly, but not quite. For there was one way in which the world, as
Kirk's rationalism taught me to see it, gratified my wishes. It might be
grim and deadly but at least it was free from the Christian God. Some
people (not all) will find it hard to understand why this seemed to me
such an overwhelming advantage. But you must take into account both my
history and my temperament. The period of faith which I had lived
through at Oldie's had contained a good deal of fear. And by now,
looking back on that fear, and egged on by Shaw and Voltaire and
Lucretius With his _Tantum religio_, I greatly exaggerated that element
in my memory and forgot the many other elements which had been combined
with it. At all costs I was anxious that those full-moon-lit nights in
the dormitory should never come again. I was also, as you may remember,
one whose negative demands were more violent than his positive, far more
eager to escape pain than to achieve happiness, and feeling it something
of an outrage that I had been created without my own permission. To such
a craven the materialist's universe had the enormous attraction that it
offered you limited liabilities. No strictly infinite disaster could
overtake you in it. Death ended all. And if ever finite disasters proved
greater than one wished to bear, suicide would always be possible. The
horror of the Christian universe was that it had no door marked _Exit_.
It was also perhaps not unimportant that the externals of Christianity
made no appeal to my sense of beauty. Oriental imagery and style largely
repelled me; and for the rest, Christianity was mainly associated for me
with ugly architecture, ugly music, and bad poetry. Wyvern Priory and
Milton's verse were almost the only points at which Christianity and
beauty had overlapped in my experience. But, of course, what mattered
most of all was my deep-seated hatred of authority, my monstrous
individualism, my lawlessness. No word in my vocabulary expressed deeper
hatred than the word _Interference_. But Christianity placed at the
centre what then seemed to me a transcendental Interferer. If its
picture were true then no sort of "treaty with reality" could ever be
possible. There was no region even in the innermost depth of one's soul
(nay, there least of all) which one could surround with a barbed wire
fence and guard with a notice No Admittance. And that was what I wanted;
some area, however small, of which I could say to all other beings,
"This is my business and mine only."

In this respect, and this only at first, I may have been guilty of
wishful thinking. Almost certainly I was. The materialist conception
would not have seemed so immensely probable to me if it had not favoured
at least one of my wishes. But the difficulty of explaining even a boy's
thought entirely in terms of his wishes is that on such large questions
as these he always has wishes on both sides. Any conception of reality
which a sane mind can admit must favour some of its wishes and frustrate
others. The materialistic universe had one great, negative attraction to
offer me. It had no other. And this had to be accepted; one had to look
out on a meaningless dance of atoms (remember, I was reading Lucretius),
to realise that all the apparent beauty was a subjective
phosphorescence, and to relegate everything one valued to the world of
mirage. That price I tried loyally to pay. For I had learned something
from Kirk about the honour of the intellect and the shame of voluntary
inconsistency. And, of course, I exulted with youthful and vulgar pride
in what I thought my enlightenment. In argument with Arthur I was a very
swashbuckler. Most of it, as I now see, was incredibly crude and silly.
I was in that state of mind in which a boy thinks it extremely telling
to call God _Jahveh_ and Jesus _Yeshua_.

Looking back on my life now, I am astonished that I did not progress
into the opposite orthodoxy--did not become a Leftist, Atheist, satiric
Intellectual of the type we all know so well. All the conditions seem to
be present. I had hated my public school. I hated whatever I knew or
imagined of the British Empire. And though I took very little notice of
Morris's socialism (there were too many things in him that interested me
far more) continual reading of Shaw had brought it about that such
embryonic political opinions as I had were vaguely socialistic. Ruskin
had helped me in the same direction. My lifelong fear of sentimentalism
ought to have qualified me to become a vigorous "debunker". It is true
that I hated the Collective as much as any man can hate anything; but I
certainly did not then realise its relations to socialism. I suppose
that my Romanticism was destined to divide me from the orthodox
Intellectuals as soon as I met them; and also that a mind so little
sanguine as mine about the future and about common action could only
with great difficulty be made revolutionary.

Such, then, was my position: to care for almost nothing but the gods and
heroes, the garden of the Hesperides, Launcelot and the Grail, and to
believe in nothing but atoms and evolution and military service. At
times the strain was severe, but I think this was a wholesome severity.
Nor do I believe that the intermittent wavering in my materialistic
"faith" (so to call it) which set in towards the end of the Bookham
period would ever have arisen simply from my wishes. It came from
another source.

Among all the poets whom I was reading at this time (I read _The Faerie
Queene_ and _The Earthly Paradise_ entire) there was one who stood apart
from the rest. Yeats was this poet. I had been reading him for a long
time before I discovered the difference, and perhaps I should never have
discovered it if I had not read his prose as well: things like _Rosa
Alchemica_ and _Per Amica Silentia Lunae_. The difference was that Yeats
believed. His "ever living ones" were not merely feigned or merely
desired. He really thought that there was a world of beings more or less
like them, and that contact between that world and ours was possible. To
put it quite plainly, he believed seriously in Magic. His later career
as a poet has somewhat obscured that phase in popular estimates of him,
but there is no doubt about the fact--as I learned when I met him some
years later. Here was a pretty kettle of fish. You will understand that
my rationalism was inevitably based on what I believed to be the
findings of the sciences, and those findings, not being a scientist, I
had to take on trust--in fact, on authority. Well, here was an opposite
authority. If he had been a Christian I should have discounted his
testimony, for I thought I had the Christians "placed" and disposed of
forever. But I now learned that there were people, not traditionally
orthodox, who nevertheless rejected the whole Materialist philosophy out
of hand. And I was still very ingenuous. I had no conception of the
amount of nonsense written and printed in the world. I regarded Yeats as
a learned, responsible writer: what he said must be worthy of
consideration. And after Yeats I plunged into Maeterlinck; quite
innocently and naturally since everyone was reading him at that time and
since I made a point of including a fair amount of French in my diet. In
Maeterlinck I came up against Spiritualism, Theosophy, and Pantheism.
Here once more was a responsible adult (and not a Christian) who
believed in a world behind, or around, the material world. I must do
myself the justice of saying that I did not give my assent
categorically. But a drop of disturbing doubt fell into my Materialism.
It was merely a "Perhaps". Perhaps (oh joy!) there was, after all,
"something else"; and (oh reassurance!) perhaps it had nothing to do
with Christian Theology. And as soon as I paused on that "Perhaps",
inevitably all the old Occultist lore, and all the old excitement which
the Matron at Chartres had innocently aroused in me, rose out of the
past.

Now the fat was in the fire with a vengeance. Two things hitherto widely
separated in my mind rushed together: the imaginative longing for Joy,
or rather the longing which _was_ Joy, and the ravenous, quasi-prurient
desire for the Occult, the Preternatural as such. And with these there
came (less welcome) some stirring of unease, some of the immemorial fear
we have all known in the nursery, and (if we are honest) long after the
nursery age. There is a kind of gravitation in the mind whereby good
rushes to good and evil to evil. This mingled repulsion and desire drew
towards them everything else in me that was bad. The idea that if there
were Occult knowledge it was known to very few and scorned by the many
became an added attraction; "we few", you will remember, was an
evocative expression for me. That the means should be Magic--the most
exquisitely unorthodox thing in the world, unorthodox both by Christian
and by Rationalist standards--of course appealed to the rebel in me. I
was already acquainted with the more depraved side of Romanticism; had
read _Anactoria_, and Wilde, and pored upon Beardsley, not hitherto
attracted, but making no moral judgement. Now I thought I began to see
the point of it. In a word, you have already had in this story the World
and the Flesh; now came the Devil. If there had been in the
neighbourhood some elder person who dabbled in dirt of the Magical kind
(such have a good nose for potential disciples) I might now be a
Satanist or a maniac.

In actual fact I was wonderfully protected, and this spiritual debauch
had in the end one rather good result. I was protected, first, by
ignorance and incapacity. Whether Magic were possible or not, I at any
rate had no teacher to start me on the path. I was protected also by
cowardice; the reawakened terrors of childhood might add a spice to my
greed and curiosity as long as it was daylight. Alone, and in darkness,
I used my best endeavours to become a strict Materialist again; not
always with success. A "Perhaps" is quite enough for the nerves to work
upon. But my best protection was the known nature of Joy. This ravenous
desire to break the bounds, to tear the curtain, to be in the secret,
revealed itself, more and more clearly the longer I indulged it, to be
quite different from the longing that is Joy. Its coarse strength
betrayed it. Slowly, and with many relapses, I came to see that the
magical conclusion was just as irrelevant to Joy as the erotic
conclusion had been. Once again one had changed scents. If circles and
pentangles and the Tetragrammaton had been tried and had in fact raised,
or seemed to raise, a spirit, that might have been--if a man's nerves
could stand it--extremely interesting; but the real Desirable would have
evaded one, the real Desire would have been left saying, "What is this
to me?"

What I like about experience is that it is such an honest thing. You may
take any number of wrong turnings; but keep your eyes open and you will
not be allowed to go very far before the warning signs appear. You may
have deceived yourself, but experience is not trying to deceive you. The
universe rings true wherever you fairly test it.

The other results of my glance into the dark room were as follows.
First, I now had both a fresh motive for wishing Materialism to be true
and a decreased confidence that it was. The fresh motive came, as you
have divined, from those fears which I had so wantonly stirred up from
their sleeping place in the memories of childhood; behaving like a true
Lewis who will not leave well alone. Every man who is afraid of spooks
will have a reason for wishing to be a Materialist; that creed promises
to exclude the bogies. As for my shaken confidence, it remained in the
form of a "Perhaps", stripped of its directly and grossly magical
"affect"--a pleasing possibility that the Universe might combine the
snugness of Materialism here and now with... well, with I didn't know
what; somewhere or something beyond, "the unimaginable lodge for
solitary thinkings". This was very bad. I was beginning to try to have
it both ways: to get the comforts both of a materialist and of a
spiritual philosophy without the rigours of either. But the second
result was better. I had learned a wholesome antipathy to everything
occult and magical which was to stand me in good stead when, at Oxford,
I came to meet Magicians, Spiritualists, and the like. Not that the
ravenous lust was never to tempt me again but that I now knew it for a
temptation. And above all, I now knew that Joy did not point in that
direction.

You might sum up the gains of this whole period by saying that
henceforward the Flesh and the Devil, though they could still tempt,
could no longer offer me the supreme bribe. I had learned that it was
not in their gift. And the World had never even pretended to have it.

And then, on top of this, in superabundance of mercy, came that event
which I have already more than once attempted to describe in other
books. I was in the habit of walking over to Leatherhead about once a
week and sometimes taking the train back. In summer I did so chiefly
because Leatherhead boasted a tiny swimming-bath; better than nothing to
me who had learned to swim almost before I can remember and who, till
middle age and rheumatism crept upon me, was passionately fond of being
in water. But I went in winter, too, to look for books and to get my
hair cut. The evening that I now speak of was in October. I and one
porter had the long, timbered platform of Leatherhead station to
ourselves. It was getting just dark enough for the smoke of an engine to
glow red on the underside with the reflection of the furnace. The hills
beyond the Dorking Valley were of a blue so intense as to be nearly
violet and the sky was green with frost. My ears tingled with the cold.
The glorious week-end of reading was before me. Turning to the
bookstall, I picked out an Everyman in a dirty jacket, _Phantasies, a
faerie Romance_, George MacDonald. Then the train came in. I can still
remember the voice of the porter calling out the village names, Saxon
and sweet as a nut--"Bookham, Effingham, Horsley train". That evening I
began to read my new book.

The woodland journeyings in that story, the ghostly enemies, the ladies
both good and evil, were close enough to my habitual imagery to lure me
on without the perception of a change. It is as if I were carried
sleeping across the frontier, or as if I had died in the old country and
could never remember how I came alive in the new. For in one sense the
new country was exactly like the old. I met there all that had already
charmed me in Malory, Spenser, Morris, and Yeats. But in another sense
all was changed. I did not yet know (and I was long in learning) the
name of the new quality, the bright shadow, that rested on the travels
of Anodos. I do now. It was Holiness. For the first time the song of the
sirens sounded like the voice of my mother or my nurse. Here were old
wives' tales; there was nothing to be proud of in enjoying them. It was
as though the voice which had called to me from the world's end were now
speaking at my side. It was with me in the room, or in my own body, or
behind me. If it had once eluded me by its distance, it now eluded me by
proximity--something too near to see, too plain to be understood, on this
side of knowledge. It seemed to have been always with me; if I could
ever have turned my head quick enough I should have seized it. Now for
the first time I felt that it was out of reach not because of something
I could not do but because of something I could not stop doing. If I
could only leave off, let go, unmake myself, it would be there.
Meanwhile, in this new region all the confusions that had hitherto
perplexed my search for Joy were disarmed. There was no temptation to
confuse the scenes of the tale with the light that rested upon them, or
to suppose that they were put forward as realities, or even to dream
that if they had been realities and I could reach the woods where Anodos
journeyed I should thereby come a step nearer to my desire. Yet, at the
same time, never had the wind of Joy blowing through any story been less
separable from the story itself. Where the god and the _idolon_ were
most nearly one there was least danger of confounding them. Thus, when
the great moments came I did not break away from the woods and cottages
that I read of to seek some bodiless light shining beyond them, but
gradually, with a swelling continuity (like the sun at mid-morning
burning through a fog) I found the light shining on those woods and
cottages, and then on my own past life, and on the quiet room where I
sat and on my old teacher where he nodded above his little _Tacitus_.
For I now perceived that while the air of the new region made all my
erotic and magical perversions of Joy look like sordid trumpery, it had
no such disenchanting power over the bread upon the table or the coals
in the grate. That was the marvel. Up till now each visitation of Joy
had left the common world momentarily a desert--"The first touch of the
earth went nigh to kill". Even when real clouds or trees had been the
material of the vision, they had been so only by reminding me of another
world; and I did not like the return to ours. But now I saw the bright
shadow coming out of the book into the real world and resting there,
transforming all common things and yet itself unchanged. Or, more
accurately, I saw the common things drawn into the bright shadow. _Unde
hoc mihi?_ In the depth of my disgraces, in the then invincible
ignorance of my intellect, all this was given me without asking, even
without consent. That night my imagination was, in a certain sense,
baptised; the rest of me, not unnaturally, took longer. I had not the
faintest notion what I had let myself in for by buying _Phantastes_.




                       XII. Guns and Good Company


  _La compagnie, de tant d'hommes vous plaist, nobles, jeunes, actifs;
  la libert de cette conversation sans art, et une faon de vie masle
  et sans crmonie._
                                                               MONTAIGNE

The old pattern began to repeat itself. The Bookham days, like a longer
and more glorious holidays, drew to their end; a scholarship examination
and, after that, the Army, loomed behind them like a grimmer term. The
good time had never been better than in its last months. I remember, in
particular, glorious hours of bathing in Donegal. It was surf bathing:
not the formal affair with boards that you have now, but mere rough and
tumble, in which the waves, the monstrous, emerald, deafening waves, are
always the winner, and it is at once a joke, a terror, and a joy to look
over your shoulder and see (too late) one breaker of such sublime
proportions that you would have avoided him had you known he was coming.
But they gather themselves up, pre-eminent above their fellows, as
suddenly and unpredictably as a revolution.

It was late in the winter term of 1916 that I went to Oxford to sit for
my scholarship examination. Boys who have faced this ordeal in
peace-time will not easily imagine the indifference with which I went.
This does not mean that I underestimated the importance (in one sense)
of succeeding. I knew very well by now that there was hardly any
position in the world save that of a don in which I was fitted to earn a
living, and that I was staking everything on a game in which few won and
hundreds lost. As Kirk had said of me in a letter to my father (I did
not, of course, see it till many years later), "You may make a writer or
a scholar of him, but you'll not make anything else. You may make up
your mind to _that_." And I knew this myself; sometimes it terrified me.
What blunted the edge of it now was that whether I won a scholarship or
no I should next year go into the army; and even a temper more sanguine
than mine could feel in 1916 that an infantry subaltern would be insane
to waste anxiety on anything so hypothetical as his post-war life. I
once tried to explain this to my father; it was one of the attempts I
often made (though doubtless less often than I ought) to break through
the artificiality of our intercourse and admit him to my real life. It
was a total failure. He replied at once with fatherly counsels about the
necessity of hard work and concentration, the amount that he had already
spent in educating me, the very moderate, nay negligible, assistance he
would be able to give me in later life. Poor man! He misjudged me sadly
if he thought that idleness at my book was among my many vices. And how,
I asked myself, could he expect the winning or losing of a scholarship
to lose none of its importance when life and death were the real issues?
The truth is, I think, that while death (mine, his, everyone's) was
often vividly present to him as a subject of anxiety and other emotions,
it had no place in his mind as a sober, matter-of-fact contingency from
which consequences could be drawn. At any rate the conversation was a
failure. It shipwrecked on the old rock. His intense desire for my total
confidence co-existed with an inability to listen (in any strict sense)
to what I said. He could never empty, or silence, his own mind to make
room for an alien thought.

My first taste of Oxford was comical enough. I had made no arrangements
about quarters and, having no more luggage than I could carry in my
hand, I sallied out of the railway station on foot to find either a
lodging-house or a cheap hotel; all agog for "dreaming spires" and "last
enchantments". My first disappointment at what I saw could be dealt
with. Towns always show their worst face to the railway. But as I walked
on and on I became more bewildered. Could this succession of mean shops
really be Oxford? But I still went on, always expecting the next turn to
reveal the beauties, and reflecting that it was a much larger town than
I had been led to suppose. Only when it became obvious that there was
very little town left ahead of me, that I was, in fact, getting to open
country, did I turn round and look. There, behind me, far away, never
more beautiful since, was the fabled cluster of spires and towers. I had
come out of the station on the wrong side and been all this time walking
into what was even then the mean and sprawling suburb of Botley. I did
not see to what extent this little adventure was an allegory of my whole
life. I merely walked back to the station, somewhat footsore, took a
hansom, and asked to be driven to "some place where I can get rooms for
a week, please". The method, which I should now think hazardous, was a
complete success, and I was soon at tea in comfortable lodgings. The
house is still there, the first on the right as you turn into Mansfield
Road out of Holywell. I shared the sitting-room with another candidate,
a man from Cardiff College, which he pronounced to be architecturally
superior to anything in Oxford. His learning terrified me, but he was an
agreeable man. I have never seen him since.

It was very cold and next day snow began to fall, turning pinnacles into
wedding-cake decorations. The examination was held in the Hall of Oriel,
and we all wrote in greatcoats and mufflers and wearing at least our
left-hand gloves. The Provost, old Phelps, gave out the papers. I
remember very little about them, but I suppose I was outshone in pure
classics by many of my rivals and succeeded on my general knowledge and
dialectics. I had the impression that I was doing badly. Long years (or
years that seemed long) with the Knock had cured me of my defensive
Wyvernian priggery, and I no longer supposed other boys to be ignorant
of what I knew. Thus the essay was on a quotation from Johnson. I had
read several times the Boswellian conversation in which it occurred and
was able to replace the whole question in that context; but I never
thought that this (any more than a fairish knowledge of Schopenhauer)
would gain me any particular credit. It was a blessed state to be in,
but for the moment depressing. As I left the Hall after that essay I
heard one candidate say to his friend, "I worked in all my stuff about
Rousseau and the Social Contract." That struck dismay into my soul, for
though I had dabbled (not to my good) in the _Confessions_ I knew
nothing of the _Contrat Social_. At the beginning of the morning a nice
Harrovian had whispered to me, "I don't even know if it's Sam or Ben."
In my innocence I explained to him that it was Sam and could not be Ben
because Ben was spelled without an H. I did not think there could be any
harm in giving away such information.

When I arrived home I told my father that I had almost certainly failed.
It was an admission calculated to bring out all his tenderness and
chivalry. The man who could not understand a boy's taking his own
possible, or probable, death into account could very well understand a
child's disappointment. Not a word was now heard of expenses and
difficulties; nothing but consolation, reassurance and affection. Then,
almost on Christmas Eve, we heard that "Univ." (University College) had
elected me.

Though I was now a scholar of my College I still had to pass
"Responsions", which involved elementary mathematics. To prepare for
this I returned after Christmas for one last term with Kirk--a golden
term, poignantly happy under the approaching shadow. At Easter I was
handsomely ploughed in Responsions, having been unable as usual to get
my sums right. "Be more careful," was the advice that everyone gave me,
but I found it useless. The more care I took the more mistakes I made;
just as, to this day, the more anxiously I fair copy a piece of writing
the more certain I am to make a ghastly clerical error in the very first
line.

In spite of this I came into residence in the summer (Trinity) term of
1917; for the real object now was simply to enter the University
Officers' Training Corps as my most promising route into the Army. My
first studies at Oxford, nevertheless, still had Responsions in view. I
read algebra (devil take it!) with old Mr. Campbell of Hertford who
turned out to be a friend of our dear friend Janie M. That I never
passed Responsions is certain, but I cannot remember whether I again sat
for it and was again ploughed. The question became unimportant after the
war, for a benevolent decree exempted ex-Service men from taking it.
Otherwise, no doubt, I should have had to abandon the idea of going to
Oxford.

I was less than a term at Univ when my papers came through and I
enlisted; and the conditions made it a most abnormal term. Half the
College had been converted into a hospital and was in the hands of the
R.A.M.C. In the remaining portion lived a tiny community of
undergraduates--two of us not yet of military age, two unfit, one a
Sinn-Feiner who would not fight for England, and a few other oddments
which I never quite placed. We dined in the little lecture room which is
now a passage between Common Room and Hall. Small though our numbers
were (about eight) we were rather distinguished, for we included E. V.
Gordon, afterwards Professor of English at Manchester, and A. C. Ewing,
the Cambridge philosopher; also that witty and kindly man, Theobald
Butler, skilled in turning the most lurid limericks into Greek verse. I
enjoyed myself greatly; but it bore little resemblance to normal
undergraduate life and was for me an unsettled, excited, and generally
useless period. Then came the Army. By a remarkable turn of fate this
did not mean removal from Oxford. I was drafted into a Cadet Battalion
whose billet was Keble.

I passed through the ordinary course of training (a mild affair in those
days compared with that of the recent war) and was commissioned as a
Second Lieutenant in the Somerset Light Infantry, the old XIIIth Foot. I
arrived in the front line trenches on my nineteenth birthday (November
1917), saw most of my service in the villages before Arras--Fampoux and
Monchy--and was wounded at Mt. Bernenchon, near Lillers, in April 1918.

I am surprised that I did not dislike the Army more. It was, of course,
detestable. But the words "of course" drew the sting. That is where it
differed from Wyvern. One did not expect to like it. Nobody said you
ought to like it. Nobody pretended to like it. Everyone you met took it
for granted that the whole thing was an odious necessity, a ghastly
interruption of rational life. And that made all the difference.
Straight tribulation is easier to bear than tribulation which advertises
itself as pleasure. The one breeds _camaraderie_ and even (when intense)
a kind of love between the fellow-sufferers; the other, mutual distrust,
cynicism, concealed and fretting resentment. And secondly, I found my
military elders and betters incomparably nicer than the Wyvern Bloods.
This is no doubt because Thirty is naturally kinder to Nineteen than
Nineteen is to Thirteen: it is really grown-up and does not need to
reassure itself. But I am inclined to think that my face had altered.
That "look" which I had so often been told to "take off it" had
apparently taken itself off--perhaps when I read _Phantastes_. There is
even some evidence that it had been succeeded by a look which excited
either pity or kindly amusement. Thus, on my very first night in France,
in a vast marquee or drill hall where about a hundred officers were to
sleep on plank beds, two middle-aged Canadians at once took charge of me
and treated me, not like a son (that might have given offence) but like
a long-lost friend. Blessings upon them! Once, too, in the Officers'
Club at Arras where I was dining alone, and quite happy with my book and
my wine (a bottle of Heidsieck then cost 8 francs, and a bottle of
Perrier Jouet, 12) two immensely senior officers, all covered with
ribbons and red tabs, came over to my table towards the end of the meal,
and hailing me as "Sunny Jim" carried me off to their own for brandy and
cigars. They weren't drunk either; nor did they make me drunk. It was
pure good will. And though exceptional, this was not so very
exceptional. There were nasty people in the army; but memory fills those
months with pleasant, transitory contacts. Every few days one seemed to
meet a scholar, an original, a poet, a cheery buffoon, a raconteur, or
at the least a man of good will.

Some time in the middle of that winter I had the good luck to fall sick
with what the troops called "trench fever" and the doctors P.U.O.
(Pyrexia, unknown origin) and was sent for a wholly delightful three
weeks to hospital at Le Trport. Perhaps I ought to have mentioned
before that I had had a weak chest ever since childhood and had very
early learned to make a minor illness one of the pleasures of life, even
in peace-time. Now, as an alternative to the trenches, a bed and a book
were "very heaven". The hospital was a converted hotel and we were two
in a room. My first week was marred by the fact that one of the night
nurses was conducting a furious love affair with my room-mate. I had too
high a temperature to be embarrassed, but the human whisper is a very
tedious and unmusical noise; especially at night. After that my fortune
mended. The amorous man was sent elsewhere and replaced by a musical
misogynist from Yorkshire, who on our second morning together said to
me, "Eh, lad, if we make beds ourselves dom b----s won't stay in room so
long" (or words to that effect). Accordingly, we made our own beds every
day, and every day when the two V.A.D.'s looked in they said, "Oh,
they've made their beds! Aren't these two good?" and rewarded us with
their brightest smiles. I think they attributed our action to gallantry.

It was here that I first read a volume of Chesterton's essays. I had
never heard of him and had no idea of what he stood for; nor can I quite
understand why he made such an immediate conquest of me. It might have
been expected that my pessimism, my atheism, and my hatred of sentiment
would have made him to me the least congenial of all authors. It would
almost seem that Providence, or some "second cause" of a very obscure
kind, quite over-rules our previous tastes when It decides to bring two
minds together. Liking an author may be as involuntary and improbable as
falling in love. I was by now a sufficiently experienced reader to
distinguish liking from agreement. I did not need to accept what
Chesterton said in order to enjoy it. His humour was of the kind which I
like best--not "jokes" imbedded in the page like currants in a cake,
still less (what I cannot endure), a general tone of flippancy and
jocularity, but the humour which is not in any way separable from the
argument but is rather (as Aristotle would say) the "bloom" on dialectic
itself. The sword glitters not because the swordsman set out to make it
glitter but because he is fighting for his life and therefore moving it
very quickly. For the critics who think Chesterton frivolous or
"paradoxical" I have to work hard to feel even pity; sympathy is out of
the question. Moreover, strange as it may seem, I liked him for his
goodness. I can attribute this taste to myself freely (even at that age)
because it was a liking for goodness which had nothing to do with any
attempt to be good myself. I have never felt the dislike of goodness
which seems to be quite common in better men than me. "Smug" and
"smugness" were terms of disapprobation which had never had a place in
my critical vocabulary. I lacked the cynic's nose, the _odora canum vis_
or bloodhound sensitivity for hypocrisy or Pharisaism. It was a matter
of taste: I felt the "charm" of goodness as a man feels the charm of a
woman he has no intention of marrying. It is, indeed, at that distance
that its "charm" is most apparent.

In reading Chesterton, as in reading MacDonald, I did not know what I
was letting myself in for. A young man who wishes to remain a sound
Atheist cannot be too careful of his reading. There are traps
everywhere--"Bibles laid open, millions of surprises," as Herbert says,
"fine nets and stratagems." God is, if I may say it, very unscrupulous.

In my own battalion also I was assailed. Here I met one Johnson (on whom
be peace) who would have been a lifelong friend if he had not been
killed. He was, like me, already a scholar of an Oxford college
(Queen's) who hoped to take up his scholarship after the war, but a few
years my senior and at that time in command of a company. In him I found
dialectical sharpness such as I had hitherto known only in Kirk, but
coupled with youth and whim and poetry. He was moving towards Theism and
we had endless arguments on that and every other topic whenever we were
out of the line. But it was not this that mattered. The important thing
was that he was a man of conscience. I had hardly till now encountered
principles in anyone so nearly of my own age and my own sort. The
alarming thing was that he took them for granted. It crossed my mind for
the first time since my apostasy that the severer virtues might have
some relevance to one's own life. I say "the severer virtues" because I
already had some notion of kindness and faithfulness to friends and
generosity about money--as who has not till he meets the temptation which
gives all their opposite vices new and more civil names? But it had not
seriously occurred to me that people like ourselves, people like Johnson
and me who wanted to know whether beauty was objective or how Aeschylus
handled the reconciliation of Zeus and Prometheus, should be attempting
strict veracity, chastity, or devotion to duty. I had taken it that they
were not our subjects. There was no discussion between us on the point
and I do not think he ever suspected the truth about me. I was at no
pains to display it. If this is hypocrisy, then I must conclude that
hypocrisy can do a man good. To be ashamed of what you were about to
say, to pretend that something which you had meant seriously was only a
joke--this is an ignoble part. But it is better than not to be ashamed at
all. And the distinction between pretending you are better than you are
and beginning to be better in reality is finer than moral sleuthhounds
conceive. I was, in intention, concealing only a part: I accepted his
principles at once, made no attempt internally to defend my own
"unexamined life". When a boor first enters the society of courteous
people what can he do, for a while, except imitate the motions? How can
he learn except by imitation?

You will have divined that ours was a very nice battalion; a minority of
good regulars ruling a pleasantly mixed population of promoted rankers
(west country farmers, these), barristers, and university men. You could
get as good talk there as anywhere. Perhaps the best of us all was our
butt, Wallie. Wallie was a farmer, a Roman Catholic, a passionate
soldier (the only man I met who really longed for fighting) and gullible
to any degree by the rawest subaltern. The technique was to criticise
the Yeomanry. Poor Wallie knew that it was the bravest, the most
efficient, the hardest and cleanest corps that ever sat on horses. He
knew all that inside, having learned it from an uncle in the Yeomanry
when he was a child. But he could not get it out. He stammered and
contradicted himself and always came at last to his trump card: "I wish
my Uncle Ben was here to talk to you. Uncle Bend talk to you. He'd tell
you." Mortals must not judge; but I doubt whether any man fought in
France who was more likely to go straight to Heaven if he were killed. I
would have been better employed cleaning his boots than laughing at him.
I may add that I did not enjoy the short time I spent in the company he
commanded. Wallie had a genuine passion for killing Germans and a
complete disregard of his own or anyone else's safety. He was always
striking out bright ideas at which the hair of us subalterns stood on
end. Luckily he could be very easily dissuaded by any plausible argument
that occurred to us. Such was his valour and innocence that he never for
a moment suspected us of any but a military motive. He could never grasp
the neighbourly principles which, by the tacit agreement of the troops,
were held to govern trench-warfare, and to which I was introduced at
once by my sergeant. I had suggested "pooping" a rifle grenade into a
German post where we had seen heads moving. "Just as 'ee like, zir,"
said the sergeant, scratching his head, "but once 'ee start doing that
kind of thing, 'ee'll get zummit back, zee?"

I must not paint the war-time army all gold. I met there both the World
and the great goddess Nonsense. The world presented itself in a very
ridiculous form on that night (my nineteenth birthday) when I first
arrived "up the line". As I emerged from the shaft into the dug-out and
blinked in the candle-light I noticed that the Captain to whom I was
reporting was a master whom I had liked more than I had respected at one
of my schools. I ventured to claim acquaintance. He admitted in a low,
hurried voice that he had once been a schoolmaster, and the topic was
never raised between us again. The impact of the Great Goddess was even
funnier, and I met it long before I had reached my own battalion. The
troop train from Rouen--that interminable, twelve-mile-an-hour train, in
which no two coaches were alike--left at about ten in the evening. Three
other officers and I were allotted a compartment. There was no heating;
for light we brought our own candles; for sanitation there were the
windows. The journey would last about fifteen hours. It was freezing
hard. In the tunnel just outside Rouen (all my generation remember it)
there was a sudden wrenching and grating noise and one of our doors
dropped off bodily into the dark. We sat with chattering teeth till the
next stop, where the officer commanding the train came bustling up and
demanded what we had done with our door. "It came off, sir," said we.
"Don't talk nonsense," said he, "it wouldn't have come off if there
hadn't been some horseplay!"--as if nothing were more natural than that
four officers (being, of course, provided with screwdrivers) should
begin a night journey in midwinter by removing the door of their
carriage.

The war itself has been so often described by those who saw more of it
than I that I shall here say little about it. Until the great German
attack came in the Spring we had a pretty quiet time. Even then they
attacked not us but the Canadians on our right, merely "keeping us
quiet" by pouring shells into our line about three a minute all day. I
think it was that day I noticed how a greater terror overcomes a less: a
mouse that I met (and a poor shivering mouse it was, as I was a poor
shivering man) made no attempt to run from me. Through the winter,
weariness and water were our chief enemies. I have gone to sleep
marching and woken again and found myself marching still. One walked in
the trenches in thigh gum boots with water above the knee; one remembers
the icy stream welling up inside the boot when you punctured it on
concealed barbed wire. Familiarity both with the very old and the very
recent dead confirmed that view of corpses which had been formed the
moment I saw my dead mother. I came to know and pity and reverence the
ordinary man: particularly dear Sergeant Ayres, who was (I suppose)
killed by the same shell that wounded me. I was a futile officer (they
gave commissions too easily then), a puppet moved about by him, and he
turned this ridiculous and painful relation into something beautiful,
became to me almost like a father. But for the rest, the war--the
frights, the cold, the smell of H.E., the horribly smashed men still
moving like half-crushed beetles, the sitting or standing corpses, the
landscape of sheer earth without a blade of grass, the boots worn day
and night till they seemed to grow to your feet--all this shows rarely
and faintly in memory. It is too cut off from the rest of my experience
and often seems to have happened to someone else. It is even in a way
unimportant. One imaginative moment seems now to matter more than the
realities that followed. It was the first bullet I heard--so far from me
that it "whined" like a journalist's or a peace-time poet's bullet. At
that moment there was something not exactly like fear, much less like
indifference: a little quavering signal that said, "This is War. This is
what Homer wrote about."




                           XIII. The New Look


  _This wall I was many a weary month in finishing, and yet never
  thought myself safe till it was done._
                                                DEFOE, _Robinson Crusoe_

The rest of my war experiences have little to do with this story. How I
"took" about sixty prisoners--that is, discovered to my great relief that
the crowd of field-grey figures who suddenly appeared from nowhere, all
had their hands up-is not worth telling, save as a joke. Did not
Falstaff "take" Sir Colville of the Dale? Nor does it concern the reader
to know how I got a sound "Blighty" from an English shell, or how the
exquisite Sister N. in the C.C.S. has ever since embodied my idea of
Artemis. Two things stand out. One is the moment, just after I had been
hit, when I found (or thought I found) that I was not breathing and
concluded that this was death. I felt no fear and certainly no courage.
It did not seem to be an occasion for either. The proposition "Here is a
man dying" stood before my mind as dry, as factual, as unemotional as
something in a text-book. It was not even interesting. The fruit of this
experience was that when, some years later, I met Kant's distinction
between the Noumenal and the Phenomenal self, it was more to me than an
abstraction. I had tasted it; I had proved that there was a fully
conscious "I" whose connections with the "me" of introspection were
loose and transitory. The other momentous experience was that of reading
Bergson in a Convalescent Camp on Salisbury Plain. Intellectually this
taught me to avoid the snares that lurk about the word _Nothing_. But it
also had a revolutionary effect on my emotional outlook. Hitherto my
whole bent had been towards things pale, remote, and evanescent; the
water-colour world of Morris, the leafy recesses of Malory,[6] the
twilight of Yeats. The word "life" had for me pretty much the same
associations it had for Shelley in _The Triumph of Life_. I would not
have understood what Goethe meant by _des Lebens goldnes Baum_. Bergson
showed me. He did not abolish my old loves, but he gave me a new one.
From him I first learned to relish energy, fertility, and urgency; the
resource, the triumphs, and even the insolence, of things that grow. I
became capable of appreciating artists who would, I believe, have meant
nothing to me before; all the resonant, dogmatic, flaming, unanswerable
people like Beethoven, Titian (in his mythological pictures), Goethe,
Dunbar, Pindar, Christopher Wren, and the more exultant Psalms.

I returned to Oxford--"demobbed"--in January 1919. But before I say
anything of my life there I must warn the reader that one huge and
complex episode will be omitted. I have no choice about this reticence.
All I can or need say is that my earlier hostility to the emotions was
very fully and variously avenged. But even were I free to tell the
story, I doubt if it has much to do with the subject of the book.

The first lifelong friend I made at Oxford was A. K. Hamilton Jenkin,
since known for his books on Cornwall. He continued (what Arthur had
begun) my education as a seeing, listening, smelling, receptive
creature. Arthur had had his preference for the Homely. But Jenkin
seemed to be able to enjoy everything; even ugliness. I learned from him
that we should attempt a total surrender to whatever atmosphere was
offering itself at the moment; in a squalid town to seek out those very
places where its squalor rose to grimness and almost grandeur, on a
dismal day to find the most dismal and dripping wood, on a windy day to
seek the windiest ridge. There was no Betjemannic irony about it; only a
serious, yet gleeful, determination to rub one's nose in the very
quiddity of each thing, to rejoice in its being (so magnificently) what
it was.

My next was Owen Barfield. There is a sense in which Arthur and Barfield
are the types of every man's First Friend and Second Friend. The First
is the _alter ego_, the man who first reveals to you that you are not
alone in the world by turning out (beyond hope) to share all your most
secret delights. There is nothing to be overcome in making him your
friend; he and you join like rain-drops on a window. But the Second
Friend is the man who disagrees with you about everything. He is not so
much the _alter ego_ as the anti-self. Of course he shares your
interests; otherwise he would not become your friend at all. But he has
approached them all at a different angle. He has read all the right
books but has got the wrong thing out of every one. It is as if he spoke
your language but mispronounced it. How can he be so nearly right and
yet, invariably, just not right? He is as fascinating (and infuriating)
as a woman. When you set out to correct his heresies, you find that he
forsooth has decided to correct yours! And then you go at it, hammer and
tongs, far into the night, night after night, or walking through fine
country that neither gives a glance to, each learning the weight of the
other's punches, and often more like mutually respectful enemies than
friends. Actually (though it never seems so at the time) you modify one
another's thought; out of this perpetual dog-fight a community of mind
and a deep affection emerge. But I think he changed me a good deal more
than I him. Much of the thought which he afterwards put into _Poetic
Diction_ had already become mine before that important little book
appeared. It would be strange if it had not. He was of course not so
learned then as he has since become; but the genius was already there.

Closely linked with Barfield of Wadham was his friend (and soon mine),
A. C. Harwood of The House, later a pillar of Michael Hall, the
Steinerite school at Kidbrooke. He was different from either of us; a
wholly imperturbable man. Though poor (like most of us) and wholly
without "prospects", he wore the expression of a nineteenth-century
gentleman with something in the Funds. On a walking tour when the last
light of a wet evening had just revealed some ghastly error in
map-reading (probably his own) and the best hope was "Five miles to
Mudham (if we could find it) and we _might_ get beds there," he still
wore that expression. In the heat of argument he wore it still. You
would think that he, if anyone, would have been told to "take that look
off his face". But I don't believe he ever was. It was no mask and came
from no stupidity. He has been tried since by all the usual sorrows and
anxieties. He is the sole Horatio known to me in this age of Hamlets; no
"stop for Fortune's finger".

There is one thing to be said about these and other friends whom I made
at Oxford. They were all, by decent Pagan standards (much more, by so
low a standard as mine), "good". That is, they all, like my friend
Johnson, believed, and acted on the belief, that veracity, public
spirit, chastity, and sobriety were obligatory--"to be attempted," as the
examiners say, "by all candidates." Johnson had prepared me to be
influenced by them. I accepted their standards in principle and perhaps
(this part I do not very well remember) tried to act accordingly.

During my first two years at Oxford I was busily engaged (apart from
"doing Mods." and "beginning Greats") in assuming what we may call an
intellectual "New Look". There was to be no more pessimism, no more
self-pity, no flirtations with any idea of the supernatural, no romantic
delusions. In a word, like the heroine of _Northanger Abbey_, I formed
the resolution "of always judging and acting in future with the greatest
good sense". And good sense meant, for me at that moment, a retreat,
almost a panic-stricken flight, from all that sort of romanticism which
had hitherto been the chief concern of my life. Several causes operated
together.

For one thing, I had recently come to know an old, dirty, gabbling,
tragic, Irish parson who had long since lost his faith but retained his
living. By the time I met him his only interest was the search for
evidence of "human survival". On this he read and talked incessantly,
and, having a highly critical mind, could never satisfy himself. What
was especially shocking was that the ravenous desire for personal
immortality co-existed in him with (apparently) a total indifference to
all that could, on a sane view, make immortality desirable. He was not
seeking the Beatific Vision and did not even believe in God. He was not
hoping for more time in which to purge and improve his own personality.
He was not dreaming of reunion with dead friends or lovers; I never
heard him speak with affection of anybody. All he wanted was the
assurance that something he could call "himself" would, on almost any
terms, last longer than his bodily life. So, at least, I thought. I was
too young and hard to suspect that what secretly moved him was a thirst
for the happiness which had been wholly denied him on earth. And his
state of mind appeared to me the most contemptible I had ever
encountered. Any thoughts or dreams which might lead one into that
fierce monomania were, I decided, to be utterly shunned. The whole
question of immortality became rather disgusting to me. I shut it out.
All one's thoughts must be confined to

            _the very world, which is the world_
  _Of all of us--the place where, in the end,_
  _We find our happiness, or not at all._

Secondly, it had been my chance to spend fourteen days, and most of the
fourteen nights as well, in close contact with a man who was going mad.
He was a man whom I had dearly loved, and well he deserved love. And now
I helped to hold him while he kicked and wallowed on the floor,
screaming out that devils were tearing him and that he was that moment
falling down into Hell. And this man, as I well knew, had not kept the
beaten track. He had flirted with Theosophy, Yoga, Spiritualism,
Psychoanalysis, what not? Probably these things had in fact no
connection with his insanity, for which (I believe) there were physical
causes. But it did not seem so to me at the time. I thought I had seen a
warning; it was to this, this raving on the floor, that all romantic
longings and unearthly speculations led a man in the end--

  _Be not too wildly amorous of the far_
  _Nor lure thy fantasy to its utmost scope._

Safety first, thought I: the beaten track, the approved road, the centre
of the road, the lights on. For some months after that nightmare
fortnight, the words "ordinary" and "humdrum" summed up everything that
appeared to me most desirable.

Thirdly, the new Psychology was at that time sweeping through us all. We
did not swallow it whole (few people then did) but we were all
influenced. What we were most concerned about was "Fantasy" or "wishful
thinking". For (of course) we were all poets and critics and set a very
great value on "Imagination" in some high Coleridgean sense, so that it
became important to distinguish Imagination, not only (as Coleridge did)
from Fancy, but also from Fantasy as the psychologists understand that
term. Now what, I asked myself, were all my delectable mountains and
western gardens but sheer Fantasies? Had they not revealed their true
nature by luring me, time and again, into undisguisedly erotic reverie
or the squalid nightmare of Magic? In reality, of course, as previous
chapters have told, my own experience had repeatedly shown that these
romantic images had never been more than a sort of flash, or even slag,
thrown off by the occurrence of Joy, that those mountains and gardens
had never been what I wanted but only symbols which professed themselves
to be no more, and that every effort to treat them as the real Desirable
soon honestly proved itself to be a failure. But now, busy with my New
Look, I managed to forget this. Instead of repenting my idolatry I
vilified the unoffending images on which I had lavished it. With the
confidence of a boy I decided I had done with all that. No more Avalon,
no more Hesperides. I had (this was very precisely the opposite of the
truth) "seen through" them. And I was never going to be taken in again.

Finally, there was of course Bergson. Somehow or other (for it does not
seem very clear when I re-open his books today) I found in him a
refutation of the old haunting idea, Schopenhauer's idea, that the
universe "might not have existed". In other words one Divine attribute,
that of necessary existence, rose above my horizon. It was still, and
long after, attached to the wrong subject; to the universe, not to God.
But the mere attribute was itself of immense potency. When once one has
dropped the absurd notion that reality is an arbitrary alternative to
"nothing", one gives up being a pessimist (or even an optimist). There
is no sense in blaming or praising the Whole, nor, indeed, in saying
anything about it. Even if you persist in hurling Promethean or
Hardyesque defiances at it, then, since you are part of it, it is only
that same Whole which through you "quietly declaims the cursings of
itself"--a futility which seems to me to vitiate Lord Russell's stirring
essay on "The Worship of a Free Man". Cursings were as futile, and as
immature, as dreams about the western garden. One must (like Carlyle's
lady) "accept" the universe; totally, with no reservations, loyally.
This sort of Stoical Monism was the philosophy of my New Look. And it
gave me a great sense of peace. It was perhaps the nearest thing to a
religious experience which I had had since my prep. school days. It
ended (I hope forever) any idea of a treaty or compromise with reality.
So much the perception of even one Divine attribute can do.

As for Joy, I labelled it "aesthetic experience" and talked much about
it under that name and said it was very "valuable". But it came very
seldom and when it came it didn't amount to much.

Those early days of the New Look were on the whole happy ones. Very
gradually the sky changed. There came to be more unhappiness and anxiety
in my own life; and Barfield was living through

                  _that whole year of youth_
  _When life ached like an aching tooth._

Our generation, the generation of the returned soldiers, began to pass.
Oxford was full of new faces. Freshmen began to make historical
allowances for our warped point of view. The problem of one's career
loomed larger and grimmer.

It was then that a really dreadful thing (dreadful to me) happened.
First Harwood (still without changing his expression), and then
Barfield, embraced the doctrines of Steiner and became Anthroposophists.
I was hideously shocked. Everything that I had laboured so hard to expel
from my own life seemed to have flared up and met me in my best friends.
Not only my best friends but those whom I would have thought safest; the
one so immovable, the other brought up in a free-thinking family and so
immune from all "superstition" that he had hardly heard of Christianity
itself until he went to school. (The gospel first broke on Barfield in
the form of a dictated list of Parables Peculiar to St. Matthew.) Not
only in my seeming-safest friends but at a moment when we all had most
need to stand together. And as I came to learn (so far as I ever have
learned) what Steiner thought, my horror turned into disgust and
resentment. For here, apparently, were all the abominations; none more
abominable than those which had once attracted me. Here were gods,
spirits, after-life and pre-existence, initiates, occult knowledge,
meditation. "Why--damn it--it's _medieval_," I exclaimed; for I still had
all the chronological snobbery of my period and used the names of
earlier periods as terms of abuse. Here was everything which the New
Look had been designed to exclude; everything that might lead one off
the main road into those dark places where men wallow on the floor and
scream that they are being dragged down into Hell. Of course it was all
arrant nonsense. There was no danger of _my_ being taken in. But then,
the loneliness, the sense of being deserted.

Naturally, I attributed to my friends the same desires which, had I
become an Anthroposophist, would have been operative in me. I thought
they were falling under that ravenous, salt lust for the occult. I now
see that, from the very first, all the evidence was against this. They
were not that sort. Nor does Anthroposophy, so far as I can see, cater
for that sort. There is a difficulty and (to me) a re-assuring Germanic
dullness about it which would soon deter those who were looking for
thrills. Nor have I ever seen that it had a deleterious effect on the
character of those who embraced it; I have once known it to have a very
good one.

I say this, not because I ever came within a hundred miles of accepting
the thing myself, but in common fairness, and also as a tardy amends for
the many hard, unjust and bitter things I once said about it to my
friends. For Barfield's conversion to Anthroposophy marked the beginning
of what I can only describe as the Great War between him and me. It was
never, thank God, a quarrel, though it could have become one in a moment
if he had used to me anything like the violence I allowed myself to him.
But it was an almost incessant disputation, sometimes by letter and
sometimes face to face, which lasted for years. And this Great War was
one of the turning points of my life.

Barfield never made me an Anthroposophist, but his counter-attacks
destroyed forever two elements in my own thought. In the first place he
made short work of what I have called my "chronological snobbery", the
uncritical acceptance of the intellectual climate common to our own age
and the assumption that whatever has gone out of date is on that account
discredited. You must find why it went out of date. Was it ever refuted
(and if so by whom, where, and how conclusively) or did it merely die
away as fashions do? If the latter, this tells us nothing about its
truth or falsehood. From seeing this, one passes to the realisation that
our own age is also "a period", and certainly has, like all periods, its
own characteristic illusions. They are likeliest to lurk in those
wide-spread assumptions which are so ingrained in the age that no one
dares to attack or feels it necessary to defend them. In the second
place he convinced me that the positions we had hitherto held left no
room for any satisfactory theory of knowledge. We had been, in the
technical sense of the term, "realists"; that is, we accepted as
rock-bottom reality the universe revealed by the senses. But at the same
time we continued to make for certain phenomena of consciousness all the
claims that really went with a theistic or idealistic view. We
maintained that abstract thought (if obedient to logical rules) gave
indisputable truth, that our moral judgment was "valid", and our
aesthetic experience not merely pleasing but "valuable". The view was, I
think, common at the time; it runs through Bridges' _Testament of
Beauty_, the work of Gilbert Murray, and Lord Russell's "Worship of a
Free Man". Barfield convinced me that it was inconsistent. If thought
were a purely subjective event, these claims for it would have to be
abandoned. If one kept (as rock-bottom reality) the universe of the
senses, aided by instruments and co-ordinated so as to form "science",
then one would have to go much further--as many have since gone--and adopt
a Behaviouristic theory of logic, ethics, and aesthetics. But such a
theory was, and is, unbelievable to me. I am using the word
"unbelievable", which many use to mean "improbable" or even
"undesirable", in a quite literal sense. I mean that the act of
believing what the behaviourist believes is one that my mind simply will
not perform. I cannot force my thought into that shape any more than I
can scratch my ear with my big toe or pour wine out of a bottle into the
cavity at the base of that same bottle. It is as final as a physical
impossibility. I was therefore compelled to give up realism. I had been
trying to defend it ever since I began reading philosophy. Partly, no
doubt, this was mere "cussedness". Idealism was then the dominant
philosophy at Oxford and I was by nature "against Government". But
partly, too, realism satisfied an emotional need. I wanted Nature to be
quite independent of our observation; something other, indifferent,
self-existing. (This went with the Jenkinian zest for rubbing one's nose
in the mere quiddity.) But now, it seemed to me, I had to give that up.
Unless I were to accept an unbelievable alternative, I must admit that
mind was no late-come epiphenomenon; that the whole universe was, in the
last resort, mental; that our logic was participation in a cosmic
_Logos_.

It is astonishing (at this time of day) that I could regard this
position as something quite distinct from Theism. I suspect there was
some wilful blindness. But there were in those days all sorts of
blankets, insulators, and insurances which enabled one to get all the
conveniences of Theism, without believing in God. The English Hegelians,
writers like T. H. Green, Bradley, and Bosanquet (then mighty names),
dealt in precisely such wares. The Absolute Mind--better still, the
Absolute--was impersonal, or it knew itself (but not us?) only in us, and
it was so absolute that it wasn't really much more like a mind than
anything else. And anyway, the more muddled one got about it and the
more contradictions one committed, the more this proved that our
discursive thought moved only on the level of "Appearance", and
"Reality" must be somewhere else. And where else but, of course, in the
Absolute? There, not here, was "the fuller splendour" behind the
"sensuous curtain". The emotion that went with all this was certainly
religious. But this was a religion that cost nothing. We could talk
religiously about the Absolute: but there was no danger of Its doing
anything about us. It was "there"; safely and immovably "there". It
would never come "here", never (to be blunt) make a nuisance of Itself.
This quasi-religion was all a one-way street; all _eros_ (as Dr. Nygren
would say) steaming up, but no _agape_ darting down. There was nothing
to fear; better still, nothing to obey.

Yet there was one really wholesome element in it. The Absolute was
"there", and that "there" contained the reconciliation of all
contraries, the transcendence of all finitude, the hidden glory which
was the only perfectly real thing there is. In fact, it had much of the
quality of Heaven. But it was a Heaven none of us could ever get to. For
we are appearances. To be "there" is, by definition, not to be we. All
who embrace such a philosophy live, like Dante's virtuous Pagans, "in
desire without hope". Or like Spinoza they so love their God as to be
unable even to wish that He should love them in return. I should be very
sorry not to have passed through that experience. I think it is more
religious than many experiences that have been called Christian. What I
learned from the Idealists (and still most strongly hold) is this maxim:
it is more important that Heaven should exist than that any of us should
reach it.

And so the great Angler played His fish and I never dreamed that the
hook was in my tongue. But two great advances had been made. Bergson had
showed me necessary existence; and from Idealism I had come one step
nearer to understanding the words, "We give thanks to thee for thy great
glory." The Norse gods had given me the first hint of it; but then I
didn't believe in them, and I did believe (so far as one can believe an
_Unding_) in the Absolute.




                             XIV. Checkmate


  _The one principle of hell is--"I am my own."_
                                                        GEORGE MACDONALD

In the summer of 1922 I finished Greats. As there were no philosophical
posts going, or none that I could get, my long-suffering father offered
me a fourth year at Oxford during which I read English so as to get a
second string to my bow. The Great War with Barfield had, I think, begun
at this time.

No sooner had I entered the English School than I went to George
Gordon's discussion class. And there I made a new friend. The very first
words he spoke marked him out from the ten or twelve others who were
present; a man after my own heart, and that too at an age when the
instantaneous friendships of earlier youth were becoming rather rare
events. His name was Nevill Coghill. I soon had the shock of discovering
that he--clearly the most intelligent and best-informed man in that
class--was a Christian and a thoroughgoing supernaturalist. There were
other traits that I liked but found (for I was still very much a modern)
oddly archaic; chivalry, honour, courtesy, "freedom", and "gentillesse".
One could imagine him fighting a duel. He spoke much "ribaldry" but
never "villeinye". Barfield was beginning to overthrow my chronological
snobbery; Coghill gave it another blow. Had something really dropped out
of our lives? Was the archaic simply the civilised, and the modern
simply the barbaric? It will seem strange to many of my critics who
regard me as a typical _laudator temporis acti_ that this question
should have arisen so comparatively late in my life. But then the key to
my books is Donne's maxim, "The heresies that men leave are hated most."
The things I assert most vigorously are those that I resisted long and
accepted late.

These disturbing factors in Coghill ranged themselves with a wider
disturbance which was now threatening my whole earlier outlook. All the
books were beginning to turn against me. Indeed, I must have been as
blind as a bat not to have seen, long before, the ludicrous
contradiction between my theory of life and my actual experiences as a
reader. George MacDonald had done more to me than any other writer; of
course it was a pity he had that bee in his bonnet about Christianity.
He was good _in spite of it_. Chesterton had more sense than all the
other moderns put together; bating, of course, his Christianity. Johnson
was one of the few authors whom I felt I could trust utterly; curiously
enough, he had the same kink. Spenser and Milton by a strange
coincidence had it too. Even among ancient authors the same paradox was
to be found. The most religious (Plato, Aeschylus, Virgil) were clearly
those on whom I could really feed. On the other hand, those writers who
did not suffer from religion and with whom in theory my sympathy ought
to have been complete--Shaw and Wells and Mill and Gibbon and
Voltaire--all seemed a little thin; what as boys we called "tinny". It
wasn't that I didn't like them. They were all (especially Gibbon)
entertaining; but hardly more. There seemed to be no depth in them. They
were too simple. The roughness and density of life did not appear in
their books.

Now that I was reading more English, the paradox began to be aggravated.
I was deeply moved by the _Dream of the Rood_; more deeply still by
Langland; intoxicated (for a time) by Donne; deeply and lastingly
satisfied by Thomas Browne. But the most alarming of all was George
Herbert. Here was a man who seemed to me to excel all the authors I had
ever read in conveying the very quality of life as we actually live it
from moment to moment; but the wretched fellow, instead of doing it all
directly, insisted on meditating it though what I would still have
called "the Christian mythology". On the other hand most of the authors
who might be claimed as precursors of modern enlightenment seemed to me
very small beer and bored me cruelly. I thought Bacon (to speak frankly)
a solemn, pretentious ass, yawned my way through Restoration Comedy,
and, having manfully struggled on to the last line of _Don Juan_, wrote
on the end-leaf "Never again". The only non-Christians who seemed to me
really to know anything were the Romantics; and a good many of them were
dangerously tinged with something like religion, even at times with
Christianity. The upshot of it all could nearly be expressed in a
perversion of Roland's great line in the _Chanson_--

  _Christians are wrong, but all the rest are bores._

The natural step would have been to inquire a little more closely
whether the Christians were, after all, wrong. But I did not take it. I
thought I could explain their superiority without that hypothesis.
Absurdly (yet many Absolute Idealists have shared this absurdity) I
thought that "the Christian myth" conveyed to unphilosophic minds as
much of the truth, that is of Absolute Idealism, as they were capable of
grasping, and that even that much put them above the irreligious. Those
who could not rise to the notion of the Absolute would come nearer to
the truth by belief in "a God" than by disbelief. Those who could not
understand how, as Reasoners, we participated in a timeless and
therefore deathless world, would get a symbolic shadow of the truth by
believing in a life after death. The implication--that something which I
and most other undergraduates could master without extraordinary pains
would have been too hard for Plato, Dante, Hooker, and Pascal--did not
yet strike me as absurd. I hope this is because I never looked it
squarely in the face.

As the plot quickens and thickens towards its end, I leave out more and
more of such matters as would go into a full autobiography. My father's
death, with all the fortitude (even playfulness) which he displayed in
his last illness, does not really come into the story I am telling. My
brother was at that time in Shanghai. Nor would it be relevant to tell
in detail how I became a temporary lecturer at Univ. for a year and was
elected a fellow of Magdalen in 1925. The worst is that I must leave
undescribed many men whom I love and to whom I am deeply in debt; G. H.
Stevenson and E. F. Carritt, my tutors, the Fark (but who could paint
him anyway?), and five great Magdalen men who enlarged my very idea of
what a learned life should be--P. V. M. Benecke, C. C. J. Webb, J. A.
Smith, F. E. Brightman, and C. T. Onions. Except for Oldie, I have
always been blessed both in my official and my unofficial teachers. In
my earlier years at Magdalen I inhabited a world where hardly anything I
wanted to know needed to be found out by my own unaided efforts. One or
other of these could always give you a clue. ("You'll find something
about it in Alanus...."--"Macrobius would be the man to
try...."--"Doesn't Comparetti mention it?"... "Have you looked for
it in Du Cange?") I found, as always, that the ripest are kindest to the
raw and the most studious have most time to spare. When I began teaching
for the English Faculty, I made two other friends, both Christians
(these queer people seemed now to pop up on every side) who were later
to give me much help in getting over the last stile. They were H. V. V.
Dyson (then of Reading) and J. R. R. Tolkien. Friendship with the latter
marked the breakdown of two old prejudices. At my first coming into the
world I had been (implicitly) warned never to trust a Papist, and at my
first coming into the English Faculty (explicitly) never to trust a
philologist. Tolkien was both.

Realism had been abandoned; the New Look was somewhat damaged; and
chronological snobbery was seriously shaken. All over the board my
pieces were in the most disadvantageous positions. Soon I could no
longer cherish even the illusion that the initiative lay with me. My
Adversary began to make His final moves.

The first Move annihilated the last remains of the New Look. I was
suddenly impelled to re-read (which was certainly no business of mine at
the moment) the _Hippolytus_ of Euripides. In one chorus all that
world's end imagery which I had rejected when I assumed my New Look rose
before me. I liked, but did not yield; I tried to patronise it. But next
day I was overwhelmed. There was a transitional moment of delicious
uneasiness, and then--instantaneously--the long inhibition was over, the
dry desert lay behind, I was off once more into the land of longing, my
heart at once broken and exalted as it had never been since the old days
at Bookham. There was nothing whatever to do about it; no question of
returning to the desert. I had simply been ordered--or, rather,
compelled--to "take that look off my face". And never to resume it
either.

The next Move was intellectual, and consolidated the first Move. I read
in Alexander's _Space Time and Deity_ his theory of "Enjoyment" and
"Contemplation". These are technical terms in Alexander's philosophy;
"Enjoyment" has nothing to do with pleasure, nor "Contemplation" with
the contemplative life. When you see a table you "enjoy" the act of
seeing and "contemplate" the table. Later, if you took up Optics and
thought about Seeing itself, you would be contemplating the seeing and
enjoying the thought. In bereavement you contemplate the beloved and the
beloved's death and, in Alexander's sense, "enjoy" the loneliness and
grief; but a psychologist, if he were considering you as a case of
melancholia, would be contemplating your grief and enjoying psychology.
We do not "think a thought" in the same sense in which we "think that
Herodotus is unreliable". When we think a thought, "thought" is a
cognate accusative (like "blow" in "strike a blow"). We enjoy the
thought (that Herodotus is unreliable) and, in so doing, contemplate the
unreliability of Herodotus.

I accepted this distinction at once and have ever since regarded it as
an indispensable tool of thought. A moment later its consequences--for me
quite catastrophic--began to appear. It seemed to me self-evident that
one essential property of love, hate, fear, hope, or desire was
attention to their object. To cease thinking about or attending to the
woman is, so far, to cease loving; to cease thinking about or attending
to the dreaded thing is, so far, to cease being afraid. But to attend to
your own love or fear is to cease attending to the loved or dreaded
object. In other words the enjoyment and the contemplation of our inner
activities are incompatible. You cannot hope and also think about hoping
at the same moment; for in hope we look to hope's object and we
interrupt this by (so to speak) turning round to look at the hope
itself. Of course the two activities can and do alternate with great
rapidity; but they are distinct and incompatible. This was not merely a
logical result of Alexander's analysis, but could be verified in daily
and hourly experience. The surest means of disarming an anger or a lust
was to turn your attention from the girl or the insult and start
examining the passion itself. The surest way of spoiling a pleasure was
to start examining your satisfaction. But if so, it followed that all
introspection is in one respect misleading. In introspection we try to
look "inside ourselves" and see what is going on. But nearly everything
that was going on a moment before is stopped by the very act of our
turning to look at it. Unfortunately this does not mean that
introspection finds nothing. On the contrary, it finds precisely what is
left behind by the suspension of all our normal activities; and what is
left behind is mainly mental images and physical sensations. The great
error is to mistake this mere sediment or track or by-product for the
activities themselves. That is how men may come to believe that thought
is only unspoken words, or the appreciation of poetry only a collection
of mental pictures, when these in reality are what the thought or the
appreciation, when interrupted, leave behind--like the swell at sea,
working after the wind has dropped. Not, of course, that these
activities, before we stopped them by introspection, were unconscious.
We do not love, fear, or think without knowing it. Instead of the
twofold division into Conscious and Unconscious, we need a three-fold
division: the Unconscious, the Enjoyed, and the Contemplated.

This discovery flashed a new light back on my whole life. I saw that all
my waitings and watchings for Joy, all my vain hopes to find some mental
content on which I could, so to speak, lay my finger and say, "This is
it," had been a futile attempt to contemplate the enjoyed. All that such
watching and waiting ever _could_ find would be either an image (Asgard,
the Western Garden, or what not) or a quiver in the diaphragm. I should
never have to bother again about these images or sensations. I knew now
that they were merely the mental track left by the passage of Joy--not
the wave but the wave's imprint on the sand. The inherent dialectic of
desire itself had in a way already shown me this; for all images and
sensations, if idolatrously mistaken for Joy itself, soon honestly
confessed themselves inadequate. All said, in the last resort, "It is
not I. I am only a reminder. Look! Look! What do I remind you of?"

So far, so good. But it is at the next step that awe overtakes me. There
was no doubt that Joy was a desire (and, in so far as it was also
simultaneously a good, it was also a kind of love). But a desire is
turned not to itself but to its object. Not only that, but it owes all
its character to its object. Erotic love is not like desire for food,
nay, a love for one woman differs from a love for another woman in the
very same way and the very same degree as the two women differ from one
another. Even our desire for one wine differs in tone from our desire
for another. Our intellectual desire (curiosity) to know the true answer
to a question is quite different from our desire to find that one
answer, rather than another, is true. The form of the desired is in the
desire. It is the object which makes the desire harsh or sweet, coarse
or choice, "high" or "low". It is the object that makes the desire
itself desirable or hateful. I perceived (and this was a wonder of
wonders) that just as I had been wrong in supposing that I really
desired the Garden of the Hesperides, so also I had been equally wrong
in supposing that I desired Joy itself. Joy itself, considered simply as
an event in my own mind, turned out to be of no value at all. All the
value lay in that of which Joy was the desiring. And that object, quite
clearly, was no state of my own mind or body at all. In a way, I had
proved this by elimination. I had tried everything in my own mind and
body; as it were, asking myself, "Is it this you want? Is it this?" Last
of all I had asked if Joy itself was what I wanted; and, labelling it
"aesthetic experience", had pretended I could answer Yes. But that
answer too had broken down. Inexorably Joy proclaimed, "You want--I
myself am your want of--something other, outside, not you nor any state
of you." I did not yet ask, Who is the desired? only What is it? But
this brought me already into the region of awe, for I thus understood
that in deepest solitude there is a road right out of the self, a
commerce with something which, by refusing to identify itself with any
object of the senses, or anything whereof we have biological or social
need, or anything imagined, or any state of our own minds, proclaims
itself sheerly objective. Far more objective than bodies, for it is not,
like them, clothed in our senses; the naked Other, imageless (though our
imagination salutes it with a hundred images), unknown, undefined,
desired.

That was the second Move; equivalent, perhaps, to the loss of one's last
remaining bishop. The third Move did not seem to me dangerous at the
time. It consisted merely in linking up this new _claircissement_ about
Joy with my idealistic philosophy. I saw that Joy, as I now understood
it, would fit in. We mortals, seen as the sciences see us and as we
commonly see one another, are mere "appearances". But appearances of the
Absolute. In so far as we really are at all (which isn't saying much) we
have, so to speak, a root in the Absolute, which is the utter reality.
And that is why we experience Joy: we yearn, rightly, for that unity
which we can never reach except by ceasing to be the separate phenomenal
beings called "we". Joy was not a deception. Its visitations were rather
the moments of clearest consciousness we had, when we became aware of
our fragmentary and phantasmal nature and ached for that impossible
reunion which would annihilate us or that self-contradictory waking
which would reveal, not that we had had, but that we _were_, a dream.
This seemed quite satisfactory intellectually. Even emotionally too; for
it matters more that Heaven should exist than that we should ever get
there. What I did not notice was that I had passed an important
milestone. Up till now my thoughts had been centrifugal; now the
centripetal movement had begun. Considerations arising from quite
different parts of my experience were beginning to come together with a
click. This new dovetailing of my desire-life with my philosophy
foreshadowed the day, now fast approaching, when I should be forced to
take my "philosophy" more seriously than I ever intended. I did not
foresee this. I was like a man who has lost "merely a pawn" and never
dreams that this (in that state of the game) means mate in a few moves.

The fourth Move was more alarming. I was now teaching philosophy (I
suspect very badly) as well as English. And my watered Hegelianism
wouldn't serve for tutorial purposes.[7] A tutor must make things clear.
Now the Absolute cannot be made clear. Do you mean Nobody-knows-what, or
do you mean a superhuman mind and therefore (we may as well admit) a
Person? After all, did Hegel and Bradley and all the rest of them ever
do more than add mystifications to the simple, workable, theistic
idealism of Berkeley? I thought not. And didn't Berkeley's "God" do all
the same work as the Absolute, with the added advantage that we had at
least some notion of what we meant by Him? I thought He did. So I was
driven back into something like Berkeleyanism; but Berkeleyanism with a
few top-dressings of my own. I distinguished this philosophical "God"
very sharply (or so I said) from "the God of popular religion". There
was, I explained, no possibility of being in a personal relation with
Him. For I thought He projected us as a dramatist projects his
characters, and I could no more "meet" Him, than Hamlet could meet
Shakespeare. I didn't call Him "God" either; I called Him "Spirit". One
fights for one's remaining comforts.

Then I read Chesterton's _Everlasting Man_ and for the first time saw
the whole Christian outline of history set out in a form that seemed to
me to make sense. Somehow I contrived not to be too badly shaken. You
will remember that I already thought Chesterton the most sensible man
alive "apart from his Christianity". Now, I veritably believe, I
thought--I didn't of course _say_; words would have revealed the
nonsense--that Christianity itself was very sensible "apart from its
Christianity". But I hardly remember, for I had not long finished _The
Everlasting Man_ when something far more alarming happened to me. Early
in 1926 the hardest boiled of all the atheists I ever knew sat in my
room on the other side of the fire and remarked that the evidence for
the historicity of the Gospels was really surprisingly good. "Rum
thing," he went on. "All that stuff of Frazer's about the Dying God. Rum
thing. It almost looks as if it had really happened once." To understand
the shattering impact of it, you would need to know the man (who has
certainly never since shown any interest in Christianity). If he, the
cynic of cynics, the toughest of the toughs, were not--as I would still
have put it--"safe", where could I turn? Was there then no escape?

The odd thing was that before God closed in on me, I was in fact offered
what now appears a moment of wholly free choice. In a sense. I was going
up Headington Hill on the top of a bus. Without words and (I think)
almost without images, a fact about myself was somehow presented to me.
I became aware that I was holding something at bay, or shutting
something out. Or, if you like, that I was wearing some stiff clothing,
like corsets, or even a suit of armour, as if I were a lobster. I felt
myself being, there and then, given a free choice. I could open the door
or keep it shut; I could unbuckle the armour or keep it on. Neither
choice was presented as a duty; no threat or promise was attached to
either, though I knew that to open the door or to take off the corslet
meant the incalculable. The choice appeared to be momentous but it was
also strangely unemotional. I was moved by no desires or fears. In a
sense I was not moved by anything. I chose to open, to unbuckle, to
loosen the rein. I say, "I chose," yet it did not really seem possible
to do the opposite. On the other hand, I was aware of no motives. You
could argue that I was not a free agent, but I am more inclined to think
that this came nearer to being a perfectly free act than most that I
have ever done. Necessity may not be the opposite of freedom, and
perhaps a man is most free when, instead of producing motives, he could
only say, "I am what I do." Then came the repercussion on the
imaginative level. I felt as if I were a man of snow at long last
beginning to melt. The melting was starting in my back--drip-drip and
presently trickle-trickle. I rather disliked the feeling.

The fox had been dislodged from Hegelian Wood and was now running in the
open, "with all the wo in the world," bedraggled and weary, hounds
barely a field behind. And nearly everyone was now (one way or another)
in the pack; Plato, Dante, MacDonald, Herbert, Barfield, Tolkien, Dyson,
Joy itself. Everyone and everything had joined the other side. Even my
own pupil Griffiths--now Dom Bede Griffiths--though not yet himself a
believer, did his share. Once, when he and Barfield were lunching in my
room, I happened to refer to philosophy as "a subject". "It wasn't a
_subject_ to Plato," said Barfield, "it was a way." The quiet but
fervent agreement of Griffiths, and the quick glance of understanding
between these two, revealed to me my own frivolity. Enough had been
thought, and said, and felt, and imagined. It was about time that
something should be done.

For of course there had long been an ethic (theoretically) attached to
my Idealism. I thought the business of us finite and half-unreal souls
was to multiply the consciousness of Spirit by seeing the world from
different positions while yet remaining qualitatively the same as
Spirit; to be tied to a particular time and place and set of
circumstances, yet there to will and think as Spirit itself does. This
was hard; for the very act whereby Spirit projected souls and a world
gave those souls different and competitive interests, so that there was
a temptation to selfishness. But I thought each of us had it in his
power to discount the emotional perspective produced by his own
particular selfhood, just as we discount the optical perspective
produced by our position in space. To prefer my own happiness to my
neighbour's was like thinking that the nearest telegraph post was really
the largest. The way to recover, and act upon, this universal and
objective vision was daily and hourly to remember our true nature, to
reascend or return into that Spirit which, in so far as we really were
at all, we still were. Yes; but I now felt I had better try to do it. I
freed at last (in MacDonald's words) "something to be neither more nor
less nor other than _done_". An attempt at complete virtue must be made.

Really, a young Atheist cannot guard his faith too carefully. Dangers
lie in wait for him on every side. You must not do, you must not even
try to do, the will of the Father unless you are prepared to "know of
the doctrine". All my acts, desires, and thoughts were to be brought
into harmony with universal Spirit. For the first time I examined myself
with a seriously practical purpose. And there I found what appalled me;
a zoo of lusts, a bedlam of ambitions, a nursery of fears, a hareem of
fondled hatreds. My name was legion.

Of course I could do nothing--I could not last out one hour--without
continual conscious recourse to what I called Spirit. But the fine,
philosophical distinction between this and what ordinary people call
"prayer to God" breaks down as soon as you start doing it in earnest.
Idealism can be talked, and even felt; it cannot be lived. It became
patently absurd to go on thinking of "Spirit" as either ignorant of, or
passive to, my approaches. Even if my own philosophy were true, how
could the initiative lie on my side? My own analogy, as I now first
perceived, suggested the opposite: if Shakespeare and Hamlet could ever
meet, it must be Shakespeare's doing.[8] Hamlet could initiate nothing.
Perhaps, even now, my Absolute Spirit still differed in some way from
the God of religion. The real issue was not, or not yet, there. The real
terror was that if you seriously believed in even such a "God" or
"Spirit" as I admitted, a wholly new situation developed. As the dry
bones shook and came together in that dreadful valley of Ezekiel's, so
now a philosophical theorem, cerebrally entertained, began to stir and
heave and throw off its gravecloths, and stood upright and became a
living presence. I was to be allowed to play at philosophy no longer. It
might, as I say, still be true that my "Spirit" differed in some way
from "the God of popular religion". My Adversary waived the point. It
sank into utter unimportance. He would not argue about it. He only said,
"I am the Lord"; "I am that I am"; "I am".

People who are naturally religious find difficulty in understanding the
horror of such a revelation. Amiable agnostics will talk cheerfully
about "man's search for God". To me, as I then was, they might as well
have talked about the mouse's search for the cat. The best image of my
predicament is the meeting of Mime and Wotan in the first act of
_Siegfried_; _hier brauch' ich nicht Sprer noch Spher, Einsam will
ich_... (I've no use for spies and snoopers. I would be
private....)

Remember, I had always wanted, above all things, not to be "interfered
with". I had wanted (mad wish) "to call my soul my own". I had been far
more anxious to avoid suffering than to achieve delight. I had always
aimed at limited liabilities. The supernatural itself had been to me,
first, an illicit dram, and then, as by a drunkard's reaction, nauseous.
Even my recent attempt to live my philosophy had secretly (I now knew)
been hedged round by all sorts of reservations. I had pretty well known
that my ideal of virtue would never be allowed to lead me into anything
intolerably painful; I would be "reasonable". But now what had been an
ideal became a command; and what might not be expected of one?
Doubtless, by definition, God was Reason itself. But would He also be
"reasonable" in that other, more comfortable, sense? Not the slightest
assurance on that score was offered me. Total surrender, the absolute
leap in the dark, were demanded. The reality with which no treaty can be
made was upon me. The demand was not even "All or nothing". I think that
stage had been passed, on the bus-top when I unbuckled my armour and the
snow-man started to melt. Now, the demand was simply "All".

You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night,
feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the
steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to
meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the
Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt
and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert
in all England. I did not then see what is now the most shining and
obvious thing; the Divine humility which will accept a convert even on
such terms. The Prodigal Son at least walked home on his own feet. But
who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a
prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting
his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape? The words _compelle
intrare_, compel them to come in, have been so abused by wicked men that
we shudder at them; but, properly understood, they plumb the depth of
the Divine mercy. The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of
men, and His compulsion is our liberation.




                           XV. The Beginning


  _Aliud est de silvestri cacumine videre patriam pacis... et aliud
  tenere viam illuc ducentem._
                                  ST. AUGUSTINE, _Confessions_, VII, xxi

  _For it is one thing to see the land of peace from a wooded
  ridge... and another to tread the road that leads to it._

It must be understood that the conversion recorded in the last chapter
was only to Theism, pure and simple, not to Christianity. I knew nothing
yet about the Incarnation. The God to whom I surrendered was sheerly
non-human.

It may be asked whether my terror was at all relieved by the thought
that I was now approaching the source from which those arrows of Joy had
been shot at me ever since childhood. Not in the least. No slightest
hint was vouchsafed me that there ever had been or ever would be any
connection between God and Joy. If anything, it was the reverse. I had
hoped that the heart of reality might be of such a kind that we can best
symbolise it as a place; instead, I found it to be a Person. For all I
knew, the total rejection of what I called Joy might be one of the
demands, might be the very first demand, He would make upon me. There
was no strain of music from within, no smell of eternal orchards at the
threshold, when I was dragged through the doorway. No kind of desire was
present at all.

My conversion involved as yet no belief in a future life. I now number
it among my greatest mercies that I was permitted for several months,
perhaps for a year, to know God and to attempt obedience without even
raising that question. My training was like that of the Jews, to whom He
revealed Himself centuries before there was a whisper of anything better
(or worse) beyond the grave than shadowy and featureless _Sheol_. And I
did not dream even of that. There are men, far better men than I, who
have made immortality almost the central doctrine of their religion; but
for my own part I have never seen how a preoccupation with that subject
at the outset could fail to corrupt the whole thing. I had been brought
up to believe that goodness was goodness only if it were disinterested,
and that any hope of reward or fear of punishment contaminated the will.
If I was wrong in this (the question is really much more complicated
than I then perceived) my error was most tenderly allowed for. I was
afraid that threats or promises would demoralise me; no threats or
promises were made. The commands were inexorable, but they were backed
by no "sanctions". God was to be obeyed simply because he was God. Long
since, through the gods of Asgard, and later through the notion of the
Absolute, He had taught me how a thing can be revered not for what it
can do to us but for what it is in itself. That is why, though it was a
terror, it was no surprise to learn that God is to be obeyed because of
what He is in Himself. If you ask why we should obey God, in the last
resort the answer is, "I am." To know God is to know that our obedience
is due to Him. In His nature His sovereignty _de jure_ is revealed.

Of course, as I have said, the matter is more complicated than that. The
primal and necessary Being, the Creator, has sovereignty _de facto_ as
well as _de jure_. He has the power as well as the kingdom and the
glory. But the _de jure_ sovereignty was made known to me before the
power, the right before the might. And for this I am thankful. I think
it is well, even now, sometimes to say to ourselves, "God is such that
if (_per impossibile_) his power could vanish and His other attributes
remain, so that the supreme right were forever robbed of the supreme
might, we should still owe Him precisely the same kind and degree of
allegiance as we now do." On the other hand, while it is true to say
that God's own nature is the real sanction of His commands, yet to
understand this must, in the end, lead us to the conclusion that union
with that Nature is bliss and separation from it horror. Thus Heaven and
Hell come in. But it may well be that to think much of either except in
this context of thought, to hypostatise them as if they had a
substantial meaning apart from the presence or absence of God, corrupts
the doctrine of both and corrupts us while we so think of them.

The last stage in my story, the transition from mere Theism to
Christianity, is the one on which I am now least informed. Since it is
also the most recent, this ignorance may seem strange. I think there are
two reasons. One is that as we grow older we remember the more distant
past better than what is nearer. But the other is, I believe, that one
of the first results of my Theistic conversion was a marked decrease
(and high time, as all readers of this book will agree) in the fussy
attentiveness which I had so long paid to the progress of my own
opinions and the states of my own mind. For many healthy extroverts
self-examination first begins with conversion. For me it was almost the
other way round. Self-examination did of course continue. But it was (I
suppose, for I cannot quite remember) at stated intervals, and for a
practical purpose; a duty, a discipline, an uncomfortable thing, no
longer a hobby or a habit. To believe and to pray were the beginning of
extroversion. I had been, as they say, "taken out of myself". If Theism
had done nothing else for me, I should still be thankful that it cured
me of the time-wasting and foolish practice of keeping a diary. (Even
for autobiographical purposes a diary is nothing like so useful as I had
hoped. You put down each day what you think important; but of course you
cannot each day see what will prove to have been important in the long
run.[9])

As soon as I became a Theist I started attending my parish church on
Sundays and my college chapel on weekdays; not because I believed in
Christianity, nor because I thought the difference between it and simple
Theism a small one, but because I thought one ought to "fly one's flag"
by some unmistakable overt sign. I was acting in obedience to a (perhaps
mistaken) sense of honour. The idea of churchmanship was to me wholly
unattractive. I was not in the least anti-clerical, but I was deeply
anti-ecclesiastical. That curates and archdeacons and churchwardens
should exist, was admirable. They gratified my Jenkinian love of
everything which has its own strong flavour. And (apart from Oldie) I
had been fortunate in my clerical acquaintances; especially in Adam Fox,
the Dean of Divinity at Magdalen, and in Arthur Barton (later Archbishop
of Dublin) who had been our Rector at home in Ireland. (He, by the by,
had once suffered under Oldie at Belsen. Speaking of Oldie's death, I
had said to him, "Well, we shan't see _him_ again." "You mean," he
answered with a grim smile, "we _hope_ we shan't.") But though I liked
clergymen as I liked bears, I had as little wish to be in the Church as
in the zoo. It was, to begin with, a kind of collective; a wearisome
"get-together" affair. I couldn't yet see how a concern of that sort
should have anything to do with one's spiritual life. To me, religion
ought to have been a matter of good men praying alone and meeting by
twos and threes to talk of spiritual matters. And then the fussy,
time-wasting botheration of it all! the bells, the crowds, the
umbrellas, the notices, the bustle, the perpetual arranging and
organising. Hymns were (and are) extremely disagreeable to me. Of all
musical instruments I liked (and like) the organ least. I have, too, a
sort of spiritual _gaucherie_ which makes me unapt to participate in any
rite.

Thus my churchgoing was a merely symbolical and provisional practice. If
it in fact helped to move me in the Christian direction, I was and am
unaware of this. My chief companion on this stage of the road was
Griffiths, with whom I kept up a copious correspondence. Both now
believed in God, and were ready to hear more of Him from any source,
Pagan or Christian. In my mind (I cannot now answer for his, and he has
told his own story admirably in _The Golden String_) the perplexing
multiplicity of "religions" began to sort itself out. The real clue had
been put into my hand by that hard-boiled Atheist when he said, "Rum
thing, all that about the Dying God. Seems to have really happened
once"; by him and by Barfield's encouragement of a more respectful, if
not more delighted, attitude to Pagan myth. The question was no longer
to find the one simply true religion among a thousand religions simply
false. It was rather, "Where has religion reached its true maturity?
Where, if anywhere, have the hints of all Paganism been fulfilled?" With
the irreligious I was no longer concerned; their view of life was
henceforth out of court. As against them, the whole mass of those who
had worshipped--all who had danced and sung and sacrificed and trembled
and adored--were clearly right. But the intellect and the conscience, as
well as the orgy and the ritual, must be our guide. There could be no
question of going back to primitive, untheologised and unmoralised,
Paganism. The God whom I had at last acknowledged was one, and was
righteous. Paganism had been only the childhood of religion, or only a
prophetic dream. Where was the thing full grown? or where was the
awaking? (_The Everlasting Man_ was helping me here.) There were really
only two answers possible: either in Hinduism or in Christianity.
Everything else was either a preparation for, or else (in the French
sense) a _vulgarisation_ of, these. Whatever you could find elsewhere
you could find better in one of these. But Hinduism seemed to have two
disqualifications. For one thing, it appeared to be not so much a
moralised and philosophical maturity of Paganism as a mere oil-and-water
coexistence of philosophy side by side with Paganism unpurged; the
Brahmin meditating in the forest, and, in the village a few miles away,
temple-prostitution, _sati_, cruelty, monstrosity. And secondly, there
was no such historical claim as in Christianity. I was by now too
experienced in literary criticism to regard the Gospels as myths. They
had not the mythical taste. And yet the very matter which they set down
in their artless, historical fashion--those narrow, unattractive Jews,
too blind to the mythical wealth of the Pagan world around them--was
precisely the matter of the great myths. If ever a myth had become fact,
had been incarnated, it would be just like this. And nothing else in all
literature was just like this. Myths were like it in one way. Histories
were like it in another. But nothing was simply like it. And no person
was like the Person it depicted; as real, as recognisable, through all
that depth of time, as Plato's Socrates or Boswell's Johnson (ten times
more so than Eckermann's Goethe or Lockhart's Scott), yet also numinous,
lit by a light from beyond the world, a god. But if a god--we are no
longer polytheists--then not a god, but God. Here and here only in all
time the myth must have become fact; the Word, flesh; God, Man. This is
not "a religion", nor "a philosophy". It is the summing up and actuality
of them all.

As I have said, I speak of this last transition less certainly than of
any which went before it, and it may be that in the preceding paragraph
I have mixed thoughts that came later. But I can hardly be wrong about
the main lines. Of one thing I am sure. As I drew near the conclusion, I
felt a resistance almost as strong as my previous resistance to Theism.
As strong, but shorter-lived, for I understood it better. Every step I
had taken, from the Absolute to "Spirit" and from "Spirit" to "God", had
been a step towards the more concrete, the more imminent, the more
compulsive. At each step one had less chance "to call one's soul one's
own". To accept the Incarnation was a further step in the same
direction. It brings God nearer, or near in a new way. And this, I
found, was something I had not wanted. But to recognise the ground for
my evasion was of course to recognise both its shame and its futility. I
know very well when, but hardly how, the final step was taken. I was
driven to Whipsnade one sunny morning. When we set out I did not believe
that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and when we reached the zoo I did.
Yet I had not exactly spent the journey in thought. Nor in great
emotion. "Emotional" is perhaps the last word we can apply to some of
the most important events. It was more like when a man, after long
sleep, still lying motionless in bed, becomes aware that he is now
awake. And it was, like that moment on top of the bus, ambiguous.
Freedom, or necessity? Or do they differ at their maximum? At that
maximum a man is what he does; there is nothing of him left over or
outside the act. As for what we commonly call Will, and what we commonly
call Emotion, I fancy these usually talk too loud, protest too much, to
be quite believed, and we have a secret suspicion that the great passion
or the iron resolution is partly a put-up job.

They have spoiled Whipsnade since then. Wallaby Wood, with the birds
singing overhead and the bluebells underfoot and the Wallabies hopping
all round one, was almost Eden come again.

But what, in conclusion, of Joy? for that, after all, is what the story
has mainly been about. To tell you the truth, the subject has lost
nearly all interest for me since I became a Christian. I cannot, indeed,
complain, like Wordsworth, that the visionary gleam has passed away. I
believe (if the thing were at all worth recording) that the old stab,
the old bittersweet, has come to me as often and as sharply since my
conversion as at any time of my life whatever. But I now know that the
experience, considered as a state of my own mind, had never had the kind
of importance I once gave it. It was valuable only as a pointer to
something other and outer. While that other was in doubt, the pointer
naturally loomed large in my thoughts. When we are lost in the woods the
sight of a signpost is a great matter. He who first sees it cries,
"Look!" The whole party gathers round and stares. But when we have found
the road and are passing signposts every few miles, we shall not stop
and stare. They will encourage us and we shall be grateful to the
authority that set them up. But we shall not stop and stare, or not
much; not on this road, though their pillars are of silver and their
lettering of gold. "We would be at Jerusalem."

Not, of course, that I don't often catch myself stopping to stare at
roadside objects of even less importance.




                               Footnotes


[1]For readers of my children's books, the best way of putting this
    would be to say that Animal-Land had nothing whatever in common with
    Narnia except the anthropomorphic beasts. Animal-Land, by its whole
    quality, excluded the least hint of wonder.

[2]Oh, I desire too much.

[3]This punishment was for a mistake in a geometrical proof.

[4]Here, and throughout this account, I sometimes use the "historic
    present". Heaven forfend I should be taken to mean that Wyvern is
    the same to-day.

[5]i.e. not necessarily and by its own nature. God can cause it to be
    such a beginning.

[6]The iron in Malory, the tragedy of contrition, I did not yet at all
    perceive.

[7]Not, of course, that I thought it a tutor's business to make converts
    to his own philosophy. But I found I needed a position of my own as
    a basis from which to criticise my pupils' essays.

[8]i.e. Shakespeare could, in principle, make himself appear as Author
    within the play, and write a dialogue between Hamlet and himself.
    The "Shakespeare" within the play would of course be at once
    Shakespeare and one of Shakespeare's creatures. It would bear some
    analogy to Incarnation.

[9]The only real good I got from keeping a diary was that it taught me a
    just appreciation of Boswell's amazing genius. I tried very hard to
    reproduce conversations, in some of which very amusing and striking
    people had taken part. But none of these people came to life in the
    diary at all. Obviously something quite different from mere accurate
    reporting went to the presentation of Boswell's Langton, Beauclerk,
    Wilkes, and the rest.






[End of Surprised by Joy, by C. S. Lewis]
