Shame and Consciences
adapted by Mihangel
9. Public speaking
On the notice board in the colonnade was the announcement, which neither Chips nor Jan could understand, that Professor Abinger would pay his annual visit on the Monday and Tuesday of the following week. On the way up the hill to second school, they asked Rawlinson, the small fellow whom Haigh had started reviling on the first morning of term.
"Who's Abinger?" was the reply. "You wait and see! You'll love him, Tiger, as much as I do!"
"Why shall I?" Jan liked Rawlinson, and envied him his callous cheerfulness under oppression.
"Because he'll get us off two days of old Haigh."
"Don't hustle!"
"I'm not hustling. I swear I'm not. Grand old boy, Abinger, besides being the biggest bug alive on elocution!"
"Who says so?"
"Jerry, for one. Anyway, he takes up two whole days, barring first school. That's why Abinger's a man to love."
"But what does he do? Give us readings all the time?" asked Chips, one of whose weaknesses was the inane question.
"Give us readings? I like that!" Rawlinson hooted with laughter. "My good ass, it's the other way about!"
"So we have to read to him?"
"Every mother's son of us, in front of the whole school, and all the masters and the masters' wives!"
"And what does he do?"
"Tears us to bits for not reading the way he likes."
Chips went on asking questions. Jan was silent because he was more interested in the answers than he cared to show. It was an alarming prospect to a new boy with an accent which had already exposed him to some scorn. Yet his ear told him that he was by no means the only boy in the school whose vowels were broad. He was not unduly sensitive about it, and only too willing to improve. What he was more on his guard against was the outlandish word and the dialect phrase which still slipped unawares out of his mouth. But these could not affect his reading aloud . That thought calmed his fears, and he rejoiced with Rawlinson at the prospect of a break in the term's work.
This joy was increased by the obvious exasperation of Haigh, who scarcely concealed his opinion of Professor Abinger. Many his covert sneers, and loud his laughter, as he hit on something for the Middle Remove to declaim piecemeal between them. Almost at random he chose a passage from Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales which, to his disgust, was the standard text for this purpose. But while it was plain that he disapproved of both text and expert, he could hardly say so, and nobody was surprised when he ended with a more satisfying fling at Jan.
"Some of you fellows in Mr Heriot's house may perhaps find time to rehearse Rutter in the few words that are likely to fall to his tender mercies. Otherwise we may trust him to disgrace us before everybody."
Those who toadied to Haigh cast indignant glances at Jan, and one within reach dealt him a kick on the shin. Jan took it all with leaden front, for that was his only means of getting in the least bit even with Haigh. Nevertheless, on Sunday evening when, with special leave, one could sit in another's study after lock-up, Chips and Jan had Hans Andersen open before them as they munched their way through a packet of biscuits bought with their Saturday allowance.
The elderly gentleman who opened his campaign next morning did not disappoint them. He had an admirable platform presence, an austere face, and a cascade of silvery hair. His opening remarks, in a voice like a silver bell, persuaded all his new hearers that Professor Abinger really was as distinguished as he looked. He was evidently the companion of even more distinguished men. He spoke of the statesmen and judges he had coached for the triumphs of their careers. He mentioned a certain cabinet minister as a particularly painstaking pupil. He recalled a recent experience in a ducal mansion, and let something slip involving an even more illustrious name. He seemed quite embarrassed by this indiscretion, and the Headmaster frowned into his watch, which he closed with a very loud snap.
"When I look about me in this schoolroom," concluded Professor Abinger hastily, beaming upon the serried ranks, "and when I see the future generals and admirals, bishops and statesmen, eminent lawyers and physicians -- men of mark in every sphere -- even peers of the realm -- who hear me now, whom I myself am about to hear in my turn -- when I dip into your future far as human eye can see -- then I realise afresh the very wide responsibility -- the -- the imperial importance -- of these visits to this school!"
Mr Thrale cut short any applause or sly merriment by sternly summoning the Upper Fourth, who with much shambling of feet left their seats and trooped up to the platform. Jan had heard that forms were called in any order, and was thinking of the narrowness of his escape. He was also wondering if there was so much to fear after all from such a perfect gentleman, such a jolly old boy, when Evan Devereux passed him. And Evan's ears were red to the tip -- Evan, neat and dapper enough to stand up before the world -- Evan, a gentleman if there was one in school!
The Upper Fourth huddled together on the platform, each with a fat blue volume of Andersen open at the fatal place. A nod from Mr Thrale, and the captain of the form took a step forward, threw out his chest, and plunged into one of the tales with a couple of sentences that made the rafters ring. The professor stood smiling his approval, and Mr Thrale nodded to the next boy. The successful performer sidled to the back, to be replaced by one in too great a hurry to get it over. "A myrtle stood in a pot in the window," he had rattled off when the Headmaster exclaimed "Three o'clock!" and the performer melted away like a wraith.
"That's the worst he does to you," whispered Chips, who had made his usual inquiries. "It only means coming in at three for another shot."
Meanwhile the professor was pointing out the second boy's mistake. The first of first principles was that a distinct pause must follow the subject of any sentence. He had been preaching that doctrine here for so many years that he had hoped he need not preach it again; but perhaps he had not met his young friend before? His young friend had to confess with burning cheeks that they had indeed met before. When the point had been duly laboured, the next lad cleared the obstacle with an audaciously long pause after "myrtle."
It was an obstacle at which many fell. But there were interludes which entertained the audience if not the performer. Stammerers were made to beat time and release a syllable at each beat. One timid child was conducted by the professor to the far end of the huge room and made to call out, "Can you hear me?" until the Headmaster signalled that he could. There was even a mirthful minute supplied by Devereux, of all people, who had looked self-conscious the whole time. When his turn came, Jan holding his breath for him, his reading was no worse than nervous until he came to the word "exhilarated." He said "exhilyarated." The professor asked him to say it again, his paternal smile changing into a sly and malevolent grin which filled Jan with revulsion. Evan said "ex-hill-yarated," making a mountain of the hill, and a stern voice cried "Three o'clock!" The unlucky Evan looked so wretched and crestfallen, and yet so attractive, that the professor was seen to plead on his behalf. But a still sterner voice repeated "Three o'clock!"
By the time the Upper Fourth returned to their place, Devereux was himself again and even came back smiling and with a jaunty walk, as some criminals foot it from the dock. But Jan could not catch his eyes, though his own were full of a sympathy which he longed to show but only succeeded in betraying to Chips.
"I might have known you were hustling," Jan said to Rawlinson as they got out nearly an hour later than from ordinary second school. "I say, though, I do hate that old brute -- don't you?"
"What! When he's coached a cabinet minister and been staying with the same old dukes and dukesses?"
"If he ever did," said Jan, his mind poisoned by the treatment meted out to Evan. "It's easy enough for him to stand up there scoring off chaps. I'd like to score off him!"
"Well, you wouldn't be the first. He was properly scored off once, by a chap called Bewick in the Upper Sixth, who'd heard that bit about the cabinet minister and all the rest so often that he knew it by heart, and used to settle down to sleep as soon as old Abinger got going. So one time Jerry catches him nodding and says, 'Bewick, be good enough to repeat the substance of Professor Abinger's last remarks.' So Bewick stands up, blinking, not having heard a blooming word, and begins: 'The other day, when I had the privilege of being the honoured guest of his grace the Duke of --' 'Three o'clock!' says Jerry, and they say Bewick was jolly near bunked. It was before my time, worse luck! I wish I'd heard it, don't you? I say, we were lucky to escape this morning, weren't we?"
By now, four of the lower forms had been polished off, and three more followed in third school, but the Middle Remove was not among them. There remained only second school on the second day -- a half-holiday -- and Chips had heard that much of the morning would be devoted to a sixth form competition for the Abinger Medal. He had also heard that not all the forms were always called upon, and that they stood a good chance of being missed out. But no sooner did the proceedings resume on a pink and frosty morning than the bolt fell for the Middle Remove.
The big school room seemed abnormally big as Jan looked shyly down from the platform. It seemed to hold four thousand boys, not four hundred. It felt as cold as an empty church. The Headmaster's fingers, poising his joiner's pencil over a school list, looked blue, and his breath was visible against his sombre gown. But Professor Abinger in black spats and mittens was brisker and more incisive that yesterday. His paternal smile broke more abruptly into the malevolent grin, his flowing mane looked merely hoary, and his silvery voice had the staccato ring of steel.
He was almost living up to Haigh's opinion of him. The passage which Haigh had chosen was from a story called "The Mermaid," and the very first reader had to say "colossal mussel shells," perhaps a better test of sobriety than of elocution. But Abinger had him repeat it until a drunken man could have done better and the whole school was in a roar. At the back of the little knot on the platform, Jan set his teeth. He knew what he would do rather than make them laugh like that. But no one else made them laugh like that, though Buggins was asked if he had been born within sound of Bow Bells and, when he denied it, his rich accent raised a titter. Gradually the little knot melted. Jan read over and over to himself the sentences that seemed certain to fall to him. He was still doing so when Chips left his side and lurched to the centre of the platform. The poor fellow had had a bad night with his bronchial troubles, which had the same effect on his speech as a more common ailment.
"The bleached bodes of bed," he began valiantly, and was still making a conscientious pause after the subject of the sentence when a hand fell on his shoulder.
"Have you a cold?" inquired the professor with his most sympathetic smile.
"Yes, sir," said Chips, too shy to give his complaint its proper name.
"Then stand aside, and blow your nose," said the professor, grinning like a fatherly fiend, "while the next boy reads."
Jan was the next boy, and the last. He strode forward too indignant on Chips's account to think of himself, and cut straight into the laugh at Chips's expense. Nothing could have given him such a moral fillip at the last moment. He cried out his bit aggressively, at the top of his voice, but forgot none of the rules laid down, and felt he had come through with flying colours. He saw no smile on the sea of faces before him. Not a word came from the Headmaster on his right. Yet he was not given his dismissal, and was about to begin another sentence when Professor Abinger took the book from Jan's hand.
"I think you should hear yourself as others hear you. Have the goodness to listen -- 'The bleached bawnes of men who had perished at sea and soonk belaw peeped forth from the arms of soome, w'ile oothers clootched rooders and sea chests or the skeleeton of soome land aneemal; and most horreeble of all, a little mermaird whom they had caught and sooffercairted.' There!" cried the professor, holding up his hand to quell the laughter. "What do you think of that?"
Jan stood dumbfounded with shame and rage, a graceless figure with untidy hair and a wreck of a tie and one bootlace trailing, a figure made to look even meaner than it was by the spruce and handsome old man beside him.
"What dost tha' think o' yon?" pursued the professor, dropping into dialect with heavy humour.
"It's not what I said," muttered Jan, so low that the only professor could hear.
"Not what you said, eh? We'll take you through it. How do you pronounce 'bones'?"
No answer, but a tightened jaw, shoulders pulled back, and a good inch more in height.
"B, O, N, E, S!" crooned the professor, showing all his teeth.
But Jan had turned into a human mule. The silence had suddenly grown profound.
"Well, we'll try something else," said the professor, consulting the text somewhat unsteadily. "Let us hear you say the word 'sunk.' S, U, N, K -- sunk. Now, if you please, no more folly. You are wasting all our time."
Jan had forgotten that, and it gave him a spasm of satisfaction. Otherwise he was by now as aware of his folly as anybody else present. But it was too late to think of it now. His head was burning, his temples throbbed, and he could not have spoken if he had tried. It would have taken a better man than Abinger to make him try, and the better man sat by without a word, pale and stern.
"I can do nothing with this boy," said Abinger, turning to him with a tremor in his thin voice. "I must leave him to you, Mr Thrale."
"Twelve o'clock!" said the Headmaster with ominous emphasis and, as he stabbed the school list with his joiner's pencil, the Middle Remove returned down the gangway to their place. Jan went with them as if walking in his sleep, and Chips followed him with tears very near the surface. But as one sees furthest before rain, so Chips saw a good deal as he walked back blinking for his life. And one of the things he saw was Evan Devereux and the fellow next to him doubled up with laughter.
When Abinger's campaign had ended with the award of a medal to the polly who had done least violence to a leading article in the day's Times, the Headmaster stayed talking to the professor while the school filed out form by form. Three delinquents besides Jan went to the Upper Sixth classroom, where Mr Thrale habitually sat in judgement on the culprits of the day, to await their trial and execution. A crowd of the smaller fry pressed their noses to the diamond panes of the windows overlooking the school yard; the most notorious criminal case would hardly have attracted more to the public gallery of a law-court. One of the other malefactors showed Jan the slip of paper which described his crime: "Hornton thinks pepoiēkasi is a dative plural. I think he deserves a good flogging." Jan was just reading the master's signature below when in sailed the judge and executioner in his cap and gown.
The boy who deserved the good flogging stepped forward and delivered his damning document. Mr Thrale examined it, exclaimed "So do I!", and took his cane out of his desk. The criminal knelt down, the executioner gathered his gown out of the way, and eight slashing cuts fetched the dust from a taut pair of trousers and sent their wearer waddling stiffly from the room.
"Wasn't padded," whispered one of those left to Jan, who put an obvious question with a look, which was duly answered with a wink.
Meanwhile a youth in spectacles was being interrogated, and was replying promptly and earnestly, without lowering his glasses from the flogging judge's face.
"You may go," said Mr Thrale at last. "Your honesty has saved you. Trevor next. I've heard about you, Trevor. Kneel down, shirker!"
The wily Trevor knelt with apparent reluctance, writhed convincingly through the eight strokes which made half the noise of the other eight, and serenely went his way with another wink at Jan.
Jan had long since discovered that, out of his pulpit, the Headmaster was short and sharp of speech, rough and ready of humour, with a trick of talking down to fellows in their own jargon as well as over their heads in parables. "Sit down, Rutter, and next time you won't sit down so comfortably," he had rapped out when the Middle Remove went to construe to him early in the term. And it was next time now.
Jan, left alone in the presence, was ashamed to find himself trembling. He had not trembled on the platform in front of the whole school. His blood had been frozen then. Now it was bubbling. He was being looked at, that was all, with a look such as he had never met before, a look from wide blue eyes, with dilated nostrils underneath, and under them a mouth that seemed as though it would never, never open.
It did at last.
"Rebel!" said a voice of unutterable scorn. "Do you know what they do with rebels, Rutter?"
"No, sir." It never occurred to Jan not to answer now.
"Shoot them! You deserve to be shot!"
Jan felt he did. This parable did not go over his head. It might have been concocted from uncanny knowledge of his inmost soul. All the potential soldier in him -- the reserve whom this general alone called out -- was shamed and humbled to the dust.
"You are not only a rebel," the awful voice went on, "but a sulky rebel. Some rebels are good men gone wrong. There's some stuff in them. But a sulky rebel is neither man nor devil, but carrion food for powder."
Jan agreed with all his contrite heart. He had never seen himself in his true colours before, had not realised how vile it was to sulk. But now he did. The firing-party could not come too quick. But the flogging judge had sat down and was putting his cane back in his desk. Jan could have groaned. He longed to make amends for his crime.
"Thrashing is too good for you," the voice resumed. "Have you any good reason to give me for keeping a sulky rebel in my army? Any reason for not drumming him out?"
Drumming him out! Expelling him! Sending him back to the Norfolk rectory, and from there very likely back to the nearest stables! More light flooded over Jan. He had already seen his enormity. Now he saw his life, what it had been, what it was, what it might be again.
"Oh, sir!" he cried. "I know I speak all wrong -- I know I speak all wrong! You see -- you see --"
Before he could explain, he broke down, and all the more piteously because now he felt he never could explain, and this hard old man would never, never understand. That is the tragic mistake of boys, to feel that they can never be understood by men!
Yet already the hard old man was on his feet again and with one gesture had cleared the throng from the diamond-paned windows. He laid a tender hand on Jan's heaving shoulder.
"I do see," he said gently. "But so must you, Rutter -- so must you!"
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