The Balliols (71 page)

She looked pensively at her brother.

“Do you remember that thing from Stevenson that father had illuminated as a kind of text and hung above the mantelpiece in our girls' room?”

“About working a little, owing a little?”

“Yes, that's it. You know they say that human beings run their lives on catchwords. There's a phrase at the end about fortitude and delicacy. It sounds pretty silly to quote
that
in post-war London, but I do believe quite often that that phrase has made it less difficult for me to do certain things and stopped me doing others.”

It was a happy lunch. Its very happiness increased Hugh's depression as he walked afterwards down the sunlit street, with a whole afternoon ahead and nothing in particular to do. He had a few shillings in his pocket. Those shillings were the tether by which his choice was measured. There were a number of things that he could do. There was a match at Lord's; Hendren had been not out at lunch. There was a new Harold Lloyd film showing at the Coronet. There was a matinée of
It Pays to Advertise
. He would only miss a part of the first act. Or he could turn down into Jermyn Street and spend an hour or so at Clara's. There were a number of things that he could do, all equally futile.

As his whole life was now.

Futile. Utterly purposeless, utterly selfish; an attempt to fill in the intervals between such forms of entertainment, of self-indulgence, as he could afford. If I were to die to-morrow no one would be any the worse off, no one would really mind. I'm not indispensable to anyone. I don't even matter to anyone. No one relies on me for anything. It was all right living this kind of life before the war. I was young then, everything was ahead of me, everything was new for me. Then there was the war, there were my men, they relied on me, they needed me. I was doing something that was worth while. Then later at Fernhurst, as a master, there was a point to that. I was training fellows. But now … where's all this getting me? Nowhere. Will I ever do anything that will get me anywhere? I don't suppose so. I'll never marry. What have I got to offer anybody? I'm not young. I'm a crock. I've no career. I've no money. I never shall have much. Half my father's
money was in that French War Loan that's worth a quarter of what it was; less than that, with income tax. The rest of his money's tied up in Peel & Hardy's and heaven knew how much that was going to be worth at the rate things were going. Last year they'd paid no dividend at all on the ordinary shares. This year they'd only be able to pay the preference shareholders four per cent. There'd probably be ructions at next week's meeting. He'd never have very much more than he'd got now. But that was more than a great many fellows had. He hadn't any right to grumble. It would be all right if there were some purpose to his life; if he were able to convince himself that anything that he was doing mattered; as it had when he had been a soldier; and later, during that one term when he had taken the Shell at Fernhurst. He had not been really sorry, at the time, when the War Office had insisted on his going back to Grantham. He had felt sorry for the other masters; poor devils, he had thought, shut away in their cloistered backwater. He didn't feel that way now. They are doing something, which I'm not. They're building the future, or at least training those that will build it. They're creative. I wouldn't be sorry to be back there with them. They can justify themselves to their own consciences, which is more than I can do.

As he sauntered slowly down sunlit Piccadilly, the memory of that last talk with the Chief returned to him. “If you ever feel like coming back here, I don't suppose you will, but there's always a place waiting for you on my staff.” He had not thought of that last talk since. It returned now with compelling vividness. Why not, after all? He was doing no good to anyone in London. He might be of some use there.

His letter to the Chief was answered by return of post. He was delighted to hear from Hugh. Would Hugh come down and discuss the matter with him? A half holiday would be preferable. He suggested the following Tuesday. The day before the shareholders' meeting? It wasn't till three o'clock. He'd have time to catch the eleven train.

It was the first time that he had been down to Fernhurst since he had left in the July of 1917. He had forgotten how beautiful it was. Its square abbey tower, golden ochre against the blue of a summer sky, its mellow tranquillity brooding over the courts; the cloisters, the Gothic arches. It had watched the passage of eight centuries. Yet it was ageless; in the same way that youth was ageless; the youth it sheltered, trained, sent out into the world. Down
the long corridor of those eight centuries Fernhurst had maintained that same contrast, renewed from one generation to another, between the permanence of mellow stone and the mobile fleetingness of youth. In essentials it had not changed since the monastic days when abbots had instructed novitiates in monkish Latin.

To Hugh, as he walked up from the station, there seemed no change since he had come here as a fag; since he had left here as a prefect. The same blazers, blue with the red dragon on the pocket; the same wide-brimmed straw hat; the same hatbands; the magenta and black of The School House; the dark blue of the sixth; the blue and gold of the eleven; the same hurry and animation; the same eager faces. Even the Chief himself although he was passing out of middle age; was very near to his retirement.

The Chief smiled, when Hugh remarked how unchanged everything appeared.

“It may seem so on the surface. But do you remember that when you came down here during the war you made precisely the same comment, and I explained to you how very different a generation it was that we were training. This generation of ours is as different from your brother's generation as your brother's generation was from yours. For this generation the word pre-war does not exist. The war is the first thing they can remember. Everything starts for them with the war. They expect life to be difficult. They are resolved to make a success of it, but they feel that their fathers and grandfathers are responsible for the present muddle. They are not going to sit meekly at their elders' feet. They intend to rebuild the world to their own pattern. They have a sense of responsibility.”

The knowledge that they had a sense of responsibility made Hugh feel that he too had one: a part to play in the training of the generation that was resolved to rebuild the world after its own pattern. It was true, what the Chief had said eight years ago about the difference between his generation and Francis's; of which Francis was himself not exactly a typical, but a good, example; of its defiance, of its lack of discipline. Francis had been resolved to do things in his own way. He had refused to go to Oxford; had gone, against everybody's advice and wish, to work in Selfridge's as a salesman; which had been a success as far as it had gone. But that defiance, that feeling that a good time was owed to him, had made him lose his head when he had discovered that girls of a certain kind were easy. Francis was only working at half pressure now.

And just as there had been that difference between his generation and Francis's, the generation that in war-time had been ignored,
undisciplined, left to its own devices, so there was a difference between Francis's generation and this new one—his sister Helen's generation. The generation for which the word pre-war did not exist; who felt that one phase of history had stopped in 1914, and that another phase had begun now, with them.

To help in the training of this generation would be a thing worth doing. As a master here there would be some reason, some justification for his existence. He could take a pride in himself again. For the first time for many months he felt confident, hopeful, self-reliant; with work that was worth while waiting to be tackled; with belief in his own capacity to tackle it.

During their walk round the cricket field that afternoon the Chief made no reference to Hugh's offer to serve as a master on his staff. Nor did he that evening during dinner. Like men in business, he preferred to leave the discussion of business till the coffee stage was reached. But the moment his wife had left the table, the Chief excused himself.

“I have a large amount of correspondence that I must attend to. But I don't need to tell you the way to the House Tutor's room, or that you'll be welcome there. If I finish my correspondence in time, I will come up and join you, but that is not likely, so I will say goodnight now. I shall expect you to breakfast to-morrow at eight o'clock, and we will have a talk together after chapel.”

With that arrangement Hugh was well content. He liked the Chief. He enjoyed his company. But there was a naturally a certain constraint between them. He could not relax in the way he could with the house tutor who was not so very much older than himself; who had served in the war; with whom he had shared much similar experience. He could be certain of a good time with him. He knew he would be welcomed there.

He was. A chair was drawn up before the fireplace. There were a couple of young masters to whom he was introduced. He was asked what he would drink. They were having a glass of beer. But there was whisky in the cupboard. “That's what suits me,” said Hugh. The decanter and a syphon were set beside him. “Help yourself.” He filled his glass. He sat back in his chair. He had been rather on his best behaviour up to now. A parade manner. He could start enjoying himself. He felt warm and happy. The Chief kept a good table. And a good cellar too. There had been real body to that Burgundy. And I haven't drunk port like that for a long time. Fancy such an abstemious fellow as the Chief bothering
to keep such a good cellar. He only had one glass of Burgundy; barely half a glass of port. I noticed that. I took care to have a second glass myself. A good evening. This is going to be the best part of it.

The whisky was smooth upon his palate. He began to talk about the war. Comparing notes. Do you remember that estaminet on the right as you came out of Poperinghe? Not as far as Potise. No … no, the one where Maria was. She was Maria, wasn't she? The red-haired girl. No, I mean that estaminet with the blue Dubonnet advertisement. You remember it? I thought you would. God, the times I had up there, after being shelled to blazes in the Salient.

God!—those had been the days. When you'd been in the line a fortnight, up to your knees in water half the time, with no proper trench; wretched earthworks; duckboard tracks across the open. Then you had seventy hours in which to settle that fortnight's score. Those
had
been days. And there were so jolly few people with whom one could talk about them now. The best fellows had been left behind out there, pushing up daisies. The ones that had come back were so starchy and correct, in such a damned hurry to get somewhere. And then there were all those fellows who hadn't been in the war at all. Conshies; and C3 men; chaps you hadn't known existed then. Everyone seemed in khaki in the war. But the moment the war was over all these fellows came trotting out, like maggots when you lift a stone, enjoying themselves; getting jobs, looking fit and well; playing squash, taking girls to night clubs; with five times the stamina of fellows like ourselves, who had our lungs plugged with mustard gas.

And then all these youngsters coming on, thinking themselves Christmas. Where'd they be, I'd like to know, if it hadn't been for us? It was more than one could stand to see the kind of people who were giving themselves airs in London. It's a relief, I can tell you, to meet a fellow one can really talk to. It was like old times, this, yarning away, with another soldier; a bottle of whisky at your side. By the way, I'll have finished this syphon in a minute. No, don't bother, water'll do. Oh well, thanks very much, that's fine. I can't tell you how mad I get when I see what people who weren't in the war are managing to get away with. Look at that fellow MacDonald. Prime Minister of England. I ask you. When you think what people said about him in the war. Do you remember in 1917 how he wanted to go to some Pacifist Conference at Stockholm, and he couldn't get a ship to take him out of the country?

It was a point on which Hugh felt very strongly. In London he never got a chance of saying what he really thought. Everyone was so busy forgetting things. You could only talk openly among people of your own sort. It was grand to get a chance of really letting go. It was a grand evening. He was sorry when the two young masters had to leave. But anyhow they were post-war. Just down from Oxford. They weren't like good old Terence. He wished Terence wasn't so damned abstemious. Leaving him to kill the bottle by himself. You've only had that one glass of beer. Term-time be damned. This is an exception. Oh, well, as you like. As I was saying, I wish all these fellows who shirked the war were made to wear medals so that you could spot them. For Services Avoided. The F.S.A. I think that's rather a good joke. The F.S.A! I wouldn't have a man in Parliament who was of fighting age in the war and didn't serve.

He elaborated the point. He was still elaborating it when the Chief came up. So you've finished your letters after all. That's fine. I'm having the grandest time. I'm just getting political. He explained to the Chief exactly what he would do to make certain that the country was run by the people who had saved the country; not by the people who had had it saved for them.

The Chief listened with that attentive smile that Hugh remembered from the days when he had taken his Latin verses to him. “Yes, I suppose that's so. Yes, of course, if you look at it that way. And now I think we really must break up this party.” Oh, but must we, sir? It's early yet. Surely. What time is it? There's a clock there. Why, it's only five past nine. What, quarter to one? Oh, that's the minute hand. How silly of me. The long hand's the minute hand. Yes, of course. “And you see, Terence has to be up for early school.” Why, of course he has, sir. I'd forgotten. Then Terence will you show Balliol to his room? He's in the school-house sick-room. Good-night, Balliol. Good-night, Terence. Good-night, sir, good-night. Now, you show me the way, Terence. Ah, of course, yes. Down this passage, to the left. No, that's the right. Do you remember the sergeant-major's joke? No, no, the other left. Here we are. Yes, I know. That's the bell and the light switch. Good-night, Terence. What an evening.