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Title: SurprisedbyJoy: Theshapeofmyearlylife

Date of first publication: 1955

Author: C.S.Lewis(1898-1963)

Date first posted: Feb.11,2015

Date last updated: Feb.11,2015

FadedPageeBook#20150220

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Theshapeofmyearlylife

by C.S.LEWIS

Surprised by joy impatient as the wind

WORDSWORTH

LONDON GEOFFREYBLES

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

Preface

Thisbookiswrittenpartlyinanswer torequeststhatIwould tell how IpassedfromAtheismtoChristianityandpartlyto correctoneor twofalsenotionsthatseemtohavegotabout. How far thestorymatterstoanyonebutmyselfdependsonthe degreetowhichothershaveexperiencedwhatIcall “joy”.Ifit isatall common,amoredetailedtreatmentofitthanhas(I believe) beenattemptedbeforemaybeofsomeuse.Ihavebeen emboldenedtowriteofitbecauseInoticethatamanseldom mentionswhathehadsupposedtobehismostidiosyncratic sensationswithoutreceivingfromatleastone(oftenmore) of thosepresentthereply,“What!Have you feltthattoo?Ialways thoughtIwastheonlyone.”

Thebookaimsattellingthestoryofmyconversionandisnota general autobiography,still less“Confessions”likethoseofSt. Augustineor Rousseau.Thismeansinpracticethatitgetsless likeageneral autobiographyasitgoeson.Intheearlier chaptersthenethastobespreadprettywideinorder that,when theexplicitlyspiritual crisisarrives,thereader mayunderstand whatsortofpersonmychildhoodandadolescencehadmade me.Whenthe“build-up”iscomplete,Iconfinemyselfstrictlyto businessandomiteverything(however importantbyordinary biographical standards) whichseems,atthatstage,irrelevant.I donotthinkthereismuchloss;Inever readanautobiographyin whichthepartsdevotedtotheearlier yearswerenotfar the mostinteresting.

Thestoryis,Ifear,suffocatinglysubjective;thekindofthingI

havenever writtenbeforeandshall probablynever write again.Ihavetriedsotowritethefirstchapter thatthose whocan’tbear suchastorywill seeatoncewhattheyareinfor andclosethebookwiththeleastwasteoftime.

I.TheFirstYears

Happy, but for so happy ill secured.

Iwasborninthewinter of1898atBelfast,thesonofasolicitor andofaclergyman’sdaughter.Myparentshadonlytwo children,bothsons,andIwastheyounger byaboutthreeyears. Twoverydifferentstrainshadgonetoour making.Myfather belongedtothefirstgenerationofhisfamilythatreached professional station.Hisgrandfather hadbeenaWelshfarmer; hisfather,aself-mademan,hadbegunlifeasaworkman, emigratedtoIreland,andendedasapartner inthefirmof MacilwaineandLewis,“Boiler-makers,Engineers,andIron ShipBuilders”.Mymother wasaHamiltonwithmany generationsofclergymen,lawyers,sailors,andthelikebehind her;onher mother’sside,throughtheWarrens,thebloodwent backtoaNormanknightwhoseboneslieatBattleAbbey.The twofamiliesfromwhichIspringwereasdifferentin temperamentasinorigin.Myfather’speopleweretrue Welshmen,sentimental,passionate,andrhetorical,easilymoved bothtoanger andtotenderness;menwholaughedandcrieda greatdeal andwhohadnotmuchofthetalentfor happiness.The Hamiltonswereacooler race.Their mindswerecritical and ironicandtheyhadthetalentfor happinessinahighdegree wentstraightfor itasexperiencedtravellersgofor thebestseat inatrain.FrommyearliestyearsIwasawareofthevivid contrastbetweenmymother’scheerful andtranquil affection andtheupsanddownsofmyfather’semotional life,andthis bredinmelongbeforeIwasoldenoughtogiveitanamea

MILTON

certaindistrustor dislikeofemotionassomething uncomfortableandembarrassingandevendangerous.

Bothmyparents,bythestandardsofthattimeandplace,were bookishor “clever”people.Mymother hadbeenapromising mathematicianinher youthandaB.A.ofQueen’sCollege, Belfast,andbeforeher deathwasabletostartmebothinFrench andLatin.Shewasavoraciousreader ofgoodnovels,andI thinktheMeredithsandTolstoyswhichIhaveinheritedwere boughtfor her.Myfather’stasteswerequitedifferent.Hewas fondoforatoryandhadhimselfspokenonpolitical platformsin Englandasayoungman;ifhehadhadindependentmeanshe wouldcertainlyhaveaimedatapolitical career.Inthis,unless hissenseofhonour,whichwasfinetothepointofbeing Quixotic,hadmadehimunmanageable,hemightwell have succeeded,for hehadmanyofthegiftsonceneededbya Parliamentarian afinepresence,aresonantvoice,great quicknessofmind,eloquence,andmemory.Trollope’spolitical novelswereverydear tohim;infollowingthecareer ofPhineas Finnhewas,asInow suppose,vicariouslygratifyinghisown desires.Hewasfondofpoetryprovidedithadelementsof rhetoricor pathos,or both;Ithink Othello washisfavourite Shakespearianplay.Hegreatlyenjoyednearlyall humorous authors,fromDickenstoW.W.Jacobs,andwashimself,almost withoutrival,thebest raconteur Ihaveever heard;thebest,that is,ofhisowntype,thetypethatactsall thecharactersinturn withafreeuseofgrimace,gesture,andpantomime.Hewas never happier thanwhenclosetedfor anhour or sowithoneor twoofmyunclesexchanging“wheezes”(asanecdoteswere oddlycalledinour family).Whatneither henor mymother had theleasttastefor wasthatkindofliteraturetowhichmy allegiancewasgiventhemomentIcouldchoosebooksfor

myself.Neither hadever listenedfor thehornsofelfland.There wasnocopyeither ofKeatsor Shelleyinthehouse,and thecopyofColeridgewasnever (tomyknowledge) opened.IfIamaromanticmyparentsbear noresponsibilityfor it.Tennyson,indeed,myfather liked,butitwastheTennysonof In Memoriam and Locksley Hall.Inever heardfromhimofthe Lotus Eaters or the Morte d’Arthur.Mymother,Ihavebeen told,caredfor nopoetryatall.

Inadditiontogoodparents,goodfood,andagarden(whichthen seemedlarge) toplayin,Ibeganlifewithtwoother blessings. Onewasour nurse,LizzieEndicott,inwhomeventheexacting memoryofchildhoodcandiscover noflaw nothingbut kindness,gaiety,andgoodsense.Therewasnononsenseabout “ladynurses”inthosedays.ThroughLizziewestruckour roots intothepeasantryofCountyDown.Wewerethusfreeoftwo verydifferentsocial worlds.TothisIowemylifelongimmunity fromthefalseidentificationwhichsomepeoplemakeof refinementwithvirtue.FrombeforeIcanremember Ihad understoodthatcertainjokescouldbesharedwithLizziewhich wereimpossibleinthedrawing-room;andalsothatLizziewas, asnearlyasahumancanbe,simplygood.

Theother blessingwasmybrother.Thoughthreeyearsmy senior,henever seemedtobeanelder brother;wewereallies, nottosayconfederates,fromthefirst.Yetwewerevery different.Our earliestpictures(andIcanremember notime whenwewerenotincessantlydrawing) reveal it.Hiswereof shipsandtrainsandbattles;mine,whennotimitatedfromhis, wereofwhatwebothcalled“dressedanimals” the anthropomorphisedbeastsofnurseryliterature.Hisearliest story asmyelder heprecededmeinthetransitionfrom

drawingtowriting wascalled The Young Rajah.Hehad alreadymadeIndia“hiscountry”;Animal-Landwasmine.Ido notthinkanyofthesurvivingdrawingsdatefromthefirstsix yearsofmylifewhichIamnow describing,butIhaveplentyof themthatcannotbemuchlater.FromthemitappearstomethatI hadthebetter talent.FromaveryearlyageIcoulddraw movement figuresthatlookedasiftheywerereally runningor fighting andtheperspectiveisgood.Butnowhere, either inmybrother’sworkor myown,isthereasingleline drawninobediencetoanidea,however crude,ofbeauty.There isaction,comedy,invention;butthereisnoteventhegermofa feelingfor design,andthereisashockingignoranceofnatural form.Treesappear asballsofcottonwool stuckonposts,and thereisnothingtoshow thateither ofusknew theshapeofany leafinthegardenwhereweplayedalmostdaily.Thisabsence ofbeauty,now thatIcometothinkofit,ischaracteristicofour childhood.Nopictureonthewallsofmyfather’shouseever attracted andindeednonedeserved our attention.Wenever saw abeautiful buildingnor imaginedthatabuildingcouldbe beautiful.Myearliestaestheticexperiences,ifindeedtheywere aesthetic,werenotofthatkind;theywerealreadyincurably romantic,notformal.Onceinthoseveryearlydaysmybrother broughtintothenurserythelidofabiscuittinwhichhehad coveredwithmossandgarnishedwithtwigsandflowerssoas tomakeitatoygardenor atoyforest.ThatwasthefirstbeautyI ever knew.Whatthereal gardenhadfailedtodo,thetoygarden did.Itmademeawareofnature not,indeed,asastorehouseof formsandcoloursbutassomethingcool,dewy,fresh, exuberant.Idonotthinktheimpressionwasveryimportantat themoment,butitsoonbecameimportantinmemory.Aslongas IlivemyimaginationofParadisewill retainsomethingofmy brother’stoygarden.Andeverydaytherewerewhatwecalled

“theGreenHills”;thatis,thelow lineoftheCastlereaghHills whichwesaw fromthenurserywindows.Theywerenotvery far offbuttheywere,tochildren,quiteunattainable.Theytaught melonging Sehnsucht;mademefor goodor ill,andbeforeI wassixyearsold,avotaryoftheBlueFlower.

Ifaestheticexperienceswererare,religiousexperiences didnotoccur atall.Somepeoplehavegottheimpression frommybooksthatIwasbroughtupinstrictandvivid Puritanism,butthisisquiteuntrue.Iwastaughttheusual things andmadetosaymyprayersandinduetimetakentochurch.I naturallyacceptedwhatIwastoldbutIcannotremember feelingmuchinterestinit.Myfather,far frombeingspecially Puritanical,was,bynineteenth-centuryandChurchofIreland standards,rather “high”,andhisapproachtoreligion,asto literature,wasattheoppositepolefromwhatlater becamemy own.Thecharmoftraditionandtheverbal beautyofBibleand Prayer Book(all ofthemfor melateandacquiredtastes) were hisnatural delight,anditwouldhavebeenhardtofindan equallyintelligentmanwhocaredsolittlefor metaphysics.Of mymother’sreligionIcansayalmostnothingfrommyown memory.Mychildhood,atall events,wasnotintheleastotherworldly.Exceptfor thetoygardenandtheGreenHillsitwas notevenimaginative;itlivesinmymemorymainlyasaperiod ofhumdrum,prosaichappinessandawakesnoneofthepoignant nostalgiawithwhichIlookbackonmymuchlesshappy boyhood.Itisnotsettledhappinessbutmomentaryjoythat glorifiesthepast.

Tothisgeneral happinesstherewasoneexception.Iremember nothingearlier thantheterror ofcertaindreams.Itisavery commontroubleatthatage,yetitstill seemstomeoddthat

pettedandguardedchildhoodshouldsooftenhaveinita window openingonwhatishardlylessthanHell.Mybad dreamswereoftwokinds,thoseaboutspectresandthoseabout insects.Thesecondwere,beyondcomparison,theworse;tothis dayIwouldrather meetaghostthanatarantula.Andtothisday Icouldalmostfinditinmyhearttorationaliseandjustifymy phobia.AsOwenBarfieldoncesaidtome,“Thetroubleabout insectsisthattheyarelikeFrenchlocomotives they haveall theworksontheoutside.” The works thatisthe trouble.Their angular limbs,their jerkymovements,their dry, metallicnoises,all suggesteither machinesthathavecometo lifeor lifedegeneratingintomechanism.Youmayaddthatinthe hiveandtheant-hill weseefullyrealisedthetwothingsthat someofusmostdreadfor our ownspecies thedominanceof thefemaleandthedominanceofthecollective.Onefactabout thehistoryofthisphobiaisperhapsworthrecording.Much later,inmyteens,fromreadingLubbock’s Ants, Bees and Wasps,Idevelopedfor ashorttimeagenuinelyscientific interestininsects.Other studiessooncrowdeditout;butwhile myentomological periodlastedmyfear almostvanished,andI aminclinedtothinkareal objectivecuriositywill usuallyhave thiscleansingeffect.

Iamafraidthepsychologistswill notbecontenttoexplainmy insectfearsbywhatasimpler generationwoulddiagnoseas their cause acertaindetestablepictureinoneofmynursery books.Initamidgetchild,asortofTomThumb,stoodona toadstool andwasthreatenedfrombelow byastag-beetlevery muchlarger thanhimself.Thiswasbadenough;butthereis worsetocome.Thehornsofthebeetlewerestripsofcardboard separatefromtheplateandworkingonapivot.Bymovinga devilishcontraptiononthe verso youcouldmakethemopenand

shutlikepincers: snip-snap snip-snap IcanseeitwhileI write.How awomanordinarilysowiseasmymother could haveallowedthisabominationintothenurseryisdifficultto understand.Unless,indeed(for now adoubtassailsme),unless thatpictureitselfisaproductofnightmare.ButIthinknot.

In1905,myseventhyear,thefirstgreatchangeinmylifetook place.Wemovedhouse.Myfather,growing,Isuppose,in prosperity,decidedtoleavethesemi-detachedvillainwhichI hadbeenbornandbuildhimselfamuchlarger house,further out intowhatwasthenthecountry.The“New House”,aswe continuedfor yearstocall it,wasalargeoneevenbymy presentstandards;toachilditseemedlesslikeahousethana city.Myfather,whohadmorecapacityfor beingcheatedthan anymanIhaveever known,wasbadlycheatedbyhisbuilders; thedrainswerewrong,thechimneyswerewrong,andtherewas adraughtineveryroom.Noneofthis,however,matteredtoa child.Tome,theimportantthingaboutthemovewasthatthe backgroundofmylifebecamelarger.TheNew Houseisalmost amajor character inmystory.Iamaproductoflongcorridors, emptysunlitrooms,upstair indoor silences,atticsexploredin solitude,distantnoisesofgurglingcisternsandpipes,andthe noiseofwindunder thetiles.Also,ofendlessbooks.Myfather boughtall thebookshereadandnever gotridofanyofthem. Therewerebooksinthestudy,booksinthedrawing-room, booksinthecloakroom,books(twodeep) inthegreatbookcase onthelanding,booksinabedroom,bookspiledashighasmy shoulder inthecisternattic,booksofall kindsreflectingevery transientstageofmyparents’interests,booksreadableand unreadable,bookssuitablefor achildandbooksmost emphaticallynot.Nothingwasforbiddenme.Intheseemingly endlessrainyafternoonsItookvolumeafter volumefromthe

shelves.Ihadalwaysthesamecertaintyoffindingabookthat wasnew tomeasamanwhowalksintoafieldhasoffindinga new bladeofgrass.Whereall thesebookshadbeenbeforewe cametotheNew Houseisaproblemthatnever occurredtome until Ibeganwritingthisparagraph.Ihavenoideaofthe answer.

Outofdoorswas“theview”for which,nodoubt,thesitehad principallybeenchosen.Fromour frontdoor welookeddown over widefieldstoBelfastLoughandacrossittothelong mountainlineoftheAntrimshore Divis,Colin,CaveHill. Thiswasinthefar-offdayswhenBritainwastheworld’s carrier andtheLoughwasfull ofshipping;adelightto bothusboys,butmosttomybrother.Thesoundofasteamer’s hornatnightstill conjuresupmywholeboyhood.Behindthe house,greener,lower,andnearer thantheAntrimmountains, weretheHolywoodHills,butitwasnottill muchlater thatthey wonmyattention.Thenorth-westernprospectwaswhat matteredatfirst;theinterminablesummer sunsetsbehindthe blueridges,andtherooksflyinghome.Inthesesurroundingsthe blowsofchangebegantofall.

Firstofall,mybrother waspackedofftoanEnglishboardingschool andthusremovedfrommylifefor thegreater partof everyyear.Iremember well theraptureofhishomecomingsfor theholidaysbuthavenorecollectionofanycorresponding anguishathisdepartures.Hisnew lifemadenodifferencetothe relationsbetweenus.I,meanwhile,wasgoingonwithmy educationathome;FrenchandLatinfrommymother and everythingelsefromanexcellentgoverness,AnnieHarper.I maderather abugbear ofthismildandmodestlittleladyatthe time,butall thatIcanremember assuresmethatIwasunjust.

ShewasaPresbyterian;andalongishlecturewhichsheonce interpolatedbetweensumsandcopiesisthefirstthingIcan remember thatbroughttheother worldtomymindwithany senseofreality.ButthereweremanythingsthatIthoughtabout more.Myreal life or whatmemoryreportsasmyreal life wasincreasinglyoneofsolitude.Ihadindeedplentyofpeople totalkto: myparents,mygrandfather Lewis,prematurelyold anddeaf,wholivedwithus;themaids;andasomewhat bibulousoldgardener.Iwas,Ibelieve,anintolerable chatterbox.Butsolitudewasnearlyalwaysatmycommand, somewhereinthegardenor somewhereinthehouse.Ihadnow learnedbothtoreadandtowrite;Ihadadozenthingstodo.

Whatdrovemetowritewastheextrememanual clumsiness fromwhichIhavealwayssuffered.Iattributeittoa physical defectwhichmybrother andIbothinheritfrom our father;wehaveonlyonejointinthethumb.Theupper joint (thatfurthestfromthenail) isvisible,butitisameresham;we cannotbendit.Butwhatever thecause,naturelaidonmefrom birthanutter incapacitytomakeanything.Withpencil andpenI washandyenough,andIcanstill tieasgoodabow asever lay onaman’scollar;butwithatool or abator agun,asleeve-link or acorkscrew,Ihavealwaysbeenunteachable.Itwasthisthat forcedmetowrite.Ilongedtomakethings,ships,houses, engines.ManysheetsofcardboardandpairsofscissorsI spoiled,onlytoturnfrommyhopelessfailuresintears.Asa lastresource,asa pis aller,Iwasdriventowritestories instead;littledreamingtowhataworldofhappinessIwas beingadmitted.Youcandomorewithacastleinastorythan withthebestcardboardcastlethatever stoodonanurserytable.

Isoonstakedoutaclaimtooneoftheatticsandmadeit“my

study”.Pictures,ofmyownmakingor cutfromthebrightly colouredChristmasnumbersofmagazines,werenailedonthe walls.ThereIkeptmypenandinkpotandwritingbooksand paint-box;andthere

What more felicity can fall to creature

Than to enjoy delight with liberty?

Heremyfirststorieswerewritten,andillustrated,with enormoussatisfaction.Theywereanattempttocombinemytwo chiefliterarypleasures “dressedanimals”and“knights-inarmour”.Asaresult,Iwroteaboutchivalrousmiceandrabbits whorodeoutincompletemail tokill notgiantsbutcats.But alreadythemoodofthesystematiser wasstronginme;themood whichledTrollopesoendlesslytoelaboratehisBarsetshire. TheAnimal-Landwhichcameintoactionintheholidayswhen mybrother wasathomewasamodernAnimal-Land;it hadtohavetrainsandsteamshipsifitwastobeacountry sharedwithhim.Itfollowed,ofcourse,thatthemedieval Animal-LandaboutwhichIwrotemystoriesmustbethesame countryatanearlier period;andofcoursethetwoperiodsmust beproperlyconnected.Thisledmefromromancingto historiography;Isetaboutwritingafull historyofAnimal-Land. Thoughmorethanoneversionofthisinstructiveworkisextant, Inever succeededinbringingitdowntomoderntimes; centuriestakeadeal offillingwhenall theeventshavetocome outofthehistorian’shead.Butthereisonetouchinthe History thatIstill recall withsomepride.Thechivalricadventures whichfilledmystorieswereinitalludedtoverylightlyandthe reader waswarnedthattheymightbe“onlylegends”.Somehow butheavenknowshow Irealisedeventhenthatahistorian shouldadoptacritical attitudetowardsepicmaterial.From

historyitwasonlyasteptogeography.Therewassoonamap ofAnimal-Land several maps,all tolerablyconsistent.Then Animal-Landhadtobegeographicallyrelatedtomybrother’s India,andIndiaconsequentlyliftedoutofitsplaceinthereal world.Wemadeitanisland,withitsnorthcoastrunningalong thebackoftheHimalayas;betweenitandAnimal-Landmy brother rapidlyinventedtheprincipal steamshiproutes.Soon therewasawholeworldandamapofthatworldwhichused everycolour inmypaintbox.Andthosepartsofthatworld whichweregardedasour own Animal-LandandIndia were increasinglypeopledwithconsistentcharacters.

OfthebooksthatIreadatthistimeveryfew havequitefaded frommemory,butnotall haveretainedmylove.ConanDoyle’s Sir Nigel,whichfirstsetmymindupon“knightsinarmour”,I havenever feltinclinedtoreread.Still lesswouldInow read MarkTwain’s Yankee at the Court of King Arthur,whichwas thenmyonlysourcefor theArthurianstory,blissfullyreadfor thesakeoftheromanticelementsthatcamethroughand withtotal disregardofthevulgar ridiculedirectedagainst them.Muchbetter thaneither ofthesewasE.Nesbit’strilogy, Five Children and It, The Phoenix and the Wishing Carpet, and The Amulet.Thelastdidmostfor me.Itfirstopenedmy eyestoantiquity,the“darkbackwardandabysmoftime”.Ican still re-readitwithdelight. Gulliver inanunexpurgatedand lavishlyillustratededitionwasoneofmyfavourites,andI poredendlesslyover analmostcompletesetofold Punches whichstoodinmyfather’sstudy.Tenniel gratifiedmypassion for “dressedanimals”withhisRussianBear,BritishLion, EgyptianCrocodileandtherest,whilehisslovenlyand perfunctorytreatmentofvegetationconfirmedmyown deficiencies.ThencametheBeatrixPotter books,andhereat

lastbeauty.

Itwill beclear thatatthistime attheageofsix,seven,and eight Iwaslivingalmostentirelyinmyimagination;or atleast thattheimaginativeexperienceofthoseyearsnow seemstome moreimportantthananythingelse.ThusIpassover aholidayin Normandy(ofwhich,nevertheless,Iretainveryclear memories) asathingofnoaccount;ifitcouldbecutoutofmy pastIshouldstill bealmostexactlythemanIam.But imaginationisavaguewordandImustmakesomedistinctions. Itmaymeantheworldofreverie,day-dream,wish-fulfilling fantasy.OfthatIknew morethanenough.Ioftenpicturedmyself cuttingafinefigure.ButImustinsistthatthiswasatotally differentactivityfromtheinventionofAnimal-Land.AnimalLandwasnot(inthatsense) afantasyatall.Iwasnotoneofthe charactersitcontained.Iwasitscreator,notacandidatefor admissiontoit.Inventionisessentiallydifferentfromreverie;if somefail torecognisethedifferencethatisbecausetheyhave notthemselvesexperiencedboth.Anyonewhohaswill understandme.Inmyday-dreamsIwastrainingmyselftobea fool;inmappingandchroniclingAnimal-LandIwas trainingmyselftobeanovelist.Notewell,anovelist;not apoet.Myinventedworldwasfull (for me) ofinterest,bustle, humour,andcharacter;buttherewasnopoetry,evenno romance,init.Itwasalmostastonishinglyprosaic. [1] Thusifwe usethewordimaginationinathirdsense,andthehighestsense ofall,thisinventedworldwasnotimaginative.Butcertain other experienceswere,andIwill now trytorecordthem.The thinghasbeenmuchbetter donebyTraherneandWordsworth, buteverymanmusttell hisowntale.

Thefirstisitselfthememoryofamemory.AsIstoodbesidea floweringcurrantbushonasummer daytheresuddenlyarosein mewithoutwarning,andasiffromadepthnotofyearsbutof centuries,thememoryofthatearlier morningattheOldHouse whenmybrother hadbroughthistoygardenintothenursery.It isdifficulttofindwordsstrongenoughfor thesensationwhich cameover me;Milton’s“enormousbliss”ofEden(givingthe full,ancientmeaningto“enormous”) comessomewherenear it. Itwasasensation,ofcourse,ofdesire;butdesirefor what?not, certainly,for abiscuit-tinfilledwithmoss,nor even(thoughthat cameintoit) for myownpast.Ἰo

andbeforeI knew whatIdesired,thedesireitselfwasgone,thewhole glimpsewithdrawn,theworldturnedcommonplaceagain,or onlystirredbyalongingfor thelongingthathadjustceased.It hadtakenonlyamomentoftime;andinacertainsense everythingelsethathadever happenedtomewasinsignificant incomparison.

Thesecondglimpsecamethrough Squirrel Nutkin;throughit only,thoughIlovedall theBeatrixPotter books.Buttherestof themweremerelyentertaining;itadministeredtheshock, itwasatrouble.IttroubledmewithwhatIcanonly describeastheIdeaofAutumn.Itsoundsfantastictosaythat onecanbeenamouredofaseason,butthatissomethinglike whathappened;and,asbefore,theexperiencewasoneof intensedesire.Andonewentbacktothebook,nottogratifythe desire(thatwasimpossible how canone possess Autumn?) buttore-awakeit.Andinthisexperiencealsotherewasthe samesurpriseandthesamesenseofincalculableimportance.It wassomethingquitedifferentfromordinarylifeandevenfrom ordinarypleasure;something,astheywouldnow say,“in

another dimension”.

Thethirdglimpsecamethroughpoetry.Ihadbecomefondof Longfellow’s Saga of King Olaf: fondofitinacasual,shallow wayfor itsstoryanditsvigorousrhythms.Butthen,andquite differentfromsuchpleasures,andlikeavoicefromfar more distantregions,therecameamomentwhenIidlyturnedthe pagesofthebookandfoundtheunrhymedtranslationof Tegner’s Drapa andread

I heard a voice that cried, Balder the beautiful Is dead, is dead

Iknew nothingaboutBalder;butinstantlyIwasupliftedinto hugeregionsofnorthernsky,Idesiredwithalmostsickening intensitysomethingnever tobedescribed(exceptthatitiscold, spacious,severe,pale,andremote) andthen,asintheother examples,foundmyselfattheverysamemomentalreadyfalling outofthatdesireandwishingIwerebackinit.

Thereader whofindsthesethreeepisodesofnointerestneed readthisbooknofurther,for inasensethecentral storyofmy lifeisaboutnothingelse.For thosewhoarestill disposedto proceedIwill onlyunderlinethequalitycommontothethree experiences;itisthatofanunsatisfieddesirewhichisitself moredesirablethananyother satisfaction.Icall itJoy, whichishereatechnical termandmustbesharply distinguishedbothfromHappinessandfromPleasure.Joy(in mysense) hasindeedonecharacteristic,andoneonly,in commonwiththem;thefactthatanyonewhohasexperiencedit will wantitagain.Apartfromthat,andconsideredonlyinits

quality,itmightalmostequallywell becalledaparticular kind ofunhappinessor grief.Butthenitisakindwewant.Idoubt whether anyonewhohastasteditwouldever,ifbothwereinhis power,exchangeitfor all thepleasuresintheworld.Butthen Joyisnever inour power andpleasureoftenis.

Icannotbeabsolutelysurewhether thethingsIhavejustbeen speakingofhappenedbeforeor after thegreatlosswhichbefell our familyandtowhichImustnow turn.Therecameanight whenIwasill andcryingbothwithheadacheandtoothacheand distressedbecausemymother didnotcometome.Thatwas becauseshewasill too;andwhatwasoddwasthattherewere several doctorsinher room,andvoicesandcomingsandgoings all over thehouseanddoorsshuttingandopening.Itseemedto lastfor hours.Andthenmyfather,intears,cameintomyroom andbegantotrytoconveytomyterrifiedmindthingsithad never conceivedbefore.Itwasinfactcancer andfollowedthe usual course;anoperation(theyoperatedinthepatient’shouse inthosedays),anapparentconvalescence,areturnofthe disease,increasingpain,anddeath.Myfather never fully recoveredfromthisloss.

Childrensuffer not(Ithink) lessthantheir elders,but differently.For usboysthereal bereavementhadhappened beforeour mother died.Welosther graduallyasshewas graduallywithdrawnfromour lifeintothehandsofnursesand deliriumandmorphia,andasour wholeexistencechangedinto somethingalienandmenacing,asthehousebecamefull of strangesmellsandmidnightnoisesandsinister whispered conversations.Thishadtwofurther results,oneveryevil andoneverygood.Itdividedusfromour father aswell asour mother.Theysaythatasharedsorrow drawspeople

closer together;Icanhardlybelievethatitoftenhasthateffect whenthosewhoshareitareofwidelydifferentages.IfImay trustmyownexperience,thesightofadultmiseryandadult terror hasaneffectonchildrenwhichismerelyparalysingand alienating.Perhapsitwasour fault.Perhapsifwehadbeen better childrenwemighthavelightenedour father’ssufferingsat thistime.Wecertainlydidnot.Hisnerveshadnever beenofthe steadiestandhisemotionshadalwaysbeenuncontrolled.Under thepressureofanxietyhistemper becameincalculable;he spokewildlyandactedunjustly.Thusbyapeculiar crueltyof fate,duringthosemonthstheunfortunateman,hadhebutknown it,wasreallylosinghissonsaswell ashiswife.Wewere coming,mybrother andI,torelymoreandmoreexclusivelyon eachother for all thatmadelifebearable;tohaveconfidence onlyineachother.Iexpectthatwe(or atanyrateI) were alreadylearningtolietohim.Everythingthathadmadethe houseahomehadfailedus;everythingexceptoneanother.We drew dailycloser together (thatwasthegoodresult) two frightenedurchinshuddledfor warmthinableakworld.

Griefinchildhoodiscomplicatedwithmanyother miseries.I wastakenintothebedroomwheremymother laydead;asthey said,“toseeher”,inreality,asIatonceknew,“toseeit”.There wasnothingthatagrown-upwouldcall disfigurement except for thattotal disfigurementwhichisdeathitself.Griefwas overwhelmedinterror.TothisdayIdonotknow whatthey meanwhentheycall deadbodiesbeautiful.Theugliestman aliveisanangel ofbeautycomparedwiththeloveliestofthe dead.Againstall thesubsequentparaphernaliaofcoffin, flowers,hearse,andfuneral Ireactedwithhorror.Ieven lecturedoneofmyauntsontheabsurdityofmourning clothesinastylewhichwouldhaveseemedtomostadultsboth

heartlessandprecocious;butthiswasour dear AuntAnnie,my maternal uncle’sCanadianwife,awomanalmostassensible andsunnyasmymother herself.Tomyhatredfor whatIalready felttobeall thefussandflummeryofthefuneral Imayperhaps tracesomethinginmewhichInow recogniseasadefectbut whichIhavenever fullyovercome adistastefor all thatis public,all thatbelongstothecollective;aboorishinaptitudefor formality. Mymother’sdeathwastheoccasionofwhatsome(butnotI) mightregardasmyfirstreligiousexperience.Whenher case waspronouncedhopelessIrememberedwhatIhadbeentaught; thatprayersofferedinfaithwouldbegranted.Iaccordinglyset myselftoproducebywill-power afirmbeliefthatmyprayers for her recoverywouldbesuccessful;and,asIthought,I achievedit.WhenneverthelessshediedIshiftedmygroundand workedmyselfintoabeliefthattherewastobeamiracle.The interestingthingisthatmydisappointmentproducednoresults beyonditself.Thethinghadn’tworked,butIwasusedtothings notworking,andIthoughtnomoreaboutit.Ithinkthetruthis thatthebeliefintowhichIhadhypnotisedmyselfwasitselftoo irreligiousfor itsfailuretocauseanyreligiousrevolution.Ihad approachedGod,or myideaofGod,withoutlove,withoutawe, evenwithoutfear.Hewas,inmymental pictureofthismiracle, toappear neither asSaviour nor asJudge,butmerelyasa magician;andwhenHehaddonewhatwasrequiredofHimI supposedHewouldsimply well,goaway.Itnever crossed mymindthatthetremendouscontactwhichIsolicitedshould haveanyconsequencesbeyondrestoringthe status quo.I imaginethata“faith”ofthiskindisoftengeneratedinchildren andthatitsdisappointmentisofnoreligiousimportance;justas thethingsbelievedin,iftheycouldhappenandbeonlyas

thechildpicturesthem,wouldbeofnoreligious importanceeither.

Withmymother’sdeathall settledhappiness,all thatwas tranquil andreliable,disappearedfrommylife.Therewastobe muchfun,manypleasures,manystabsofJoy;butnomoreofthe oldsecurity.Itwasseaandislandsnow;thegreatcontinenthad sunklikeAtlantis.

II.ConcentrationCamp

Arithmetic with Coloured Rods.

,Nov.19,1954

Clop-clop-clop-clop...weareinafour-wheeler rattlingover theunevensquaresetsoftheBelfaststreetsthroughthedamp twilightofaSeptember evening,1908;myfather,mybrother, andI.Iamgoingtoschool for thefirsttime.Weareinlow spirits.Mybrother,whohasmostreasontobeso,for healone knowswhatwearegoingto,showshisfeelingsleast.Heis alreadyaveteran.Iperhapsambuoyedupbyalittleexcitement, butverylittle.Themostimportantfactatthemomentisthe horribleclothesIhavebeenmadetoputon.Onlythismorning onlytwohoursago Iwasrunningwildinshortsandblazer andsandshoes.Now Iamchokingandsweating,itchingtoo,in thickdarkstuff,throttledbyanEtoncollar,myfeetalready achingwithunaccustomedboots.Iamwearingknickerbockers thatbuttonattheknee.Everynightfor somefortyweeksof everyyear andfor manyayear Iamtoseethered,smarting imprintofthosebuttonsinmyfleshwhenIundress.Worstofall isthebowler-hat,apparentlymadeofiron,whichgraspsmy head.Ihavereadofboysinthesamepredicamentwho welcomedsuchthingsassignsofgrowingup;Ihadnosuch feeling.Nothinginmyexperiencehadever suggestedtomethat itwasnicer tobeaschoolboythanachildor nicer tobeaman thanaschoolboy.Mybrother never talkedmuchaboutschool in theholidays.Myfather,whomIimplicitlybelieved,represented adultlifeasoneofincessantdrudgeryunder thecontinual threat

offinancial ruin.Inthishedidnotmeantodeceiveus. Suchwashistemperamentthatwhenheexclaimed,ashe frequentlydid,“There’ll soonbenothingfor itbutthe workhouse,”hemomentarilybelieved,or atleastfelt,whathe said.Itookitall literallyandhadthegloomiestanticipationof adultlife.Inthemeantime,theputtingonoftheschool clothes was,Iwell knew,theassumptionofaprisonuniform.

Wereachthequayandgoonboardtheold“Fleetwoodboat”; after somemiserablestrollingaboutthedeckmyfather bidsus goodbye.Heisdeeplymoved;I,alas,ammainlyembarrassed andself-conscious.Whenhehasgoneashorewealmost,by comparison,cheer up.Mybrother beginstoshow meover the shipandtell meaboutall theother shippinginsight.Heisan experiencedtraveller andacompletemanoftheworld.A certainagreeableexcitementstealsover me.Ilikethereflected portandstarboardlightsontheoilywater,therattleofwinches, thewarmsmell fromtheengine-roomskylight.Wecastoff.The blackspacewidensbetweenusandthequay;Ifeel thethrobof screwsunderneathme.SoonwearedroppingdowntheLough andthereisatasteofsaltonone’slips,andthatcluster oflights astern,recedingfromus,iseverythingIhaveknown.Later, whenwehavegonetoour bunks,itbeginstoblow.Itisarough nightandmybrother issea-sick.Iabsurdlyenvyhimthis accomplishment.Heisbehavingasexperiencedtravellers should.BygreateffortsIsucceedinvomiting;butitisapoor affair Iwas,andam,anobstinatelygoodsailor.

NoEnglishmanwill beabletounderstandmyfirstimpressions ofEngland.Whenwedisembarked,Isupposeataboutsixnext morning(butitseemedtobemidnight),Ifoundmyselfina worldtowhichIreactedwithimmediatehatred.Theflatsof

Lancashireintheearlymorningareinrealityadismal sight;to metheywerelikethebanksofStyx.ThestrangeEnglishaccents withwhichIwassurroundedseemedlikethevoicesof demons.ButwhatwasworstwastheEnglishlandscape fromFleetwoodtoEuston.Eventomyadulteyethatmainline still appearstorunthroughthedullestandmostunfriendlystrip intheisland.Buttoachildwhohadalwayslivednear thesea andinsightofhighridgesitappearedasIsupposeRussiamight appear toanEnglishboy.Theflatness!Theinterminableness! Themilesandmilesoffeaturelessland,shuttingoneinfromthe sea,imprisoning,suffocating!Everythingwaswrong;wooden fencesinsteadofstonewallsandhedges,redbrickfarmhouses insteadofwhitecottages,thefieldstoobig,haystacksthewrong shape.Well doesthe Kalevala saythatinthestranger’shouse thefloor isfull ofknots.Ihavemadeupthequarrel since;butat thatmomentIconceivedahatredfor Englandwhichtookmany yearstoheal.

Our destinationwasthelittletownof letuscall itBelsen in Hertfordshire.“GreenHertfordshire”,Lambcallsit;butitwas notgreentoaboybredinCountyDown.Itwasflat Hertfordshire,flintyHertfordshire,Hertfordshireoftheyellow soil.ThereisthesamedifferencebetweentheclimateofIreland andofEnglandasbetweenthatofEnglandandtheContinent. Therewasfar moreweather atBelsenthanIhadever met before;thereIfirstknew bitter frostandstingingfog,sweltering heatandthunderstormsonthegreatscale.There,throughthe curtainlessdormitorywindows,Ifirstcametoknow theghastly beautyofthefull moon.

Theschool,asIfirstknew it,consistedofsomeeightor nine boardersandaboutasmanyday-boys.Organisedgames,except

32 for endlessroundersintheflintyplayground,hadlongbeen moribundandwerefinallyabandonednotverylongafter my arrival.Therewasnobathingexceptone’sweeklybathinthe bathroom.IwasalreadydoingLatinexercises(astaughtbymy mother) whenIwenttherein1908,andIwasstill doingLatin exerciseswhenIlefttherein1910;Ihadnever gotinsight ofaRomanauthor.Theonlystimulatingelementinthe teachingconsistedofafew well-usedcaneswhichhungonthe greenironchimney-pieceofthesingleschoolroom.The teachingstaffconsistedoftheheadmaster andproprietor (we calledhimOldie),hisgrown-upson(WeeWee),andanusher. Theusherssucceededoneanother withgreatrapidity;one lastedfor lessthanaweek.Another wasdismissedinthe presenceoftheboys,witharider fromOldietotheeffectthatif hewerenotinHolyOrdershewouldkickhimdownstairs.This curiousscenetookplaceinthedormitory,thoughIcannot remember why.All theseushers(excepttheonewhostayedless thanaweek) wereobviouslyasmuchinaweofOldieaswe. Buttherecameatimewhentherewerenomoreushers,and Oldie’syoungestdaughter taughtthejunior pupils.Bythattime therewereonlyfiveboarders,andOldiefinallygaveuphis school andsoughtacureofsouls.Iwasoneofthelast survivors,andlefttheshiponlywhenshewentdownunder us.

Oldielivedinasolitudeofpower,likeasea-captaininthedays ofsail.Nomanor womaninthathousespoketohimasan equal.NooneexceptWeeWeeinitiatedconversationwithhim atall.Atmeal timesweboyshadaglimpseofhisfamilylife. Hissonsatonhisrighthand;theytwohadseparatefood.His wifeandthreegrown-updaughters(silent),theusher (silent), andtheboys(silent) munchedtheir inferior messes.Hiswife, thoughIthinkshenever addressedOldie,wasallowedtomake

somethingofareplytohim;thegirls threetragicfigures, dressedsummer andwinter inthesameshabbyblack never wentbeyondanalmostwhispered“Yes,Papa”,or “No,Papa”, ontherareoccasionswhentheywereaddressed.Few visitors enteredthehouse.Beer,whichOldieandWeeWeedrank regularlyatdinner,wasofferedtotheusher buthewasexpected torefuse;theonewhoacceptedgothispint,butwastaughthis placebybeingaskedafew momentslater inavoiceof thunderousirony,“Perhapsyouwouldlikealittle more beer,Mr.N.?”Mr.N.,amanofspirit,repliedcasually,“Well, thankyou,Mr.C.,IthinkIwould.”Hewastheonewhodidnot staytill theendofhisfirstweek;andtherestofthatdaywasa blackonefor usboys.

Imyselfwasrather apetor mascotofOldie’s aposition whichIswear Inever soughtandofwhichtheadvantageswere purelynegative.Evenmybrother wasnotoneofhisfavourite victims.For hehadhisfavouritevictims,boyswhocoulddo nothingright.IhaveknownOldieenter theschoolroomafter breakfast,casthiseyesround,andremark,“Oh,thereyouare, Rees,youhorridboy.IfI’mnottootiredIshall giveyouagood drubbingthisafternoon.”Hewasnotangry,nor washejoking. Hewasabig,beardedmanwithfull lipslikeanAssyrianking onamonument,immenselystrong,physicallydirty.Everyone talksofsadismnowadaysbutIquestionwhether hiscrueltyhad anyeroticelementinit.Ihalfdivinedthen,andseemtosee clearlynow,whatall hiswhipping-boyshadincommon.They weretheboyswhofell below acertainsocial status,theboys withvulgar accents.Poor P. dear,honest,hard-working, friendly,healthilypiousP. wasfloggedincessantly,Inow think,for oneoffenceonly;hewasthesonofadentist.Ihave seenOldiemakethatchildbenddownatoneendofthe

[3]

34 schoolroomandthentakearunoftheroom’slengthateach stroke;butP.wasthetrainedsufferer ofcountlessthrashingsand nosoundescapedhimuntil,towardstheendofthetorture,there cameanoisequiteunlikeahumanutterance.Thatpeculiar croakingor rattlingcry,that,andthegreyfacesofall theother boys,andtheir deathlikestillness,areamongthememoriesI couldwillinglydispensewith.

Thecuriousthingisthatdespiteall thiscrueltywedid surprisinglylittlework.Thismayhavebeenpartlybecausethe crueltywasirrational andunpredictable;butitwaspartly becauseofthecuriousmethodsemployed.Exceptat geometry(whichhereallyliked) itmightbesaidthatOldiedid notteachatall.Hecalledhisclassupandaskedquestions. Whenthereplieswereunsatisfactoryhesaidinalow,calm voice,“Bringmemycane.IseeIshall needit.”Ifaboybecame confusedOldiefloggedthedesk,shoutinginacrescendo, “Think Think THINK!!”Then,asthepreludetoexecution,he muttered,“Comeout,comeout,comeout.”Whenreallyangry heproceededtoantics;wormingfor waxinhisear withhis littlefinger andbabbling,“Aye,aye,aye,aye...”.Ihaveseen himleapupanddanceroundandroundlikeaperformingbear. Meanwhile,almostinwhispers,WeeWeeor theusher,or (later) Oldie’syoungestdaughter,wasquestioningusjuniorsat another desk.“Lessons”ofthissortdidnottakeverylong;what wastobedonewiththeboysfor therestofthetime?Oldiehad decidedthattheycould,withleasttroubletohimself,bemade todoarithmetic.Accordingly,whenyouenteredschool atnine o’clockyoutookyour slateandbegandoingsums.Presentlyyou werecalledupto“sayalesson”.Whenthatwasfinishedyou wentbacktoyour placeanddidmoresums andsoforever.

All theother artsandsciencesthusappearedasislands(mostly rockyanddangerousislands)

Which like to rich and various gems inlaid

The unadorned bosom of the deep

thedeepbeingashorelessoceanofarithmetic.Attheendof themorningyouhadtosayhow manysumsyouhaddone;andit wasnotquitesafetolie.Butsupervisionwasslackandvery littleassistancewasgiven.Mybrother Ihavetoldyouthathe wasalreadyamanoftheworld soonfoundtheproper solution.Heannouncedeverymorningwithperfecttruththathe haddonefivesums;hedidnotaddthattheywerethesame fiveeveryday.Itwouldbeinterestingtoknow how many thousandtimeshedidthem.

Imustrestrainmyself.IcouldcontinuetodescribeOldiefor manypages;someoftheworstisunsaid.Butperhapsitwould bewicked,anditiscertainlynotobligatory,todoso.Onegood thingIcantell ofhim.Impelledbyconscience,aboyonce confessedtohimanotherwiseundetectablelie.Theogrewas touched;heonlypattedtheterrifiedboy’sbackandsaid, “Alwayssticktothetruth.”Icanalsosaythatthoughhetaught geometrycruelly,hetaughtitwell.Heforcedustoreason,andI havebeenthebetter for thosegeometrylessonsall mylife.For therest,thereisapossibleexplanationofhisbehaviour which rendersitmoreforgivable.Yearsafter,mybrother metaman whohadgrownupinthehousenextdoor toOldie’sschool.

Thatmanandhisfamily,and(Ithink) theneighboursingeneral, believedOldietobeinsane.Perhapstheywereright.Andifhe hadfairlyrecentlybecomeso,itwouldexplainathingwhich puzzlesme.Atthatschool asIknew itmostboyslearned

nothingandnoboylearnedmuch.ButOldiecouldboastan impressiverecordofscholarshipsinthepast.Hisschool cannot alwayshavebeentheswindleitwasinour time.

Youmayaskhow our father cametosendusthere.Certainlynot becausehemadeacarelesschoice.Thesurviving correspondenceshowsthathehadconsideredmanyother schoolsbeforefixingonOldie’s;andIknow himwell enoughto besurethatinsuchamatter hewouldnever havebeenguided byhisfirstthoughts(whichwouldprobablyhavebeenright) nor evenbyhistwenty-first(whichwouldatleasthavebeen explicable).Beyonddoubthewouldhaveprolonged deliberationtill hishundred-and-first;andtheywouldbe infalliblyandinvinciblywrong.Thisiswhatalwayshappensto thedeliberationsofasimplemanwhothinksheisasubtle one.LikeEarle’s Scepticke in Religion he“isalwayes toohardfor himself”.Myfather piquedhimselfonwhathe called“readingbetweenthelines”.Theobviousmeaningofany factor documentwasalwayssuspect: thetrueandinner meaning,invisibletoall eyesexcepthisown,was unconsciouslycreatedbytherestlessfertilityofhisimagination. WhilehethoughthewasinterpretingOldie’sprospectus,hewas reallycomposingaschool-storyinhisownmind.Andall this,I doubtnot,withextremeconscientiousnessandevensome anguish.Itmight,perhaps,havebeenexpectedthatthisstoryof hiswouldpresentlybeblownawaybythereal storywhichwe hadtotell after wehadgonetoBelsen.Butthisdidnothappen. Ibelieveitrarelyhappens.Iftheparentsineachgeneration alwaysor oftenknew whatreallygoesonattheir sons’schools, thehistoryofeducationwouldbeverydifferent.Atanyrate,my brother andIcertainlydidnotsucceedinimpressingthetruthon our father’smind.For onething(andthiswill becomeclearer in

thesequel) hewasamannoteasilyinformed.Hismindwastoo activetobeanaccuratereceiver.Whathethoughthehadheard wasnever exactlywhatyouhadsaid.Wedidnoteventryvery hard.Likeother children,wehadnostandardofcomparison; wesupposedthemiseriesofBelsentobethecommonand unavoidablemiseriesofall schools.Vanityhelpedtotieour tongues.Aboyhomefromschool (especiallyduringthatfirst weekwhentheholidaysseemeternal) likestocutadash.He wouldrather representhismaster asabuffoonthananogre.He wouldhatetobethoughtacowardandacry-baby,andhe cannotpaintthetruepictureofhisconcentrationcampwithout admittinghimselftohavebeenfor thelastthirteenweeksapale, quivering,tear-stained,obsequiousslave.Weall likeshowing scarsreceivedinbattle;thewoundsofthe ergastulum,less.My father mustnotbear theblamefor our wastedandmiserable yearsatOldie’s;andnow,inDante’swords,“totreatof thegoodthatIfoundthere”.

First,Ilearned,ifnotfriendship,atleastgregariousness.There hadbeenbullyingattheschool whenmybrother firstwent there.Ihadmybrother’sprotectionfor myfirstfew terms(after whichhelefttogotoaschool wemaycall Wyvern) butIdoubt ifitwasnecessary.Duringthoselastdecliningyearsofthe school weboardersweretoofew andtoobadlytreatedtodoor suffer muchinthatway.Also,after acertaintime,therewereno new boys.Wehadour quarrels,whichseemedseriousenoughat thetime;butlongbeforetheendwehadknownoneanother too longandsufferedtoomuchtogether nottobe,attheleast,very oldacquaintance.That,Ithink,iswhyBelsendidme,inthe longrun,solittleharm.Hardlyanyamountofoppressionfrom abovetakestheheartoutofaboylikeoppressionfromhis fellows.Wehadmanypleasanthoursalonetogether,wefive

remainingboarders.Theabandonmentoforganisedgames, thoughawretchedpreparationfor thepublicschool lifeto whichmostofusweredestined,wasatthetimeagreat blessing.Weweresentoutfor walksaloneonhalfholidays.We didnotdomuchwalking.Weboughtsweetsindrowsyvillage shopsandpotteredaboutonthecanal bankor satatthebrow of arailwaycuttingwatchingatunnel-mouthfor trains. Hertfordshirecametolooklesshostile.Our talkwasnotbound downtothenarrow interestswhichsatisfypublicschool boys; westill hadthecuriosityofchildren.Icanevenremember from thosedayswhatmusthavebeenthefirstmetaphysical argument Iever tookpartin.Wedebatedwhether thefuturewaslikea lineyoucan’tseeor likealinethatisnotyetdrawn.Ihave forgottenwhichsideItookthoughIknow thatItookitwith greatzeal.AndalwaystherewaswhatChestertoncalls“the slow maturingofoldjokes”.

Thereader will noticethatschool wasthuscomingtoreflecta patternIhadalreadyencounteredinmyhomelife.At home,thebadtimeshaddrawnmybrother andmecloser together;here,wherethetimeswerealwaysbad,thefear and hatredofOldiehadsomethingthesameeffectuponusall.His school wasinsomewaysverylikeDr.Grimstone’sschool in Vice Versa;butunlikeDr.Grimstone’sitcontainednoinformer. Westoodfoursquareagainstthecommonenemy.Isuspectthat thispattern,occurringtwiceandsoearlyinmylife,hasunduly biassedmywholeoutlook.Tothisdaythevisionoftheworld whichcomesmostnaturallytomeisoneinwhich“wetwo”or “wefew”(andinasense“wehappyfew”) standtogether againstsomethingstronger andlarger.England’spositionin 1940wastomenosurprise;itwasthesortofthingthatIalways expect.Hencewhilefriendshiphasbeenbyfar thechiefsource

ofmyhappiness,acquaintanceor general societyhasalways meantlittletome,andIcannotquiteunderstandwhyaman shouldwishtoknow morepeoplethanhecanmakereal friends of.Hence,too,averydefective,perhapsculpablydefective, interestinlargeimpersonal movements,causesandthelike.The concernarousedinmebyabattle(whether instoryor inreality) isalmostinaninverseratiotothenumber ofthecombatants.

Inanother waytooOldie’sschool presentlyrepeatedmyhome experience.Oldie’swifedied;andintermtime.Hereactedto bereavementbybecomingmoreviolentthanbefore;somuchso thatWeeWeemadeakindofapologyfor himtotheboys.You will remember thatIhadalreadylearnedtofear andhate emotion;herewasafreshreasontodoso.

ButIhavenotyetmentionedthemostimportantthingthatbefell meatOldie’s.TherefirstIbecameaneffectivebeliever.Asfar asIknow,theinstrumentwasthechurchtowhichwewere takentwiceeverySunday.Thiswashigh“Anglo-Catholic”.On theconsciouslevel Ireactedstronglyagainstits peculiarities wasInotanUlster Protestant,andwere nottheseunfamiliar ritualsanessential partofthehatedEnglish atmosphere?Unconsciously,Isuspect,thecandlesandincense, thevestmentsandthehymnssungonour knees,mayhavehada considerable,andopposite,effectonme.ButIdonotthinkthey weretheimportantthing.WhatreallymatteredwasthatIhere heardthedoctrinesofChristianity(asdistinctfromgeneral “uplift”) taughtbymenwhoobviouslybelievedthem.AsIhad noscepticism,theeffectwastobringtolifewhatIwould alreadyhavesaidthatIbelieved.Inthisexperiencetherewasa greatdeal offear.Idonotthinktherewasmorethanwas wholesomeor evennecessary;butifinmybooksIhavespoken

toomuchofHell,andifcriticswantahistorical explanationof thefact,theymustseekitnotinthesupposedPuritanismofmy Ulster childhoodbutintheAnglo-Catholicismofthechurchat Belsen.Ifearedfor mysoul;especiallyoncertainblazing moonlitnightsinthatcurtainlessdormitory how thesoundof other boysbreathingintheir sleepcomesback!Theeffect,so far asIcanjudge,wasentirelygood.Ibeganseriouslytopray andtoreadmyBibleandtoattempttoobeymyconscience. Religionwasamongthesubjectswhichweoftendiscussed; discussed,ifmymemoryservesme,inanentirelyhealthyand profitableway,withgreatgravityandwithouthysteria,and withouttheshamefacednessofolder boys.How Iwentback fromthisbeginningyoushall hear later.

Intellectually,thetimeIspentatOldie’swasalmostentirely wasted;iftheschool hadnotdied,andifIhadbeenleftthere twoyearsmore,itwouldprobablyhavesealedmyfateasa scholar for good.GeometryandsomepagesinWest’s English Grammar (buteventhoseIthinkIfoundfor myself) aretheonly itemsonthecreditside.For therest,all thatrisesoutofthesea ofarithmeticisajungleofdates,battles,exports,imports andthelike,forgottenassoonaslearnedandperfectly uselesshadtheybeenremembered.Therewasalsoagreat declineinmyimaginativelife.For manyyearsJoy(asIhave definedit) wasnotonlyabsentbutforgotten.Myreadingwas now mainlyrubbish;butastherewasnolibraryattheschool wemustnotmakeOldieresponsiblefor that.Ireadtwaddling school-storiesin The Captain.Thepleasureherewas,inthe proper sense,merewish-fulfilmentandfantasy;oneenjoyed vicariouslythetriumphsofthehero.Whentheboypassesfrom nurseryliteraturetoschool-storiesheisgoingdown,notup. Peter Rabbit pleasesadisinterestedimagination,for thechild

doesnotwanttobearabbit,thoughhemaylikepretendingtobe arabbitashemaylater likeactingHamlet;butthestoryofthe unpromisingboywhobecamecaptainoftheFirstElevenexists preciselytofeedhisreal ambitions.Ialsodevelopedagreat tastefor all thefictionIcouldgetabouttheancientworld: Quo Vadis, Darkness and Dawn, The Gladiators, Ben Hur.Itmight beexpectedthatthisaroseoutofmynew concernfor my religion,butIthinknot.EarlyChristianscameintomanyof thesestories,buttheywerenotwhatIwasafter.Isimply wantedsandals,temples,togas,slaves,emperors,galleys, amphitheatres;theattraction,asInow see,waserotic,and eroticinrather amorbidway.Andtheyweremostly,as literature,rather badbooks.Whathaswornbetter,andwhatI tooktoatthesametime,istheworkofRider Haggard;andalso the“scientifiction”ofH.G.Wells.Theideaofother planets exerciseduponmethenapeculiar,headyattraction,whichwas quitedifferentfromanyother ofmyliteraryinterests.Most emphaticallyitwasnottheromanticspell of Das Ferne.“Joy” (inmytechnical sense) never dartedfromMarsor theMoon. Thiswassomethingcoarser andstronger.Theinterest,whenthe fitwasuponme,wasravenous,likealust.Thisparticular coarsestrengthIhavecometoacceptasamarkthattheinterest whichhasitispsychological,notspiritual;behindsucha fiercetangtherelurks,Isuspect,apsychoanalytical explanation.Imayperhapsaddthatmyownplanetaryromances havebeennotsomuchthegratificationofthatfiercecuriosityas itsexorcism.Theexorcismworkedbyreconcilingitwith,or subjectingitto,theother,themoreelusive,andgenuinely imaginative,impulse.Thattheordinaryinterestinscientifiction isanaffair for psychoanalystsisborneoutbythefactthatall wholikeit,likeitthusravenously,andequallybythefactthat thosewhodonot,areoftennauseatedbyit.Therepulsionofthe

onesorthasthesamecoarsestrengthasthefascinatedinterest oftheother andisequallyatell-tale.

Somuchfor Oldie’s;buttheyear wasnotall term.Lifeatavile boarding-school isinthiswayagoodpreparationfor the Christianlife,thatitteachesonetofivebyhope.Even,ina sense,byfaith;for atthebeginningofeachterm,homeandthe holidaysaresofar offthatitisashardtorealisethemasto realiseheaven.Theyhavethesamepitiful unrealitywhen confrontedwithimmediatehorrors.To-morrow’sgeometry blotsoutthedistantendoftermasto-morrow’soperationmay blotoutthehopeofParadise.Andyet,termafter term,the unbelievablehappened.Fantastical andastronomical figures like“Thistimesixweeks”shrankintopracticablefigureslike “Thistimenextweek”,andthen“Thistimeto-morrow”,andthe almostsupernatural blissoftheLastDaypunctuallyappeared.It wasadelightthatalmostdemandedtobestayedwithflagons andcomfortedwithapples;adelightthattingleddownthespine andtroubledthebellyandatmomentswentnear tostoppingthe breath.Ofcoursethishadaterribleandequallyrelevant reverseside.Inthefirstweekoftheholidayswemight acknowledgethattermwouldcomeagain asayoungman,in peacetime,infull health,acknowledgesthathewill oneday die.Butlikehimwecouldnotevenbythegrimmest memento mori bebroughttorealiseit.Andtheretoo,eachtime,the unbelievablehappened.Thegrinningskull finallypeered throughall disguises;thelasthour,heldatbaybyeverydevice our will andimaginationsknew,cameintheend,andoncemore itwasthebowler-hat,theEtoncollar,theknickerbockers,and (clop-clop-clop-clop) theeveningdrivetothequay.Inall seriousnessIthinkthatthelifeoffaithiseasier tomebecauseof thesememories.Tothink,insunnyandconfidenttimes,thatI

shall dieandrot,or tothinkthatonedayall thisuniversewill slipawayandbecomememory(asOldieslippedawayinto memorythreetimesayear,andwithhimthecanesandthe disgustingfood,thestinkingsanitationandthecoldbeds) this iseasier tousifwehaveseenjustthatsortofthinghappening before.Wehavelearnednottotakepresentthingsattheir face value.

Inattemptingtogiveanaccountofour homelifeatthistimeI amtroubledbydoubtsaboutchronology.School affairscanto someextentbedatedbysurvivingrecords,buttheslow, continuousunfoldingoffamilylifeescapesthem.Our slight alienationfromour father imperceptiblyincreased.Inpartno onewastoblame;inaverygreatpartweweretoblame.A temperamental widower,still prostratedbythelossofhiswife, mustbeaverygoodandwisemanindeedifhemakesno mistakesinbringinguptwonoisyandmischievousschoolboys whoreservetheir confidencewhollyfor eachother.Andmy father’sgoodqualitiesaswell ashisweaknessesincapacitated himfor thetask.Hewasfar toomanlyandgeneroustostrikea childfor thegratificationofhisanger;andhewastooimpulsive ever topunishachildincoldbloodandonprinciple.He thereforereliedwhollyonhistongueastheinstrumentof domesticdiscipline.Andherethatfatal benttowards dramatisationandrhetoric(IspeakofitthemorefreelysinceI inheritit) producedapatheticyetcomicresult.Whenhe openedhismouthtoreproveushenodoubtintendeda shortwell-chosenappeal toour commonsenseandconscience. Butalas,hehadbeenapublicspeaker longbeforehebecamea father.Hehadfor manyyearsbeenapublicprosecutor.Words cametohimandintoxicatedhimastheycame.Whatactually happenedwasthatasmall boywhohadwalkedondampgrass

inhisslippersor leftabathroominapicklefoundhimself attackedwithsomethinglikeCiceroonCatiline,or Burkeon WarrenHastings;similepiledonsimile,rhetorical questionon rhetorical question,theflashofanorator’seyeandthe thundercloudofanorator’sbrow,thegestures,thecadencesand thepauses.Thepausesmightbethechiefdanger.Onewasso longthatmybrother,quiteinnocentlysupposingthedenunciation tohaveended,humblytookuphisbookandresumedhis reading;agesturewhichmyfather (whohadafter all onlymade arhetorical miscalculationofaboutasecondandahalf) not unnaturallytookfor “cool,premeditatedinsolence”.The ludicrousdisproportionbetweensuchharanguesandtheir occasionsputsmeinmindoftheadvocateinMartial who thundersaboutall thevillainsofRomanhistorywhilemeantime lis est de tribus capellis

This case, I beg the court to note, Concerns a trespass by a goat.

Mypoor father,whilehespoke,forgotnotonlytheoffence,but thecapacities,ofhisaudience.All theresourcesofhisimmense vocabularywerepouredforth.Icanstill remember suchwords as“abominable”,“sophisticated”and“surreptitious”.Youwill notgetthefull flavour unlessyouknow anangryIrishman’s energyinexplosiveconsonantsandtherichgrowl ofhisR’s.A worsetreatmentcouldhardlyhavebeenapplied.Uptoacertain agetheseinvectivesfilledmewithboundlessterror anddismay. Fromthewildernessoftheadjectivesandthewelter of theunintelligible,emergedideaswhichIthoughtI understoodonlytoowell,asIheardwithimplicitandliteral beliefthatour Father’sruinwasapproaching,thatweshouldall soonbegour breadinthestreets,thathewouldshutupthe

45 houseandkeepusatschool all theyear round,thatweshould besenttothecoloniesandthereendinmiserythecareer of crimeonwhichwehad,itseemed,alreadyembarked.All securityseemedtobetakenfromme;therewasnosolidground beneathmyfeet.ItissignificantthatatthistimeifIwokeinthe nightanddidnotimmediatelyhear mybrother’sbreathingfrom theneighbouringbed,Ioftensuspectedthatmyfather andhehad secretlyrisenwhileIsleptandgoneofftoAmerica thatIwas finallyabandoned.Suchwastheeffectofmyfather’srhetoricup toacertainage;then,quitesuddenly,itbecameridiculous.Ican evenremember themomentofthechange,andthestorywell illustratesboththejusticeofmyfather’sanger andtheunhappy wayinwhichheexpressedit.Onedaymybrother decidedit wouldbeagoodthingtomakeatent.Accordinglyweprocured adust-sheetfromoneoftheattics.Thenextstepwastofind uprights;thestep-ladder inthewash-housesuggesteditself.For aboywithahatchetitwastheworkofamomenttoreducethis toanumber ofdisconnectedpoles.Four ofthesewerethen plantedintheearthandthesheetdrapedover them.Tomake surethatthewholestructurewasreallyreliablemybrother then triedsittingonthetopofit.Werememberedtoputawaythe raggedremainsofthesheetbutquiteforgotabouttheuprights. Thatevening,whenmyfather hadcomehomefromworkand dined,hewentfor astroll inthegarden,accompaniedbyus. Thesightoffour slender woodenpostsrisingfromthegrass movedinhimapardonablecuriosity.Interrogationfollowed;on thisoccasionwetoldthetruth.Thenthelightningsflashedand thethunder roared;andall wouldhavegonenow asithadgone onadozenpreviousoccasions,butfor theclimax “InsteadofwhichIfindyouhavecutupthestep-ladder. Andwhatfor,forsooth?TomakeathinglikeanabortivePunchand-Judyshow.”Atthatmomentwebothhidour faces;not,

Aswill beseenfromthisanecdoteonedominantfactor inour lifeathomewasthedailyabsenceofour father fromaboutnine inthemorningtill sixatnight.For therestofthedaywehadthe housetoourselves,exceptfor thecookandhousemaidwith whomweweresometimesatwar andsometimesinalliance. Everythinginvitedustodevelopalifethathadnoconnection withour father.Themostimportantofour activitieswasthe endlessdramaofAnimal-LandandIndia,andthisofitself isolatedusfromhim.

ButImustnotleavethereader under theimpressionthatall the happyhoursoftheholidaysoccurredduringour father’s absence.Histemperamentwasmercurial,hisspiritsroseas easilyastheyfell,andhisforgivenesswasasthorough-goingas hisdispleasure.Hewasoftenthemostjovial and companionableofparents.Hecould“playthefool”aswell as anyofus,andhadnoregardfor hisowndignity,“connedno state”.Icouldnot,ofcourse,atthatageseewhatgoodcompany (byadultstandards) hewas,hishumour beingofthesortthat requiresatleastsomeknowledgeoflifefor itsfull appreciation;Imerelybaskedinitasinfineweather.Andall thetimetherewasthesensuousdelightofbeingathome,the delightofluxury “civilisation”,aswecalledit.Ispokejust now of Vice Versa.Itspopularitywassurelyduetosomething morethanfarce.Itistheonlytruthful school storyinexistence. ThemachineryoftheGarudaStonereallyservestobringoutin their truecolours(whichwouldotherwiseseemexaggerated) thesensationswhicheveryboyhadonpassingfromthewarmth andsoftnessanddignityofhishomelifetotheprivations,the raw andsordidugliness,ofschool.Isay“had”not“has”;

for perhapshomeshavegonedownintheworldand schoolsgoneupsincethen.

Itwill beaskedwhether wehadnofriends,noneighbours,no relatives.Wehad.Toonefamilyinparticular our debtisso greatthatithadbetter beleft,withsomeother matters,tothe nextchapter.

III.MountbrackenandCampbell

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 THEGREEN KNIGHT

Tospeakofmynearer relativesistoremindmyselfhow the contrastofLewisandHamiltondominatedmywholeearlylife. Itbegan,for me,withthegrandparents.Grandfather Lewis, deaf,slow-moving,humminghispsalmchants,muchconcerned for hishealthandpronetoremindthefamilythathewouldnot bewiththemlong,iscontrastedwithGrandmother Hamilton, thesharp-tongued,sharp-wittedwidow,full ofheterodox opinions(even,tothescandal ofthewholeconnection,aHome Ruler),everyinchaWarren,indifferenttoconventionasonlyan oldSouthernIrisharistocratcouldbe,livingaloneinalarge tumble-downhousewithhalfahundredcatsfor company.To how manyaninnocentconversational gambitdidshereply, “You’retalkinggreatnonsense”?Bornalittlelater,shewould,I think,havebeenaFabian.Shemetvaguesmall talkwith ruthlessstatementsofascertainablefactandwell-wornmaxims withatartdemandfor evidence.Naturally,peoplecalledher eccentric.ComingdownagenerationIfindthesameopposition.

Myfather’selder brother “UncleJoe”,withhisfamilyoftwo boysandthreegirls,livedveryclosetouswhilewewereatthe OldHouse.Hisyounger sonwasmyearliestfriend,butwe driftedapartaswegrew older.UncleJoewasbothaclever manandakind,andespeciallyfondofme.ButIremember

nothingthatwassaidbyour eldersinthathouse;itwas simply“grownup”conversation aboutpeople,business, politics,andhealth,Isuppose.But“UncleGussie” my mother’sbrother,A.W.Hamilton talkedtomeasifwewere ofanage.Thatis,hetalkedaboutThings.Hetoldmeall the scienceIcouldthentakein,clearly,eagerly,withoutsillyjokes andcondescensions,obviouslylikingitasmuchasIdid.He thusprovidedtheintellectual backgroundfor myreadingofH.

G.Wells.Idonotsupposehecaredfor measapersonhalfso muchasUncleJoedid;andthat(call itaninjusticeor not) was whatIliked.Duringthesetalksour attentionwasfixednoton oneanother butonthesubject.HisCanadianwifeIhavealready mentioned.Inher alsoIfoundwhatIlikedbest anunfailing, kindlywelcomewithoutahintofsentimentality,unruffledgood sense,theunobtrusivetalentfor makingall thingsatall timesas cheerful andcomfortableascircumstancesallowed.Whatone couldnothaveonedidwithoutandmadethebestofit.The tendencyoftheLewisestore-openwoundsandtorouse sleepingdogswasunknowntoher astoher husband.

Butwehadother kinwhomatteredtousfar morethanour aunts anduncles.Lessthanamilefromour homestoodthelargest houseIthenknew,whichIwill herecall Mountbracken,and therelivedSir W.E.LadyE.wasmymother’sfirstcousinand perhapsmymother’sdearestfriend,anditwasnodoubtfor my mother’ssakethatshetookuponherselftheheroicworkof civilisingmybrother andme.Wehadastandinginvitationto lunchatMountbrackenwhenever wewereathome;tothis, almostentirely,weoweitthatwedidnotgrow upsavages.The debtisnotonlytoLadyE.(“CousinMary”) buttoher whole family;walks,motor-drives(inthosedaysanexcitingnovelty), picnics,andinvitationstothetheatrewereshoweredonus,year

after year,withakindnesswhichour rawness,our noise, andour unpunctualitynever seemedtoweary.Wewereat hometherealmostasmuchasinour ownhouse,butwiththis greatdifference,thatacertainstandardofmannershadtobe keptup.Whatever Iknow (itisnotmuch) ofcourtesyand savoir faire IlearnedatMountbracken.

Sir W.(“CousinQuartus”) wastheeldestofseveral brothers whoownedbetweenthemoneofthemostimportantindustrial concernsinBelfast.Hebelongedinfacttojustthatclassand generationofwhichthemodernmangetshisimpressions throughGalsworthy’sForsytes.UnlessCousinQuartuswasvery untruetotype(ashemaywell havebeen) thatimpressionis grosslyunjust.NoonelesslikeaGalsworthiancharacter ever existed.Hewasgracious,childlike,deeplyandreligiously humble,andaboundingincharity.Nomancouldfeel morefully hisresponsibilitytodependants.Hehadagooddeal ofboyish gaietyabouthim;atthesametimeIalwaysfeltthatthe conceptionofdutydominatedhislife.Hisstatelyfigure,his greybeard,andhisstrikinglyhandsomeprofilemakeuponeof themostvenerableimagesinmymemory.Physical beautywas indeedcommontomostofthefamily.CousinMarywasthevery typeofthebeautiful oldlady,withher silver hair andher sweet SouthernIrishvoice;foreignersmustbewarnedthatthis resembleswhattheycall a“brogue”aboutaslittleasthespeech ofaHighlandgentlemanresemblesthejargonoftheGlasgow slums.Butitwasthethreedaughterswhomweknew best.All threewere“grownup”butinfactmuchnearer tousinagethan anyother grown-upsweknew,andall threewerestrikingly handsome.H.,theeldestandthegravest,wasaJuno,adark queenwhoatcertainmomentslookedlikeaJewess.K.was morelikeaValkyrie(thoughall,Ithink,weregoodhorse-

50 women) withher father’sprofile.Therewasinher face somethingofthedelicatefiercenessofathoroughbredhorse,an indignantfinenessofnostril,thepossibilityofanexcellent disdain.Shehadwhatthevanityofmyownsexcallsa “masculine”honesty;nomanever wasatruer friend.Asfor the youngest,G.,Icanonlysaythatshewasthemostbeautiful womanIhaveever seen,perfectinshapeandcolour andvoice andeverymovement butwhocandescribebeauty?Thereader maysmileatthisasthefar-offechoofaprecociouscalf-love, buthewill bewrong.Therearebeautiessounambiguousthat theyneednolensofthatkindtoreveal them;theyarevisible eventothecarelessandobjectiveeyesofachild.(Thefirst womanwhoever spoketomybloodwasadancingmistressata school thatwill comeinalater chapter.)

InsomewaysMountbrackenwaslikeour Father’shouse.There toowefoundtheattics,theindoor silences,theendless bookshelves.Intheearlydays,whenwewerestill onlya quarter tamed,weoftenneglectedour hostessesandrummaged onour own;itwastherethatIfoundLubbock’s Ants, Bees and Wasps.Butitwasalsoverydifferent.Lifetherewasmore spaciousandconsideredthanwithus,glidedlikeabargewhere oursbumpedlikeacart.

Friendsofour ownage boyandgirl friends wehadnone.In partthisisanatural resultofboardingschool;childrengrow up strangerstotheir next-door neighbours.Butmuchmoreitwas theresultofour ownobstinatechoice.Oneboywholivednear usattemptedeverynow andthentogettoknow us.Weavoided himbyeverymeansinour power.Our liveswerealreadyfull, andtheholidaystooshortfor all thereading,writing,playing, cycling,andtalkingthatwewantedtogetthrough.Weresented

theappearanceofanythirdpartyasaninfuriatinginterruption. Weresentedevenmorebitterlyall attempts(exceptingthegreat andsuccessful attemptmadebyMountbracken) toshow us hospitality.AttheperiodthatIamnow speakingofthishadnot yetbecomeaseriousnuisance,butasitbecamegraduallyand steadilymoreseriousthroughoutour schooldaysImaybe allowedtosayawordaboutithereandtogetthesubject outofour way.Itwasthecustomoftheneighbourhoodtogive partieswhichwerereallydancesfor adultsbuttowhich,none theless,mereschoolboysandschoolgirlswereasked.Onesees theadvantagesofthisarrangementfromthehostess’spointof view;andwhenthejunior guestsknow eachother well andare freefromself-consciousnessperhapstheyenjoythemselves.To methesedanceswereatorment ofwhichordinaryshyness madeonlyapart.Itwasthefalseposition(whichIwaswell abletorealise) thattormentedme;toknow thatonewas regardedasachildandyetbeforcedtotakepartinan essentiallygrown-upfunction,tofeel thatall theadultspresent werebeinghalf-mockinglykindandpretendingtotreatyouas whatyouwerenot.Addtothisthediscomfortofone’sEtonsuit andstiffshirt,theachingfeetandburninghead,andthemere wearinessofbeingkeptupsomanyhoursafter one’susual bedtime.Evenadults,Ifancy,wouldnotfindaneveningparty veryendurablewithouttheattractionofsexandtheattractionof alcohol;andhow asmall boywhocanneither flirtnor drink shouldbeexpectedtoenjoyprancingaboutonapolishedfloor till thesmall hoursofthemorning,isbeyondmyconception.I hadofcoursenonotionofthesocial nexus.Inever realisedthat certainpeoplewereincivilityobligedtoaskmebecausethey knew myfather or hadknownmymother.Tomeitwasall inexplicable,unprovokedpersecution;andwhen,asoften happened,suchengagementsfell inthelastweekoftheholidays

andwrestedfromusahugecantleofhoursinwhichevery minutewasworthgold,IpositivelyfeltthatIcouldhavetorn myhostesslimbfromlimb.Whyshouldshethuspester me?I hadnever doneher anyharm,never asked her toaparty.

Mydiscomfortswereaggravatedbythetotallyunnatural behaviour whichIthoughtitmydutytoadoptatadance;and thathadcomeaboutinasufficientlyamusingway. Readingmuchandmixinglittlewithchildrenofmyown age,Ihad,beforeIwenttoschool,developedavocabulary whichmust(Inow see) havesoundedveryfunnyfromthelips ofachubbyurchininanEtonjacket.WhenIbroughtoutmy “longwords”adultsnotunnaturallythoughtIwasshowingoff. Inthistheywerequitemistaken.IusedtheonlywordsIknew. Thepositionwasindeedtheexactreverseofwhatthey supposed;mypridewouldhavebeengratifiedbyusingsuch schoolboyslangasIpossessed,notatall byusingthebookish languagewhich(inevitablyinmycircumstances) camenaturally tomytongue.Andtherewerenotlackingadultswhowouldegg meonwithfeignedinterestandfeignedseriousness onandon till themomentatwhichIsuddenlyknew Iwasbeinglaughedat. Then,ofcourse,mymortificationwasintense;andafter oneor twosuchexperiencesImadeitarigidrulethatat“social functions”(asIsecretlycalledthem) Imustnever onany accountspeakofanysubjectinwhichIfelttheslightestinterest nor inanywordsthatnaturallyoccurredtome.AndIkeptmy ruleonlytoowell;agigglingandgurglingimitationofthe vapidestgrown-upchatter,adeliberateconcealmentofall thatI reallythoughtandfeltunder asortoffeeblejocularityand enthusiasm,washenceforthmypartymanner,assumedas consciouslyasanactor assumeshisrole,sustainedwith unspeakableweariness,anddroppedwithagroanofreliefthe

momentmybrother andIatlasttumbledintoour cabandthe drivehome(theonlypleasureoftheevening) began.Ittookme yearstomakethediscoverythatanyreal humanintercourse couldtakeplaceatamixedassemblyofpeopleintheir good clothes. Iamherestruckbythecuriousmixtureofjusticeandinjusticein our lives.Weareblamedfor our real faultsbutusuallynoton therightoccasions.Iwas,nodoubt,andwasblamedfor being, aconceitedboy;buttheblamewasusuallyattachedto somethinginwhichnoconceitwaspresent.Adultsoften accuseachildofvanitywithoutpausingtodiscover onwhat pointschildreningeneral,or thatchildinparticular,arelikely tobevain.Thusitwasfor yearsacompletemysterytomethat myfather shouldstigmatiseas“affectation”mycomplaints abouttheitchingandticklingofnew underclothes.Iseeitall now;hehadinmindasocial legendassociatingdelicacyofskin withrefinementandsupposedthatIwasclaimingtobe unusuallyrefined.InrealityIwasinsimpleignoranceofthat social legend,andifvanityhadcomeintothematter wouldhave beenmuchprouder ofhavingaskinlikeasailor.Iwasbeing accusedofanoffencewhichIlackedresourcestocommit.Iwas onanother occasioncalled“affected”for askingwhat “stirabout”was.Itis,infact,a“low”Irishwordfor porridge. Tocertainadultsitseemsobviousthathewhoclaimsnotto know theLow mustbepretendingtobeHigh.Yetthereal reasonwhyIaskedwasthatIhadnever happenedtohear the word;hadIdonesoIshouldhavepiquedmyselfonusingit.

Oldie’sschool,youwill remember,sankunlamentedinsummer 1910;new arrangementshadtobemadefor myeducation.My father now hituponaplanwhichfilledmewithdelight.Abouta

milefromtheNew Houserosethelargered-brickwallsand towersofCampbell College,whichhadbeenfoundedfor the expresspurposeofgivingUlster boysall theadvantagesofa publicschool educationwithoutthetroubleofcrossingtheIrish Sea.Myclever cousin,UncleJoe’sboy,wasalreadythereand doingwell.ItwasdecidedthatIshouldgoasaboarder,butI couldgetan exeat tocomehomeeverySunday.Iwasenchanted. IdidnotbelievethatanythingIrish,evenaschool,couldbe bad;certainlynotsobadasall Iyetknew ofEngland.To “Campbell”Iaccordinglywent.

Iwasatthisschool for soshortatimethatIshall attemptno criticismofit.ItwasveryunlikeanyEnglishpublicschool that Ihaveever heardof.Ithadindeedprefects,butthe prefectswereofnoimportance.Itwasnominallydivided into“houses”ontheEnglishpattern,buttheyweremerelegal fictions;exceptfor purposesofgames(whichwerenot compulsory) noonetookanynoticeofthem.Thepopulation wassociallymuchmore“mixed”thanatmostEnglishschools;I rubbedshoulderstherewithfarmers’sons.TheboyImost nearlymadeafriendofwasthesonofatradesmanwhohad recentlybeengoingtheroundswithhisfather’svanbecausethe driver wasilliterateandcouldnotkeep“thebooks”.Imuch enviedhimthispleasantoccupation,andhe,poor fellow, lookedbackonitasagoldenage.“Thistimelastmonth, Lewis,”heusedtosay,“Iwouldn’thavebeengoinginto Preparation.I’dhavebeencominghomefrommyroundsanda weeteaclothlaidfor meatoneendofthetableandsausagesto mytea.”

Iamalwaysglad,asahistorian,tohaveknownCampbell,for I thinkitwasverymuchwhatthegreatEnglishschoolshadbeen

55 beforeArnold.Therewerereal fightsatCampbell,with seconds,and(Ithink) betting,andahundredor moreroaring spectators.Therewasbullying,too,thoughnoseriousshareofit camemyway,andtherewasnotraceoftherigidhierarchy whichgovernsamodernEnglishschool;everyboyheldjustthe placewhichhisfistsandmother-witcouldwinfor him.From mypointofview thegreatdrawbackwasthatonehad,soto speak,nohome.Onlyafew verysenior boyshadstudies.The restofus,exceptwhenseatedattablefor mealsor inahuge “preparationroom”for evening“Prep”,belongednowhere.In out-of-school hoursonespentone’stimeeither evadingor conformingtoall thoseinexplicablemovementswhichacrowd exhibitsasitthinshereandthickensthere,now slackensits paceandnow setslikeatideinoneparticular direction,now seemsabouttodisperseandthenclotsagain.Thebare brickpassagesechoedtoacontinual trampoffeet, punctuatedwithcat-calls,scrimmages,gustylaughter.Onewas always“movingon”or “hangingabout” inlavatories,instore rooms,inthegreathall.Itwasverylikelivingpermanentlyina largerailwaystation.

Thebullyinghadthisnegativemeritthatitwashonestbullying; notbullyingconscience-salvedandauthorisedinthe maison tolérée oftheprefectorial system.Itwasdonemainlybygangs; partiesofeightor tenboyseachwhoscouredthoseinterminable corridorsfor prey.Their sorties,thoughlikeawhirlwind,were notperceivedbythevictimtill toolate;thegeneral,endless confusionandclamour,Isuppose,maskedthem.Sometimes captureinvolvedseriousconsequences;twoboyswhomIknew werecarriedoffandfloggedinsomebackwater floggedinthe mostdisinterestedfashion,for their captorshadnopersonal acquaintancewiththem;artfor art’ssake.Butontheonly

occasionwhenIwascaughtmyselfmyfatewasmuchmilder andperhapsoddenoughtobeworthrecording.WhenIhad cometomyselfafter beingdraggedatheadlongspeedthrougha labyrinthofpassageswhichtookmebeyondall usual landmarks,IfoundthatIwasoneofseveral prisonersinalow, bareroom,half-lit(Ithink) byasinglegas-jet.After apauseto recover their breathtwoofthebrigandsledoutthefirstcaptive. Inow noticedthatahorizontal row ofpipesranalongthe oppositewall,aboutthreefeetfromthefloor.Iwasalarmedbut notsurprisedwhentheprisoner wasforcedintoabending positionwithhisheadunder thelowestpipe,intheveryposture for execution.ButIwasverymuchsurprisedamomentlater. Youwill remember thattheroomwashalfdark.Thetwo gangstersgavetheir victimashove;andinstantlynovictimwas there.Hevanished;withouttrace,withoutsound.Itappearedto besheer blackmagic.Another victimwasledout;againthe posturefor afloggingwasassumed;again,insteadof flogging, dissolution,atomisation,annihilation.Atlast myownturncame.Itooreceivedtheshovefrombehind,and foundmyselffallingthroughaholeor hatchinthewall intowhat turnedouttobeacoal-cellar.Another small boycamehurtling inafter me,thedoor wasslammedandboltedbehindus,andour captorswithajoyouswhooprushedawayfor morebooty.They were,nodoubt,playingagainstarival gangwithwhomthey wouldpresentlycompare“bags”.Wewereletoutagain presently,verydirtyandrather cramped,butotherwisenonethe worse. MuchthemostimportantthingthathappenedtomeatCampbell wasthatIthereread Sohrab and Rustum informunder an excellentmaster whomwecalledOctie.Ilovedthepoemat firstsightandhaveloveditever since.Asthewetfog,inthe

firstline,roseoutoftheOxusstream,sooutofthewholepoem thereroseandwrappedmeroundanexquisite,silverycoolness, adelightful qualityofdistanceandcalm,agravemelancholy.I hardlyappreciatedthen,asIhavesincelearnedtodo,the central tragedy;whatenchantedmewastheartistinPekinwith hisivoryforeheadandpalehands,thecypressinthequeen’s garden,thebackwardglanceatRustum’syouth,thepedlarsfrom Khabul,thehushedChorasmianwaste.Arnoldgavemeatonce (andthebestofArnoldgivesmestill) asense,notindeedof passionlessvision,butofapassionate,silentgazingatthingsa longwayoff.Andhereobservehow literatureactuallyworks. Parrotcriticssaythat Sohrab isapoemfor classicists,tobe enjoyedonlybythosewhorecognisetheHomericechoes.ButI, inOctie’sform-room(andonOctiebepeace) knew nothingof Homer.For metherelationbetweenArnoldandHomer worked theother way;whenIcame,yearslater,toreadthe Iliad Iliked itpartlybecauseitwasfor mereminiscentof Sohrab.Plainly,it doesnotmatter atwhatpointyoufirstbreakintothesystemof Europeanpoetry.Onlykeepyour earsopenandyour mouthshutandeverythingwill leadyoutoeverythingelse intheend ogni parte ad ogni parte splende.

Abouthalf-waythroughmyfirstandonlytermatCampbell Ifell ill andwastakenhome.Myfather,for reasonsIdonotquite know,hadbecomedissatisfiedwiththeschool.Hehadalso beenattractedbyaccountsofapreparatoryschool inthetown ofWyvern,thoughquiteunconnectedwithWyvernCollege; especiallybytheconveniencethatifIwenttheremybrother and Icouldstill dothejourneytogether.AccordinglyIhadablessed sixweeksathome,withtheChristmasholidaystolookforward toattheendand,after that,anew adventure.Inasurviving letter myfather writestomybrother thatIthinkmyselfluckybut

he“fearsIshall beverylonelybeforetheendoftheweek”.Itis strangethathavingknownmeall mylifeheshouldhaveknown mesolittle.DuringtheseweeksIsleptinhisroomandwasthus freedfromsolitudeduringmostofthosedarkhoursinwhich alonesolitudewasdreadful tome.Mybrother beingabsent,he andIcouldnotleadoneanother intomischief;therewas thereforenofrictionbetweenmyfather andmyself.Iremember noother timeinmylifeofsuchuntroubledaffection;wewere famouslysnugtogether.Andinthedays,whenhewasout,I enteredwithcompletesatisfactionintoadeeper solitudethanI hadever known.Theemptyhouse,theempty,silentrooms,were likearefreshingbathafter thecrowdednoiseofCampbell.I couldread,write,anddraw tomyheart’scontent.Curiously enoughitisatthistime,notinearlier childhood,thatIchiefly remember delightinginfairytales.Ifell deeplyunder thespell ofDwarfs theoldbright-hooded,snowy-beardeddwarfswe hadinthosedaysbeforeArthur Rackhamsublimed,or Walt Disneyvulgarised,theearthmen.Ivisualisedthemsointensely thatIcametotheveryfrontiersofhallucination;once,walking inthegarden,Iwasfor asecondnotquitesurethatalittle manhadnotrunpastmeintotheshrubbery.Iwasfaintly alarmed,butitwasnotlikemynight-fears.Afear thatguarded theroadtoFaeriewasoneIcouldface.Nooneisacowardat all points.

IV.IBroadenmyMind

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

InJanuary1911,justturnedthirteen,Isetoutwithmybrother to Wyvern,hefor theCollegeandIfor apreparatoryschool which wewill call Chartres.Thusbeganwhatmaybecalledthe classicperiodofour schooldays,thethingweboththinkoffirst whenboyhoodismentioned.Thejointjourneysbacktoschool withareluctantpartingatWyvernstation,thehilariousreunion atthesamestationfor thejointjourneyhome,werenow the greatstructural pillarsofeachyear.Growingmaturityismarked bytheincreasinglibertieswetakewithour travelling.Atfirst, onbeinglandedearlyinthemorningatLiverpool,wetookthe nexttrainsouth;soonwelearnedthatitwaspleasanter tospend thewholemorningintheloungeoftheLimeStreetHotel with our magazinesandcigarettesandtoproceedtoWyvernbyan afternoontrainwhichbroughtusthereatthelatestpermitted moment.Soontoowegaveupthemagazines;wemadethe discovery(somepeoplenever makeit) thatreal bookscanbe takenonajourneyandthathoursofgoldenreadingcansobe addedtoitsother delights.(Itisimportanttoacquireearlyin lifethepower ofreadingsensewherever youhappentobe.I firstread Tamburlaine whiletravellingfromLarnetoBelfastin athunderstorm,andfirstreadBrowning’s Paracelsus bya

candlewhichwentoutandhadtobere-litwhenever abig batteryfiredinapitbelow me,whichIthinkitdidevery four minutesall thatnight.) Thehomewardjourneywaseven morefestal.Ithadaninvariableroutine: firstthesupper ata restaurant itwasmerelypoachedeggsandteabuttousthe tablesofthegods thenthevisittotheoldEmpire(therewere still musichallsinthosedays) andafter thatthejourneytothe LandingStage,thesightofgreatandfamousships,the departure,andoncemoretheblessedsaltonour lips.

Thesmokingwasofcourse,asmyfather wouldhavesaid, “surreptitious”;notsothevisittotheEmpire.HewasnoPuritan aboutsuchmatters,andoftenofaSaturdaynightwouldtakeus totheBelfastHippodrome.Irecognisenow thatInever hadthe tastefor vaudevillewhichhesharedwithmybrother.Atthe timeIsupposedmyselftobeenjoyingtheshow,butIwas mistaken.All thoseanticsliedeadinmymemoryandare incapableofrousingtheleastvibrationevenofreminiscent pleasure;whereasthepainofsympathyandvicarious humiliationwhichIfeltwhena“turn”failedisstill vivid.What Ienjoyedwasmerelytheetceteraoftheshow,thebustleand lights,thesenseofhavinganightout,thegoodspiritsofmy father inhisholidaymood,and aboveall theadmirablecold supper towhichwecamebackataboutteno’clock.For this wasalsotheclassical ageofour domesticcookery,theageof oneAnnieStrahan.Therewerecertain“raisedpies”setonthat tableofwhichamodernEnglishboyhasnoconception,and whicheventhenwouldhaveastonishedthosewhoknew only thepoor counterfeitssoldinshops.

Chartres,atall,whitebuildingfurther upthehill thanthe College,wasasmallishschool withlessthantwentyboarders;

butitwasquiteunlikeOldie’s.Hereindeedmyeducationreally began.TheHeadmaster,whomwecalledTubbs,wasaclever andpatientteacher;under himIrapidlyfoundmyfeetin LatinandEnglishandevenbegantobelookedonasa promisingcandidatefor ascholarshipattheCollege.Thefood wasgood(thoughofcoursewegrumbledatit) andwewere well caredfor.OnthewholeIgotonwell withmyschoolfellows,thoughwehadour full shareofthoselifelong friendshipsandirreconcilablefactionsanddeadlyquarrelsand final settlementsandgloriousrevolutionswhichmadeupso muchofthelifeofasmall boy,andinwhichIcameout sometimesatthebottomandsometimesatthetop.

Wyvernitselfhealedmyquarrel withEngland.Thegreatblue plainbelow usand,behind,thosegreen,peakedhills,so mountainousinformandyetsomanageablysmall insize, becamealmostatoncemydelight.AndWyvernPriorywasthe firstbuildingthatIever perceivedtobebeautiful.Andat ChartresImademyfirstreal friends.Butthere,too,something far moreimportanthappenedtome: IceasedtobeaChristian.

Thechronologyofthisdisaster isalittlevague,butIknow for certainthatithadnotbegunwhenIwentthereandthatthe processwascompleteveryshortlyafter Ileft.Iwill trytoset downwhatIknow oftheconsciouscausesandwhatIsuspectof theunconscious. Mostreluctantly,venturingnoblame,andastenderlyasIwould atneedreveal someerror inmyownmother,Imustbeginwith dear MissC.,theMatron.Noschool ever hadabetter Matron, moreskilledandcomfortingtoboysinsickness,or morecheery andcompanionabletoboysinhealth.Shewasoneofthemost

62 selflesspeopleIhaveever known.Weall lovedher;I,the orphan,especially.Now itsohappenedthatMissC.,who seemedoldtome,wasstill inher spiritual immaturity,still hunting,withtheeagernessofasoul thathadatouchofangelic qualityinit,for atruthandawayoflife.Guideswereeven rarer thenthannow.Shewas(asIshouldnow putit) flounderinginthemazesofTheosophy,Rosicrucianism, Spiritualism;thewholeAnglo-AmericanOccultisttradition. Nothingwasfurther fromher intentionthantodestroymyfaith; shecouldnottell thattheroomintowhichshebroughtthis candlewasfull ofgunpowder.Ihadnever heardofsuchthings before;never,exceptinanightmareor afairytale,conceivedof spiritsother thanGodandmen.Ihadlovedtoreadofstrange sightsandother worldsandunknownmodesofbeing,butnever withtheslightestbelief;eventhephantomdwarfhadonly flashedonmymindfor amoment.Itisagreatmistaketo supposethatchildrenbelievethethingstheyimagine;andI,long familiar withthewholeimaginaryworldofAnimal-Landand India(whichIcouldnotpossiblybelieveinsinceIknew Iwas oneofitscreators) wasaslittlelikelyasanychildtomakethat mistake.Butnow,for thefirsttime,thereburstuponmetheidea thattheremightbereal marvelsall aboutus,thatthevisible worldmightbeonlyacurtaintoconceal hugerealmsuncharted bymyverysimpletheology.Andthatstartedinmesomething withwhich,onandoff,Ihavehadplentyoftroublesince the desirefor thepreternatural,simplyassuch,thepassionfor the Occult.Noteveryonehasthisdisease;thosewhohavewill know whatImean.Ioncetriedtodescribeitinanovel.Itisa spiritual lust;andlikethelustofthebodyithasthefatal power ofmakingeverythingelseintheworldseemuninterestingwhile itlasts.Itisprobablythispassion,moreeventhanthedesirefor power,whichmakesmagicians.ButtheresultofMissC.’s

conversationdidnotstopthere.Littlebylittle,unconsciously, unintentionally,sheloosenedthewholeframework,bluntedall thesharpedges,ofmybelief.Thevagueness,themerely speculativecharacter,ofall thisOccultismbegantospread yes,andtospread deliciously tothesterntruthsofthecreed. Thewholethingbecameamatter ofspeculation: Iwassoon(in thefamouswords) “altering‘Ibelieve’to‘onedoes feel’”.Andoh,thereliefofit!Thosemoonlitnightsinthe dormitoryatBelsenfadedfar away.Fromthetyrannousnoonof revelationIpassedintothecool eveningtwilightofHigher Thought,wheretherewasnothingtobeobeyed,andnothingto bebelievedexceptwhatwaseither comfortingor exciting.Ido notmeanthatMissC.didthis;better saythattheEnemydidthis inme,takingoccasionfromthingssheinnocentlysaid.

OnereasonwhytheEnemyfoundthissoeasywasthat,without knowingit,Iwasalreadydesperatelyanxioustogetridofmy religion;andthatfor areasonworthrecording.Byasheer mistake andIstill believeittohavebeenanhonestmistake inspiritual techniqueIhadrenderedmyprivatepracticeofthat religionaquiteintolerableburden.Itcameaboutinthisway. LikeeveryoneelseIhadbeentoldasachildthatonemustnot onlysayone’sprayersbutthinkaboutwhatonewassaying. Accordingly,when(atOldie’s) Icametoaseriousbelief,Itried toputthisintopractice.Atfirstitseemedplainsailing.But soonthefalseconscience(St.Paul’s“Law”,Herbert’s “prattler”) cameintoplay.Onehadnosooner reached“Amen” thanitwhispered,“Yes.Butareyousureyouwerereally thinkingaboutwhatyousaid?”;then,moresubtly,“Wereyou, for example,thinkingaboutitaswell asyoudidlastnight?”The answer,for reasonsIdidnotthenunderstand,wasnearly alwaysNo.“Verywell,”saidthevoice,“hadn’tyou,then,better

tryitover again?”Andoneobeyed;butofcoursewithno assurancethatthesecondattemptwouldbeanybetter.

Tothesenaggingsuggestionsmyreactionwas,onthewhole,the mostfoolishIcouldhaveadopted.Isetmyselfastandard.No clauseofmyprayer wastobeallowedtopassmuster unlessit wasaccompaniedbywhatIcalleda“realisation”,bywhichI meantacertainvividnessoftheimaginationandthe affections.Mynightlytaskwastoproduce;bysheer willpower aphenomenonwhichwill-power couldnever produce, whichwassoill-definedthatIcouldnever saywithabsolute confidencewhether ithadoccurred,andwhich,evenwhenit didoccur,wasofverymediocrespiritual value.Ifonly someonehadreadtomeoldWalter Hilton’swarningthatwe mustnever inprayer strivetoextort“bymaistry”whatGod doesnotgive!Butnoonedid;andnightafter night,dizzywith desirefor sleepandofteninakindofdespair,Iendeavouredto pumpupmy“realisations”.Thethingthreatenedtobecomean infiniteregress.Onebeganofcoursebyprayingfor good “realisations”.Buthadthatpreliminaryprayer itselfbeen “realised”?ThisquestionIthinkIstill hadenoughsenseto dismiss;otherwiseitmighthavebeenasdifficulttobeginmy prayersastoendthem.How itall comesback!Thecoldoilcloth,thequarterschiming,thenightslippingpast,thesickening, hopelessweariness.ThiswastheburdenfromwhichIlonged withsoul andbodytoescape.Ithadalreadybroughtmetosuch apassthatthenightlytormentprojecteditsgloomover the wholeevening,andIdreadedbedtimeasifIwereachronic sufferer frominsomnia.HadIpursuedthesameroadmuch further IthinkIshouldhavegonemad.

Thisludicrousburdenoffalsedutiesinprayer provided,of

course,anunconsciousmotivefor wishingtoshuffleoffthe Christianfaith;butaboutthesametime,or alittlelater, consciouscausesofdoubtarose.Onecamefromreadingthe classics.Here,especiallyinVirgil,onewaspresentedwitha massofreligiousideas;andall teachersandeditorstookitfor grantedfromtheoutsetthatthesereligiousideasweresheer illusion.Nooneever attemptedtoshow inwhatsense ChristianityfulfilledPaganismor Paganismprefigured Christianity.Theacceptedpositionseemedtobethatreligions werenormallyamerefarragoofnonsense,thoughour own,bya fortunateexception,wasexactlytrue.Theother religions werenotevenexplained,intheearlier Christianfashion, astheworkofdevils.ThatImight,conceivably,havebeen broughttobelieve.ButtheimpressionIgotwasthatreligionin general,thoughutterlyfalse,wasanatural growth,akindof endemicnonsenseintowhichhumanitytendedtoblunder.Inthe midstofathousandsuchreligionsstoodour own,thethousand andfirst,labelledTrue.ButonwhatgroundscouldIbelievein thisexception?Itobviouslywasinsomegeneral sensethesame kindofthingasall therest.Whywasitsodifferentlytreated? NeedI,atanyrate,continuetotreatitdifferently?Iwasvery anxiousnotto.

Inadditiontothis,andequallyworkingagainstmyfaith,there wasinmeadeeplyingrainedpessimism;apessimism,bythat time,muchmoreofintellectthanoftemper.Iwasnow byno meansunhappy;butIhadverydefinitelyformedtheopinionthat theuniversewas,inthemain,arather regrettableinstitution.I amwell awarethatsomewill feel disgustandsomewill laugh, attheideaofaloutish,well-fedboyinanEtoncollar,passing anunfavourablejudgementonthecosmos.Theymayberightin either reaction,butnomorerightbecauseIworeanEtoncollar.

Theyareforgettingwhatboyhoodfeltlikefromwithin.Dates arenotsoimportantaspeoplebelieve.Ifancythatmostofthose whothinkatall havedoneagreatdeal oftheir thinkinginthe firstfourteenyears.Astothesourcesofmypessimism,the reader will remember that,thoughinmanywaysmostfortunate, yetIhadveryearlyinlifemetagreatdismay.ButIamnow inclinedtothinkthattheseedsofpessimismweresownbefore mymother’sdeath.Ridiculousasitmaysound,Ibelievethatthe clumsinessofmyhandswasattherootofthematter.How could thisbe?Not,certainly,thatachildsays,“Ican’tcutastraight linewithapair ofscissors,thereforetheuniverseisevil.”

Childhoodhasnosuchpower ofgeneralisationandisnot (todoitjustice) sosilly.Nor didmyclumsinessproduce whatisordinarilycalledanInferiorityComplex.Iwasnot comparingmyselfwithother boys;mydefeatsoccurredin solitude.Whattheyreallybredinmewasadeep(and,of course,inarticulate) senseofresistanceor oppositiononthe partofinanimatethings.Eventhatmakesittooabstractand adult.PerhapsIhadbetter call itasettledexpectationthat everythingwoulddowhatyoudidnotwantittodo.Whatever youwantedtoremainstraight,wouldbend;whatever youtried tobendwouldflybacktothestraight;all knotswhichyou wishedtobefirmwouldcomeuntied;all knotsyouwantedto untiewouldremainfirm.Itisnotpossibletoputitintolanguage withoutmakingitcomic,andIhaveindeednowishtoseeit (now) exceptassomethingcomic.Butitisperhapsjustthese earlyexperienceswhicharesofugitiveand,toanadult,so grotesque,thatgivetheminditsearliestbias,itshabitual sense ofwhatisor isnotplausible.

Therewasanother predisposingfactor.Thoughthesonofa prosperousman amanbyour presenttax-riddenstandards

almostincrediblycomfortableandsecure Ihadheardever sinceIcouldremember,andbelieved,thatadultlifewastobe anunremittingstruggleinwhichthebestIcouldhopefor wasto avoidtheworkhousebyextremeexertion.Myfather’shighly colouredstatementsonsuchmattershadsunkdeeplyintomy mind;andInever thoughttocheckthembytheveryobviousfact thatmostoftheadultsIactuallyknew seemedtobelivingvery comfortablelives.Iremember summingupwhatItooktobeour destiny,inconversationwithmybestfriendatChartres,bythe formula,“Term,holidays,term,holidays,till weleaveschool, andthenwork,work,worktill wedie.”EvenifIhadbeenfree fromthisdelusion,IthinkIshouldstill haveseengroundsfor pessimism.One’sviews,evenatthatage,arenotwholly determinedbyone’sownmomentarysituation;evenaboy canrecognisethatthereisdesertall roundhimthoughhe, for thenonce,sitsinanoasis.Iwas,inmyineffectiveway,a tender-heartedcreature;perhapsthemostmurderousfeelingsI ever entertainedweretowardsanunder master atChartreswho forbademetogivetoabeggar attheschool gate.Addtothis thatmyearlyreading notonlyWellsbutSir RobertBall had lodgedveryfirmlyinmyimaginationthevastnessandcoldof space,thelittlenessofMan.ItisnotstrangethatIshouldfeel theuniversetobeamenacingandunfriendlyplace.Several yearsbeforeIreadLucretiusIfelttheforceofhisargument(and itissurelythestrongestofall) 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.

Youmayaskhow IcombinedthisdirectlyAtheistical thought, thisgreat“ArgumentfromUndesign”withmyOccultistfancies. IdonotthinkIachievedanylogical connectionbetweenthem. Theyswayedmeindifferentmoods,andhadonlythisin common,thatbothmadeagainstChristianity.Andso,littleby little,withfluctuationswhichIcannotnow trace,Ibecamean apostate,droppingmyfaithwithnosenseoflossbutwiththe greatestrelief.

MystayatChartreslastedfromthespringtermof1911till the endofthesummer term1913,and,asIhavesaid,Icannotgive anaccuratechronology,betweenthosedates,ofmyslow apostasy.Inother respectstheperiodisdividedintotwo;about half-waythroughitamuchlovedunder master,andtheeven morelovedMatron,leftatthesametime.Fromthatday onwardstherewasasharpdecline;not,indeed,inapparent happinessbutinsolidgood.Dear MissC.hadbeenthe occasionofmuchgoodtomeaswell asofevil.For one thing,byawakeningmyaffections,shehaddonesomethingto defeatthatanti-sentimental inhibitionwhichmyearly experiencehadbredinme.Nor wouldIdenythatinall her “Higher Thought”,disastrousthoughitsmaineffectonmewas, therewereelementsofreal anddisinterestedspiritualityby whichIbenefited.Unfortunately,onceher presencewas withdrawn,thegoodeffectswitheredandthebadones remained.Thechangeofmasterswasevenmoreobviouslyfor theworse.“Sirrah”,aswecalledhim,hadbeenanadmirable influence.HewaswhatIwouldnow describeasawise madcap: aboisterous,boyish,heartyman,well abletokeephis authoritywhileyetmixingwithusalmostasoneofourselves, anuntidy,rollickingmanwithoutaparticleofaffectation.He communicated(whatIverymuchneeded) asenseofthegusto

withwhichlifeought,wherever possible,tobetaken.Ifancyit wasonarunwithhiminthesleetthatIfirstdiscoveredhow badweather istobetreated asaroughjoke,aromp.Hewas succeededbyayounggentlemanjustdownfromtheUniversity whomwemaycall Pogo.Pogowasaveryminor editionofa Saki,perhapsevenaWodehouse,hero.Pogowasawit,Pogo wasadressyman,Pogowasamanabouttown,Pogowaseven alad.After aweekor soofhesitation(for histemper was uncertain) wefell athisfeetandadored.Herewas sophistication,glossyall over,and(daredonebelieveit?) readytoimpartsophisticationtous.

Webecame atleastIbecame dressy.Itwastheageofthe “knut”: of“spread”tieswithpinsinthem,ofverylow cutcoats andtrouserswornveryhightoshow startlingsocks,andbrogue shoeswithimmenselywidelaces.Somethingofall thishad alreadytrickledtomefromtheCollegethroughmybrother,who wasnow becomingsufficientlysenior toaspiretoknuttery.

Pogocompletedtheprocess.Amorepitiful ambitionfor a loutofanovergrownfourteen-year-oldwithashillinga weekpocketmoneycouldhardlybeimagined;themoresosince IamoneofthoseonwhomNaturehaslaidthedoomthat whatever theybuyandwhatever theywear theywill always lookasiftheyhadcomeoutofanoldclothesshop.Icannot evennow remember withoutembarrassmenttheconcernthatI thenfeltaboutpressingmytrousersand(filthyhabit) plastering myhair withoil.Anew elementhadenteredmylife: Vulgarity. Uptill now Ihadcommittednearlyeveryother sinandfolly withinmypower,butIhadnotyetbeenflashy.

Thesehobble-de-hoyfinerieswere,however,onlyasmall part ofour new sophistication.Pogowasagreattheatrical authority.

Wesoonknew all thelatestsongs.Wesoonknew all aboutthe famousactressesofthatage LilyElsie,GertieMillar,Zena Dare.Pogowasafundofinformationabouttheir privatelives. Welearnedfromhimall thelatestjokes;wherewedidnot understandhewasreadytogiveushelp.Heexplainedmany things.After atermofPogo’ssocietyonehadthefeelingof beingnottwelveweeksbuttwelveyearsolder.

How gratifying,andhow edifying,itwouldbeifIcouldtraceto Pogoall myslipsfromvirtueandwindupbypointingthe moral;how muchharmaloose-talkingyoungmancandoto innocentboys!Unfortunatelythiswouldbefalse.Itisquitetrue thatatthistimeIunderwentaviolent,andwhollysuccessful, assaultofsexual temptation.Butthisisamplyaccountedfor by theageIhadthenreachedandbymyrecent,inasensemy deliberate,withdrawal ofmyselffromDivineprotection.Ido notbelievePogohadanythingtodowithit.Themerefactsof generationIhadlearnedlongago,fromanother boy,whenIwas tooyoungtofeel muchmorethanascientificinterestinthem. WhatattackedmethroughPogowasnottheFlesh(Ihad thatofmyown) buttheWorld: thedesirefor glitter, swagger,distinction,thedesiretobeintheknow.Hegavelittle help,ifany,indestroyingmychastity,buthemadesadworkof certainhumbleandchildlikeandself-forgetful qualitieswhich (Ithink) hadremainedwithmetill thatmoment.Ibeganto labour veryhardtomakemyselfintoafop,acad,andasnob.

Pogo’scommunications,however muchtheyhelpedtovulgarise mymind,hadnosuchelectriceffectonmysensesasthedancing mistress,nor asBekker’s Charicles,whichwasgivenmefor a prize.Inever thoughtthatdancingmistressasbeautiful asmy cousinG.,butshewasthefirstwomanIever “lookeduponto

lustafter her”;assuredlythroughnofaultofher own.Agesture, atoneofthevoice,mayinthesemattershaveunpredictable results.Whentheschoolroomonthelastnightofthewinter term wasdecoratedfor adance,shepaused,liftedaflag,and, remarking,“Ilovethesmell ofbunting,”pressedittoher face andIwasundone. Youmustnotsupposethatthiswasaromanticpassion.The passionofmylife,asthenextchapter will show,belongedtoa whollydifferentregion.WhatIfeltfor thedancingmistresswas sheer appetite;theproseandnotthepoetryoftheFlesh.Idid notfeel atall likeaknightdevotinghimselftoalady;Iwas muchmorelikeaTurklookingataCircassianwhomhecould notaffordtobuy.Iknew quitewell whatIwanted.Itis common,bytheway,toassumethatsuchanexperience producesafeelingofguilt,butitdidnotdosoinme.AndImay aswell sayherethatthefeelingofguilt,savewhereamoral offencehappenedalsotobreakthecodeofhonour or had consequenceswhichexcitedmypity,wasathingwhichatthat timeIhardlyknew.Ittookmeaslongtoacquireinhibitionsas others(theysay) havetakentogetridofthem.ThatiswhyI oftenfindmyselfatsuchcross-purposeswiththemodern world: IhavebeenaconvertedPaganlivingamong apostatePuritans.

Iwouldbesorryifthereader passedtooharshajudgementon Pogo.AsInow seeit,hewasnottoooldtohavechargeofboys buttooyoung.Hewasonlyanadolescenthimself,still immature enoughtobedelightedly“grownup”andnaifenoughtoenjoy our greater naïveté.Andtherewasareal friendlinessinhim.He wasmovedpartlybythattotell usall heknew or thoughthe knew.Andnow,asHerodotuswouldsay,“GoodbyetoPogo.”

Meanwhile,sidebysidewithmylossoffaith,ofvirtue,andof simplicity,somethingquitedifferentwasgoingon.Itwill demandanew 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

IdonotmuchbelieveintheRenaissanceasgenerallydescribed byhistorians.ThemoreIlookintotheevidencethelesstraceI findofthatvernal rapturewhichissupposedtohaveswept Europeinthefifteenthcentury.Ihalfsuspectthattheglow inthe historians’pageshasadifferentsource,thateachis remembering,andprojecting,hisownpersonal Renaissance; thatwonderful reawakeningwhichcomestomostofuswhen pubertyiscomplete.Itisproperlycalledare-birthnotabirth,a reawakeningnotawakening,becauseinmanyofus,besides beinganew thing,itisalsotherecoveryofthingswehadin childhoodandlostwhenwebecameboys.For boyhoodisvery likethe“darkages”notastheywerebutastheyarerepresented inbad,shorthistories.Thedreamsofchildhoodandthoseof adolescencemayhavemuchincommon;betweenthem,often, boyhoodstretcheslikeanalienterritoryinwhicheverything (ourselvesincluded) hasbeengreedy,cruel,noisy,andprosaic, inwhichtheimaginationhassleptandthemostun-ideal senses andambitionshavebeenrestlessly,evenmaniacally,awake.

Inmyownlifeitwascertainlyso.Mychildhoodisatunitywith therestofmylife;myboyhoodnotso.Manyofthebooksthat pleasedmeasachild,pleasemestill;nothingbutnecessity wouldmakemere-readmostofthebooksthatIreadatOldie’s or atCampbell.Fromthatpointofview itisall asandydesert.

Theauthentic“Joy”(asItriedtodescribeitinanearlier chapter) hadvanishedfrommylife: socompletelythatnot eventhememoryor thedesireofitremained.Thereading of Sohrab hadnotgivenittome.Joyisdistinctnotonlyfrom pleasureingeneral butevenfromaestheticpleasure.Itmust havethestab,thepang,theinconsolablelonging.

Thislongwinter brokeupinasinglemoment,fairlyearlyinmy timeatChartres.Springistheinevitableimage,butthiswasnot gradual likeNature’ssprings.ItwasasiftheArcticitself,all thedeeplayersofsecular ice,shouldchangenotinaweeknor inanhour,butinstantly,intoalandscapeofgrassandprimroses andorchardsinbloom,deafenedwithbirdsongsandastir with runningwater.Icanlaymyhandontheverymoment;thereis hardlyanyfactIknow sowell,thoughIcannotdateit.Someone musthaveleftintheschoolroomaliteraryperiodical: The Bookman,perhaps,or the Times Literary Supplement.Myeye fell uponaheadlineandapicture,carelessly,expectingnothing. Amomentlater,asthepoetsays,“Theskyhadturnedround.”

WhatIhadreadwasthewords Siegfried and the Twilight of the Gods.WhatIhadseenwasoneofArthur Rackham’s illustrationstothatvolume.Ihadnever heardofWagner,nor of Siegfried.IthoughttheTwilightoftheGodsmeantthetwilight inwhichthegodslived.How didIknow,atonceandbeyond question,thatthiswasnoCeltic,or silvan,or terrestrial twilight?Butsoitwas.Pure“Northernness”engulfedme: a visionofhuge,clear spaceshangingabovetheAtlanticinthe endlesstwilightofNorthernsummer,remoteness,severity... andalmostatthesamemomentIknew thatIhadmetthisbefore, long,longago(ithardlyseemslonger now) in Tegner’s Drapa, thatSiegfried(whatever itmightbe) belongedtothesame

worldasBalder andthesunward-sailingcranes.Andwiththat plungebackintomyownpasttherearoseatonce,almostlike heartbreak,thememoryofJoyitself,theknowledgethatIhad oncehadwhatIhadnow lackedfor years,thatIwas returningatlastfromexileanddesertlandstomyown country;andthedistanceoftheTwilightoftheGodsandthe distanceofmyownpastJoy,bothunattainable,flowedtogether intoasingle,unendurablesenseofdesireandloss,which suddenlybecameonewiththelossofthewholeexperience, which,asInow staredroundthatdustyschoolroomlikeaman recoveringfromunconsciousness,hadalreadyvanished,had eludedmeattheverymomentwhenIcouldfirstsay It is.Andat onceIknew (withfatal knowledge) thatto“haveitagain”was thesupremeandonlyimportantobjectofdesire.

After thiseverythingplayedintomyhands.Oneofmyfather’s manypresentstousboyshadbeenagramophone.Thusatthe momentwhenmyeyesfell onthewords Siegfried and the Twilight of the Gods,gramophonecatalogueswerealreadyone ofmyfavouriteformsofreading;butIhadnever remotely dreamedthattherecordsfromGrandOperawiththeir queer Germanor Italiannamescouldhaveanythingtodowithme.Nor didIfor aweekor twothinksonow.ButthenIwasassailed fromanew quarter.Amagazinecalled The Soundbox was doingsynopsesofgreatoperasweekbyweek,anditnow did thewhole Ring.Ireadinaraptureanddiscoveredwho Siegfriedwasandwhatwasthe“twilight”ofthegods.Icould containmyselfnolonger Ibeganapoem,aheroicpoemonthe WagnerianversionoftheNiblungstory.Myonlysourcewasthe abstractsin The Soundbox,andIwassoignorantthatImade Alberichrhymewith ditch andMimewith time.Mymodel was Pope’s Odyssey andthepoembegan(withsomemixtureof

Descend to earth, descend, celestial Nine And chant the ancient legends of the Rhine. . . .

Sincethefourthbookhadcarriedmeonlyasfar asthelast sceneof The Rheingold,thereader will notbesurprisedtohear thatthepoemwasnever finished.Butitwasnotawaste oftime,andIcanstill seejustwhatitdidfor meand whereitbegantodoit.Thefirstthreebooks(Imay,perhaps,at thisdistanceoftime,sayitwithoutvanity) arereallynotatall badfor aboy.Atthebeginningoftheunfinishedfourthitgoes all topieces;andthatisexactlythepointatwhichIreallybegan totrytomakepoetry.Uptothen,ifmylinesrhymedandscanned andgotonwiththestoryIaskednomore.Now,atthebeginning ofthefourth,Ibegantotrytoconveysomeoftheintense excitementIwasfeeling,tolookfor expressionswhichwould notmerelystatebutsuggest.OfcourseIfailed,lostmyprosaic clarity,spluttered,gasped,andpresentlyfell silent;butIhad learnedwhatwritingmeans.

All thistimeIhadstill notheardanoteofWagner’smusic, thoughtheveryshapeoftheprintedlettersofhisnamehad becometomeamagical symbol.Nextholidays,inthedark, crowdedshopofT.EdensOsborne(onwhombepeace),Ifirst heardarecordofthe Ride of the Valkyries.Theylaughatit nowadays,and,indeed,wrenchedfromitscontexttomakea concertpiece,itmaybeapoor thing.ButIhadthisincommon withWagner,thatIwasthinkingnotofconcertpiecesbutof heroicdrama.Toaboyalreadycrazedwith“theNorthernness”, whosehighestmusical experiencehadbeenSullivan,the Ride camelikeathunderbolt.FromthatmomentWagnerianrecords

(principallyfromthe Ring,butalsofrom Lohengrin and Parsifal) becamethechiefdrainonmypocketmoneyandthe presentsIinvariablyaskedfor.Mygeneral appreciationof musicwasnot,atfirst,muchaltered.“Music”wasonething, “Wagnerianmusic”quiteanother,andtherewasnocommon measurebetweenthem;itwasnotanew pleasurebutanew kindofpleasure,ifindeed“pleasure”istherightword,rather thantrouble,ecstasy,astonishment,“aconflictofsensations withoutname”.

Thatsummer our cousinH.(youremember,Ihope,Cousin Quartus’seldestdaughter,thedarkJuno,thequeenof Olympus) whowasnow married,askedustospendsomeweeks withher ontheoutskirtsofDublin,inDundrum.There,onher drawing-roomtable,Ifoundtheverybookwhichhadstartedthe wholeaffair andwhichIhadnever daredtohopeIshouldsee, Siegfried and the Twilight of the Gods illustratedbyArthur Rackham.Hispictures,whichseemedtomethentobethevery musicmadevisible,plungedmeafew fathomsdeeper intomy delight.IhaveseldomcovetedanythingasIcovetedthatbook; andwhenIheardthattherewasacheaper editionatfifteen shillings(thoughthesumwastomealmostmythological) Iknew Icouldnever resttill itwasmine.Igotitintheend,largely becausemybrother wentshareswithme,purelythrough kindness,asInow seeandthenmorethanhalfsuspected,for he wasnotenslavedbytheNorthernness.WithagenerositywhichI waseventhenhalfashamedtoaccept,hesankinwhatmust haveseemedtohimamerepicture-booksevenandsixpencefor whichheknew adozenbetter uses.

Althoughthisaffair will alreadyseemtosomereaders undeservingofthespaceIhavegivenit,Icannotcontinuemy

78 story,atall withoutnotingsomeofitsbearingsontherestofmy life.

First,youwill misunderstandeverythingunlessyourealisethat, atthetime,AsgardandtheValkyriesseemedtome incomparablymoreimportantthananythingelseinmy experience thantheMatronMissC.,or thedancingmistress, or mychancesofascholarship.Moreshockingly,theyseemed muchmoreimportantthanmysteadilygrowingdoubtsabout Christianity.Thismayhavebeen inpart,nodoubtwas penal blindness;yetthatmightnotbethewholestory.Ifthe Northernnessseemedthenabigger thingthanmyreligion,that maypartlyhavebeenbecausemyattitudetowardsit containedelementswhichmyreligionoughttohave containedanddidnot.Itwasnotitselfanew religion,for it containednotraceofbeliefandimposednoduties.YetunlessI amgreatlymistakentherewasinitsomethingverylike adoration,somekindofquitedisinterestedself-abandonmentto anobjectwhichsecurelyclaimedthisbysimplybeingthe objectitwas.WearetaughtinthePrayer Bookto“givethanks toGodfor Hisgreatglory”,asifweowedHimmorethanksfor beingwhatHenecessarilyisthanfor anyparticular benefitHe confersuponus;andsoindeedwedoandtoknow Godisto know this.ButIhadbeenfar fromanysuchexperience;Icame far nearer tofeelingthisabouttheNorsegodswhomI disbelievedinthanIhadever doneaboutthetrueGodwhileI believed.SometimesIcanalmostthinkthatIwassentbackto thefalsegodstheretoacquiresomecapacityfor worship againstthedaywhenthetrueGodshouldrecall metoHimself. NotthatImightnothavelearnedthissooner andmoresafely,in waysIshall now never know,withoutapostasy,butthatDivine punishmentsarealsomercies,andparticular goodisworkedout

79 ofparticular evil,andthepenal blindnessmadesanative.

Secondly,thisimaginativeRenaissancealmostatonceproduced anew appreciationofexternal nature.Atfirst,Ithink,thiswas parasiticontheliteraryandmusical experiences.Onthat holidayatDundrum,cyclingamongtheWicklow mountains,I wasalwaysinvoluntarilylookingfor scenesthatmightbelongto theWagnerianworld,hereasteephillsidecoveredwithfirs whereMimemightmeetSieglinde,thereasunnygladewhere Siegfriedmightlistentothebird,or presentlyadryvalleyof rockswherethelithescalybodyofFafner mightemergefromits cave.Butsoon(Icannotsayhow soon) natureceasedtobea merereminder ofthebooks,becameherselfthemediumofthe real joy.Idonotsaysheceasedtobeareminder.All Joy reminds.Itisnever apossession,alwaysadesirefor somethinglonger agoor further awayor still “aboutto be”.ButNatureandthebooksnow becameequal reminders, jointreminders,of well,ofwhatever itis.Icamenonearer to whatsomewouldregardastheonlygenuineloveofnature,the studiouslovewhichwill makeamanabotanistor an ornithologist.Itwasthemoodofascenethatmatteredtome; andintastingthatmoodmyskinandnosewereasbusyasmy eyes.

Thirdly,IpassedonfromWagner toeverythingelseIcouldget holdofaboutNorsemythology, Myths of the Norsemen, Myths and Legends of the Teutonic Race,Mallet’s Northern Antiquities.Ibecameknowledgeable.Fromthesebooksagain andagainIreceivedthestabofJoy.Ididnotyetnoticethatit was,verygradually,becomingrarer.Ididnotyetreflectonthe differencebetweenitandthemerelyintellectual satisfactionof gettingtoknow theEddaicuniverse.IfIcouldatthistimehave

foundanyonetoteachmeOldNorseIbelieveIwouldhave workedatithard.

Andfinally,thechangeIhadundergoneintroducesanew difficultyintothewritingofthispresentbook.Fromthatfirst momentintheschoolroomatChartresmysecret,imaginative lifebegantobesoimportantandsodistinctfrommyouter life thatIalmosthavetotell twoseparatestories.Thetwolivesdo notseemtoinfluenceeachother atall.Wheretherearehungry wastes,starvingfor Joy,intheone,theother maybefull of cheerful bustleandsuccess;or again,wheretheouter lifeis miserable,theother maybebrimmingover withecstasy.Bythe imaginativelifeIheremeanonlymylifeasconcernedwithJoy includingintheouter lifemuchthatwouldordinarilybe calledimagination,as,for example,muchofmyreading,andall myeroticor ambitiousfantasies;for theseareself-regarding. EvenAnimal-LandandIndiabelongtothe“Outer”.

Buttheywerenolonger Animal-LandandIndia;sometimein thelateeighteenthcentury(their eighteenthcentury,not ours) theyhadbeenunitedintothesinglestateofBoxen, whichyields,oddly,anadjective Boxonian,not Boxenian as youmightexpect.Byawiseprovisiontheyretainedtheir separatekingsbuthadacommonlegislativeassembly,the Damerfesk.Theelectoral systemwasdemocratic,butthis matteredverymuchlessthaninEngland,for theDamerfeskwas never doomedtoonefixedmeetingplace.Thejointsovereigns couldsummonitanywhere,sayatthetinyfishingvillageof Danphabel (theClovellyofNorthernAnimal-Land,nestlingat thefootofthemountains) or intheislandofPiscia;andsince theCourtknew thesovereigns’choiceearlier thananyoneelse, all local accommodationwouldbebookedbeforeaprivate

member gotwindofthematter,nor,ifhereachedthesession, hadhetheleastassurancethatitwouldnotbemovedelsewhere assoonashearrived.Hencewehear ofacertainmember who hadnever actuallysatintheDamerfeskatall exceptonone fortunateoccasionwhenitmetinhishometown.Therecords sometimescall thisassemblytheParliament,butthatis misleading.Ithadonlyasinglechamber,andthekingspresided. AttheperiodwhichIknow besttheeffectivecontrol,however, wasnotintheir handsbutinthoseofanall-important functionaryknownastheLittlemaster (youmustpronouncethis all asonewordwiththeaccentonthefirstsyllable like Jerrybuilder).TheLittlemaster wasaPrimeMinister,ajudge, andifnotalwaysCommander-in-Chief(therecordswaver on thispoint) certainlyalwaysamember oftheGeneral Staff.Such atleastwerethepowershewieldedwhenIlastvisitedBoxen. Theymayhavebeenencroachments,for theofficewasheldat thattimebyaman or tospeakmoreaccurately,aFrog of powerful personality.LordBigbroughttohistaskonerather unfair advantage;hehadbeenthetutor ofthetwoyoungkings andcontinuedtoholdover themaquasi-parental authority.Their spasmodiceffortstobreakhisyokewere, unhappily,moredirectedtotheevasionofhisinquiryintotheir privatepleasuresthantoanyseriouspolitical end.Asaresult LordBig,immenseinsize,resonantofvoice,chivalrous(he wastheheroofinnumerableduels),stormy,eloquent,and impulsive,almostwasthestate.Thereader will divineacertain resemblancebetweenthelifeofthetwokingsunder LordBig andour ownlifeunder our father.Hewill beright.ButBigwas not,inorigin,simplyour Father firstbatrachisedandthen caricaturedinsomedirectionsandglorifiedinothers.Hewas inmanywaysapropheticportraitofSir WinstonChurchill as Sir WinstonChurchill cametobeduringthelastwar;Ihave

indeedseenphotographsofthatgreatstatesmaninwhich,to anyonewhohasknownBoxen,thefrogelementwas unmistakable.Thiswasnotour onlyanticipationofthereal world.LordBig’smostconsistentopponent,thegadflythat alwaysgotinsidehisarmour,wasacertainsmall brownbear,a lieutenantintheNavy;andbelievemeor believemenot, LieutenantJamesBar wasalmostexactlylikeMr.John Betjeman,whoseacquaintanceIcouldnotthenhavemade.Ever sinceIhavedoneso,IhavebeenplayingLordBigtohisJames Bar.

TheinterestingthingabouttheresemblancebetweenLordBig andmyfather isthatsuchreflectionsofthereal worldhadnot beenthegermoutofwhichBoxengrew.Theyweremore numerousasitdrew nearer toitsend,asignofover-ripenessor eventhebeginningofdecay.Gobackalittleandyouwill not findthem.Thetwosovereignswhoallowedthemselvestobe dominatedbyLordBigwereKingBenjaminVIIIofAnimalLandandRajahHawki (Ithink,VI) ofIndia.Theyhadmuchin commonwithmybrother andmyself.Buttheir fathers,theelder Benjaminandtheelder Hawki,hadnot.TheFifthHawki isa shadowyfigure;buttheSeventhBenjamin(arabbit,as youwill haveguessed) isaroundedcharacter.Icansee himstill theheaviest-jowledandsquarest-buildedofall rabbits,veryfatinhislater years,mostshabbilyandunroyally cladinhisloosebrowncoatandbaggycheckedtrousers,yetnot withoutacertaindignitywhichcould,onoccasion,take disconcertingforms.Hisearlier lifehadbeendominatedbythe beliefthathecouldbebothakingandanamateur detective.He never succeededinthelatter role,partlybecausethechief enemywhomhewaspursuing(Mr.Baddlesmere) wasnotreally acriminal atall butalunatic acomplicationwhichwould

havethrownouttheplansofSherlockHolmeshimself.Buthe veryoftengothimselfkidnapped,sometimesfor longish periods,andcausedgreatanxietytohiscourt(wedonotlearn thathiscolleague,Hawki V,sharedthis).Once,onhisreturn fromsuchamisadventure,hehadgreatdifficultyinestablishing hisidentity;Baddlesmerehaddyedhimandthefamiliar brown figurereappearedasapiebaldrabbit.Finally(whatwill not boysthinkof?) hewasaveryearlyexperimenter withwhathas sincebeencalledartificial insemination.Thejudgementof historycannotpronouncehimeither agoodrabbitor agood King;buthewasnotanonentity.Heateprodigiously.

Andnow thatIhaveopenedthegate,all theBoxonians,likethe ghostsinHomer,comeclamouringfor mention.Buttheymustbe deniedit.Readerswhohavebuiltaworldwouldrather tell of their ownthanhear ofmine;thosewhohavenotwouldperhaps bebewilderedandrepelled.Nor hadBoxenanyconnection withJoy.Ihavementioneditatall onlybecausetoomitit wouldhavebeentomisrepresentthisperiodofmylife.

Onecautionmusthereberepeated.Ihavebeendescribingalife inwhich,plainly,imaginationofonesortor another playedthe dominantpart.Remember thatitnever involvedtheleast grainofbelief;Inever mistookimaginationfor reality. AbouttheNorthernnessnosuchquestioncouldarise: itwas essentiallyadesireandimpliedtheabsenceofitsobject.And Boxenwenever couldbelievein,for wehadmadeit.No novelist(inthatsense) believesinhisowncharacters.

AttheendoftheSummer Term1913Iwonaclassical entrance scholarshiptoWyvernCollege.

VI.Bloodery

Any way for Heaven sake

So I were out of your whispering.

WEBSTER

Now thatwehavedonewithChartreswemaycall Wyvern CollegesimplyWyvern,or moresimplystill,asWyvernians themselvescall it,TheColl.

GoingtotheColl wasthemostexcitingthingthathadyet happenedinmyouter life.AtChartreswehadlivedunder the shadow oftheColl.Wewereoftentakentheretoseematchesor sportsor thefinishofthegreatGoldburyRun.Thesevisits turnedour heads.Thecrowdofboysolder thanoneself,their dazzlingair ofsophistication,scrapsoftheir esoterictalk overheard,werelikeParkLaneintheold“Season”toagirl whoistobea débutante nextyear.Aboveall,theBloods,the adoredathletesandprefects,wereanembodimentofall worldlypomp,power,andglory.BesidethemPogoshrankinto insignificance;whatisaMaster comparedwithaBlood?The wholeschool wasagreattemplefor theworshipofthesemortal gods;andnoboyever wenttheremorepreparedtoworship themthanI.

Ifyouhavenotbeenatsuchaschool asWyvern,youmayask whata Blood is.Heisamember oftheschool aristocracy. Foreignreadersmustclearlyunderstandthatthisaristocracyhas nothingwhatever todowiththesocial positionoftheboysin theouter world.Boysofgood,or wealthy,familyarenomore

likelytobeinitthananyoneelse;theonlynoblemaninmy HouseatWyvernnever becameaBlood.Shortlybeforemytime therethesonofaveryqueer customer hadbeenatleaston thefringeofBloodery.Thequalifyingconditionfor Blooderyisthatoneshouldhavebeenattheschool for a considerabletime.Thisbyitselfwill notgetyouin,but newnesswill certainlyexcludeyou.Themostimportant qualificationisathleticprowess.Indeedifthisissufficiently brilliantitmakesyouaBloodautomatically.Ifitisalittleless brilliant,thengoodlooksandpersonalitywill help.So,of course,will fashion,asfashionisunderstoodatyour school.A wisecandidatefor Blooderywill wear therightclothes,usethe rightslang,admiretherightthings,laughattherightjokes.And ofcourse,asintheouter world,thoseonthefringesofthe privilegedclasscan,anddo,trytowormtheir wayintoitbyall theusual artsofpleasing.

Atsomeschools,Iamtold,thereisasortofdyarchy.An aristocracyofBloods,supportedor atleasttoleratedbypopular sentiment,standsover againstanofficial rulingclassofprefects appointedbytheMasters.Ibelievetheyusuallyappointitfrom thehighestform,sothatithassomeclaimtobeanintelligentsia. ItwasnotsoattheColl.Thosewhoweremadeprefectswere nearlyall Bloodsandtheydidnothavetobeinanyparticular form.Theoretically(thoughIdonotsupposethiswouldever happen) thedunceatthebottomofthelowestformcouldhave beenmadethecaptain inour language,theHead oftheColl. Wethushadonlyasinglegoverningclass,inwhomeverykind ofpower,privilege,andprestigewereunited.Thosetowhom thehero-worshipoftheir juniorswouldinanycasehavegone, andthosewhoseastutenessandambitionwouldunder any systemhaveenabledthemtorise,werethesamewhomthe

official power oftheMasterssupported.Their positionwas emphasisedbyspecial liberties,clothes,priorities,and dignitieswhichaffectedeverysideofschool life.This,youwill see,makesaprettystrongclass.Butitwasstrengthenedstill further byafactor whichdistinguishesschool from ordinarylife.Inacountrygovernedbyanoligarchy,huge numbersofpeople,andamongthemsomeverystirringspirits, know theycannever hopetogetintothatoligarchy;itmay thereforebeworththeir whiletoattemptarevolution.Atthe Coll thelowestsocial classofall weretooyoung,thereforetoo weak,todreamofrevolt.Inthemiddleclass boyswhowere nolonger fagsbutnotyetBloods thosewhoalonehad physical strengthandpopularityenoughtoqualifythemas leadersofarevolutionwerealreadybeginningtohopefor Blooderythemselves.Itsuitedthembetter toacceleratetheir social progressbycourtingtheexistingBloodsthantoriska revoltwhich,intheunlikelyeventofitssucceeding,would destroytheveryprizetheywerelongingtoshare.Andifatlast theydespairedofever doingso why,bythattimetheir schooldayswerenearlyover.HencetheWyvernianconstitution wasunbreakable.Schoolboyshaveoftenrisenagainsttheir Masters;Idoubtiftherehasever beenor ever canbearevolt againstBloods.

Itisnot,then,surprisingifIwenttotheColl preparedto worship.CananyadultaristocracypresenttheWorldtousin quitesuchanalluringformasthehierarchyofapublicschool? Everymotivefor prostrationisbroughttobear atonceonthe mindoftheNew BoywhenheseesaBlood;thenatural respect ofthethirteen-year-oldfor thenineteen-year-old,thefan’s feelingfor afilm-star,thesuburbanwoman’sfeelingfor a duchess,thenewcomer’saweinthepresenceoftheOldHand,

thestreeturchin’sdreadofthepolice.

One’sfirsthoursatapublicschool areunforgettable.Our Housewasatall,narrow stonebuilding(and,bytheway,the onlyhouseintheplacewhichwasnotanarchitectural nightmare) rather likeaship.Thedeckonwhichwechiefly livedconsistedoftwoverydarkstonecorridorsatrightangles tooneanother.Thedoorsoffthemopenedintothestudies littleroomsaboutsixfeetsquare,eachsharedbytwoor threeboys.Theverysightofthemwasravishingtoaboy fromaPrep.school whohadnever beforehada pied-à-terre of hisown.Aswewerestill living(culturally) intheEdwardian period,eachstudyimitatedascloselyaspossiblethecluttered appearanceofanEdwardiandrawing-room;theaimwastofill thetinycell asfull asitcouldholdwithbookcases,corner cupboards,knick-knacks,andpictures.Thereweretwolarger roomsonthesamefloor;onethe“Pres’Room”,thesynodof Olympus,andtheother theNew Boys’Study.Itwasnotlikea studyatall.Itwaslarger,darker,andundecorated;an immovablebenchranroundaclampedtable.Butweknew,we tenor twelverecruits,thatnotall ofuswouldbeleftintheNew Boys’Study.Someofuswouldbegiven“real”studies;the residuewouldoccupytheopprobriousplacefor atermor so. Thatwasthegreathazardofour firstevening;onewastobe takenandanother left.

Aswesatroundour clampedtable,silentfor themostpartand speakinginwhisperswhenwespoke,thedoor wouldbe openedatintervals;aboywouldlookin,smile(notatusbutto himself) andwithdraw.Once,over theshoulder ofthesmiler therecameanother face,andachucklingvoicesaid,“Ho-ho!I know what you ’ re lookingfor.”OnlyIknew whatitwasall

about,for mybrother hadplayedChesterfieldtomyStanhope andinstructedmeinthemannersoftheColl.Noneoftheboys wholookedinandsmiledwasaBlood;theywereall quite youngandtherewassomethingcommontothefacesofthemall. Theywere,infact,thereigningor fadingTartsoftheHouse, tryingtoguesswhichofusweretheir destinedrivalsor successors.

Itispossiblethatsomereaderswill notknow whataHouseTart was.First,astotheadjective.All lifeatWyvernwaslived,so tospeak,inthetwoconcentriccirclesofColl andHouse. YoucouldbeaColl pre.or merelyaHousepre.You couldbeaColl Bloodor merelyaHouseBlood,aColl Punt (i.e.apariah,anunpopular person) or merelyaHousePunt;and ofcourseaColl Tartor merelyaHouseTart.ATartis [4] apretty andeffeminate-lookingsmall boywhoactsasacatamitetoone or moreofhisseniors,usuallyBloods.Usually,notalways. Thoughour oligarchykeptmostoftheamenitiesoflifeto themselves,theywere,onthispoint,liberal;theydidnotimpose chastityonthemiddle-classboyinadditiontoall hisother disabilities.Pederastyamongthelower classeswasnot“side”, or atleastnotseriousside;notlikeputtingone’shandsinone’s pocketsor wearingone’scoatunbuttoned.Thegodshadasense ofproportion.

TheTartshadanimportantfunctiontoplayinmakingschool (whatitwasadvertisedtobe) apreparationfor publiclife. Theywerenotlikeslaves,for their favourswere(nearly always) solicited,notcompelled.Nor weretheyexactlylike prostitutes,for the liaison oftenhadsomepermanenceand,far frombeingmerelysensual,washighlysentimentalised.Nor

90 weretheypaid(inhardcash,Imean) for their services;though ofcoursetheyhadall theflattery,unofficial influence,favour, andprivilegeswhichthemistressesofthegreathavealways enjoyedinadultsociety.ThatwaswherethePreparationfor PublicLifecamein.Itwouldappear fromMr.ArnoldLunn’s Harrovians thattheTartsathisschool actedasinformers.None ofoursdid.Ioughttoknow,for oneofmyfriendssharedastudy withaminor Tart;andexceptthathewassometimesturnedout ofthestudywhenoneoftheTart’sloverscamein(andthat, after all,wasonlynatural) hehadnothingtocomplainof.Iwas notshockedbythesethings.For me,atthatage,thechief drawbacktothewholesystemwasthatitboredme considerably.For youwill havemissedtheatmosphereofour Houseunlessyoupicturethewholeplacefromweek’sendto week’sendbuzzing,tittering,hinting,whisperingaboutthis subject.After games,gallantrywastheprincipal topicofpolite conversation;whohad“acasewith”whom,whosestar wasin theascendant,whohadwhosephoto,whoandwhenandhow oftenandwhatnightandwhere....Isupposeitmightbecalled theGreekTradition.ButtheviceinquestionisonetowhichI hadnever beentempted,andwhich,indeed,Istill findopaque totheimagination.Possibly,ifIhadonlystayedlonger atthe Coll,Imight,inthisrespectasinothers,havebeenturnedintoa Normal Boy,asthesystempromises.Asthingswere,Iwas bored.

Thosefirstdays,likeyour firstdaysinthearmy,werespentina franticendeavour tofindoutwhatyouhadtodo.Oneofmyfirst dutieswastofindoutwhat“Club”Iwasin.Clubswerethe unitstowhichwewereassignedfor compulsorygames;they belongedtotheColl organisation,nottheHouseorganisation, soIhadtogotoanotice-board“UpColl”togetmyfacts.And

firsttofindtheplace andthentodaretosqueezeoneselfinto thecrowdofmoreimportantboysaroundthenotice-board and thentobeginreadingthroughfivehundrednames,butalways withoneeyeonyour watch,for ofcoursethereissomething elsetobedonewithintenminutes.Iwasforcedawayfromthe boardbeforeIhadfoundmyname,andso,sweating,backtothe House,inaflurryofanxiety,wonderinghow Icouldfindtimeto dothejobto-morrow andwhatunheard-ofdisaster mightfollow ifIcouldnot.(Why,bytheway,dosomewriterstalkasifcare andworrywerethespecial characteristicsofadultlife?It appearstomethatthereismore atra cura inanaverage schoolboy’sweekthaninagrownman’saverageyear.)

WhenIreachedtheHousesomethinggloriously unexpectedhappened.Atthedoor ofthePres’Roomstood oneFribble;amereHouseBlood,itistrue,evenaminor House Blood,buttomeasufficientlyexaltedfigure;ayouthofthe lean,laughingtype.Icouldhardlybelieveitwhenheactually addressedme.“Oh,Isay,Lewis,”hebawled,“Icantell you your Club.You’reinthesameoneasme,B6.”Whatatransition fromall butdespair toelationIunderwent!All myanxietywas laidtorest.AndthenthegraciousnessofFribble,the condescension!Ifareigningmonarchhadaskedmetodine,I couldhardlyhavebeenmoreflattered.Buttherewasbetter to follow.Oneveryhalf-holidayIwentdutifullytotheB6noticeboardtoseewhether mynamewasdowntoplaythatafternoon or not.Anditnever was.Thiswaspurejoy,for ofcourseI hatedgames.Mynativeclumsiness,combinedwiththelackof earlytrainingfor whichBelsenwasresponsible,hadruledout all possibilityofmyever playingwell enoughtoamusemyself, letalonetosatisfyother players.Iacceptedgames(quitea number ofboysdo) asoneofthenecessaryevilsoflife,

comparabletoIncomeTaxor theDentist.Andso,for aweekor two,Iwasinclover.

Thentheblow fell.Fribblehadlied.Iwasinatotallydifferent Club.Mynamehadmorethanonceappearedonanotice-board Ihadnever seen.Ihadcommittedtheseriouscrimeof“skipping Clubs”.Thepunishmentwasafloggingadministeredbythe HeadoftheColl inthepresenceoftheassembledColl Pres.To theHeadoftheColl himself ared-headed,pimplyboywitha namelikeBorageor Porridge Icanbear nogrudge;itwasto himaroutinematter.ButImustgivehimanamebecausethe real pointofthestoryrequiresit.Theemissary(someBlooda littlelower thantheHeadhimself) whosummonedmeto executionattemptedtoreveal tometheheinousnessofmycrime bythewords,“Whoareyou?Nobody.WhoisPorridge? THEMOSTIMPORTANTPERSON THEREIS.”

Ithoughtthen,andIstill think,thatthisrather missedthepoint. Thereweretwoperfectlygoodmoralshecouldhavedrawn.He mighthavesaid,“Wearegoingtoteachyounever torelyon second-handinformationwhenfirst-handisavailable” avery profitablelesson.Or hemighthavesaid,“Whatmadeyouthink thataBloodcouldnotbealiar?”But,“Whoareyou?Nobody,” however just,seemshardlyrelevant.TheimplicationisthatI haveskippedClubinarroganceor defiance.AndIpuzzle endlesslyover thequestionwhether thespeaker reallybelieved that.Didhereallythinkitlikelythatanutterlyhelplessstranger inanew society,asocietygovernedbyanirresistibleclasson whosefavour all hishopesofhappinessdepended,hadset himselfinthefirstweektopull thenoseofTheMostImportant PersonThereIs?Itisaproblemwhichhasmetmemanytimes inlater life.Whatdoesacertaintypeofexaminer meanwhenhe

says,“Toshow upworklikethisisaninsulttotheexaminers”? Doeshereallythinkthattheploughedcandidatehasinsulted him?

Another problemisFribble’sshareinmylittlecatastrophe.Was hislietomeahoax,apractical joke?Washepayingoffsome oldscoreagainstmybrother?Or washe(asInow thinkmost likely) simplywhatour ancestorscalledaRattle,amanfrom whosemouthinformation,trueandfalse,flowsoutall daylong withoutconsideration,almostwithoutvolition?Somemight thinkthat,whatever hismotivehadoriginallybeen,hemight havecomeforwardandconfessedhispartwhenhesaw whatI wasinfor.Butthat,youknow,washardlytobeexpected.He wasaveryminor Blood,still climbingupthesocial stair; Burradgewasalmostasfar aboveFribbleasFribblewas aboveme.Bycomingforwardhewouldhaveimperilledhis social position,inacommunitywheresocial advancement wastheonethingthatmattered;school isapreparationfor publiclife.

InjusticetoWyvern,ImustaddthatFribblewasnot,byour standards,quiteafair representativeofBloodery.Hehad offendedagainsttherulesofgallantryinamanner which(my brother tellsme) wouldhavebeenimpossibleinhisday.Isaid justnow thattheTartsweresolicited,notcompelled.But Fribblediduseall hisprefectorial powersfor awholetermto persecuteaboycalled,letussay,Parsleywhohadrefusedhis suit.Thiswasquiteeasyfor Fribbletodo.Theinnumerable small regulationswhichajunior boycouldbreakalmost unawaresenabledaprefecttomakesurethatagivenboywas nearlyalwaysintrouble,whilethefaggingsystemmadeiteasy toseethathehadnoleisureatall atanyhour ofanyday.So

Parsleylearnedwhatitwastorefuseevenaminor Blood.The storywouldbemoreimpressiveifParsleyhadbeenavirtuous boyandhadrefusedonmoral grounds.Unfortunatelyhewas“as commonasabarber’schair”,hadbeenareigningtoastinmy brother’sday,andwasnow almostpasthisbloom.Hedrew the lineatFribble.ButFribble’sattemptatcoercionwastheonly instanceofitskindIever knew.

Indeed,takingthembyandlarge,andconsideringthe temptationsofadolescents,soprivileged,soflattered,our Bloodswerenotabadlot.TheCountwasevenkindly.The Parrotwasnothingworsethanagravefool: “Yards-of-Face” theycalledhim.Stopfish,whomsomethoughtcruel,evenhad moral principles;inhisyounger daysmany(I’mtold) had desiredhimasaTart,buthehadkepthisvirtue.“Pretty,butno goodtoanyone;he’s pie,”wouldbetheWyverniancomment. Thehardesttodefend,perhaps,isTennyson.Wedidnotmuch mindhisbeingashoplifter;somepeoplethoughtitrather clever ofhimtocomebackfromatour ofthetownwithmoretiesand socksthanhehadpaidfor.Wemindedmorehisfavourite punishmentfor usrabble,“aclip”.Yethecouldtrulyhave pleadedtotheauthoritiesthatitmeantmerelyaboxontheear. Hewouldnothaveaddedthatthepatientwasmadetostand withhisleftear,templeandcheekalmost,butnotquite, touchingthejambofadoorway,andthenstruckwithfull force ontheright.Wealsogrumbledalittleinsecretwhenhegotupa tournament(either explicitlyor virtuallycompulsory,Ithink) in agamecalledYardCricket,collectedsubscriptions,andneither heldthetournamentnor returnedthecash.Butyouwill remember thatthishappenedintheMarconi period,andtobea prefectisaPreparationfor PublicLife.Andfor all ofthem, evenTennyson,onethingcanbesaid;theywerenever drunk.I

wastoldthattheir predecessors,ayear beforeIcame,were sometimesverydrunkindeedintheHousecorridor atmid-day. Infact,oddasitwouldhavesoundedtoanadult,Ijoinedthe Housewhenitwasinasternmoodofmoral rearmament.That wasthepointofaseriesofspeecheswhichtheprefects addressedtousall intheHouseLibraryduringmyfirstweek.It wasexplainedwithawealthofthreateningsthatweweretobe pulledUpor Together or wherever decadentsarepulledby moral reformers.Tennysonwasverygreatonthatoccasion.He hadafinebassvoiceandsangsolosinthechoir.Iknew oneof hisTarts.

Peacetothemall.Aworsefateawaitedthemthanthemost vindictivefagamonguscouldhavewished.Ypresandthe Sommeateupmostofthem.Theywerehappywhiletheir good dayslasted.

MyfloggingbypimplyoldUllagewasnounmerciful affair in itself.Thereal troublewasthatIthinkInow became,thanksto Fribble,amarkedman;thesortofdangerousNew Boywho skipsClubs.AtleastIthinkthatmusthavebeenthemainreason whyIwasanobjectofdisliketoTennyson.Therewere probablyothers.Iwasbigfor myage,agreatloutofaboy,and thatsetsone’sseniorsagainstone.Iwasalsouselessat games.Worstofall,therewasmyface.Iamthekindof personwhogetstold,“Andtakethatlookoffyour facetoo.” Notice,oncemore,themingledjusticeandinjusticeofour lives.Nodoubtinconceitor ill-temper Ihaveoftenintendedto lookinsolentor truculent;butonthoseoccasionspeopledon’t appear tonoticeit.Ontheother hand,themomentsatwhichI wastoldto“takethatlookoff”wereusuallythosewhenI intendedtobemostabject.Cantherehavebeenafreeman

somewhereamongmyancestorswhoseexpression,againstmy will,lookedout?

AsIhavehintedbefore,thefaggingsystemisthechiefmedium bywhichtheBloods,withoutbreakinganyrule,canmakea junior boy’slifeawearinesstohim.Differentschoolshave differentkindsoffagging.Atsomeofthem,individual Bloods haveindividual fags.Thisisthesystemmostoftendepictedin school stories;itissometimesrepresentedas and,for all I know,sometimesreallyis afruitful relationasofknightand squire,inwhichserviceontheonepartisrewardedwithsome degreeofcountenanceandprotectionontheother.Butwhatever itsmeritsmaybe,wenever experiencedthematWyvern. Faggingwithuswasasimpersonal asthelabour-marketin VictorianEngland;inthatway,too,theColl wasapreparation for publiclife.All boysunder acertainseniorityconstituteda labour pool,thecommonpropertyofall theBloods.Whena BloodwantedhisO.T.C.kitbrushedandpolished,or hisboots cleaned,or hisstudy“doneout”,or histeamade,heshouted. Weall camerunning,andofcoursetheBloodgavetheworkto theboyhemostdisliked.Thekit-cleaning ittookhours,and then,whenyouhadfinishedit,your ownkitwasstill todo wasthemostdetested corvée.Shoe-cleaningwasanuisancenot somuchinitselfasinitsattendantcircumstances.Itcameatan hour whichwasvital for aboylikemewho,havingwona scholarship,hadbeenplacedinahighformandcould hardly,byall hisbestefforts,keepupwiththework.Hencethe successofone’swholedayinFormmightdependonthe preciousfortyminutesbetweenbreakfastandMorningSchool, whenonewentover thesetpassagesoftranslationwithother boysinthesameForm.Thiscouldbedoneonlyifoneescaped beingfaggedasashoeblack.Not,ofcourse,thatittakesforty

minutestocleanapair ofshoes.Whattakesthetimeiswaiting inthequeueofother fagsinthe“boot-hole”togetyour turnat thebrushesandblacking.Thewholelookofthatcellar,the darkness,thesmell,and(for mostoftheyear) thefreezingcold, areavividmemory.Youmustnotofcoursesupposethat,in thosespaciousdays,welackedservants.Thereweretwo official “bootboys”paidbytheHousemaster for cleaningall bootsandshoes,andeveryone,includingusfagswhohad cleanedbothour ownshoesandtheBloods’shoesdaily,tipped thebootboysattheendofeachtermfor their services.

For areasonwhichall Englishreaderswill understand(others will hear somethingofitinthenextchapter) Iamhumiliatedand embarrassedathavingtorecordthatastimewentonIcameto dislikethefaggingsystem.Notruedefender ofthePublic Schoolswill believemeifIsaythatIwastired.ButIwas dog-tired,cab-horsetired,tired(almost) likeachildina factory.Manythingsbesidesfaggingcontributedtoit.Iwasbig andhadpossiblyoutgrownmystrength.MyworkinFormwas almostbeyondme.Iwashavingagooddeal ofdental troubleat thetime,andmanynightsofclamorouspain.Never,exceptin thefrontlinetrenches(andnotalwaysthere) doIremember suchachingandcontinuouswearinessasatWyvern.Oh,the implacableday,thehorror ofwaking,theendlessdesertof hoursthatseparatedonefrombed-time!Andremember that, evenwithoutfagging,aschool daycontainshardlyany leisurefor aboywhodoesnotlikegames.For him,to passfromtheform-roomtotheplayingfieldissimplyto exchangeworkinwhichhecantakesomeinterestfor workin whichhecantakenone,inwhichfailureismoreseverely punished,andinwhich(worstofall) hemustfeignaninterest.

Ithinkthatthisfeigning,thisceaselesspretenceofinterestin matterstomesupremelyboring,waswhatworemeoutmore thananythingelse.Ifthereader will picturehimself,unarmed, shutupfor thirteenweeksonend,nightandday,inasocietyof fanatical golfers or,ifheisagolfer himself,lethimsubstitute fishermen,theosophists,bimetallists,Baconians,or German undergraduateswithatastefor autobiography whoall carry revolversandwill probablyshoothimifheever seemstolose interestintheir conversation,hewill haveanideaofmyschool life.EventhehardyChowbok(in Erewhon) quailedatsucha destiny.For games(andgallantry) weretheonlysubjects,andI caredfor neither.ButImustseemtocarefor both,for aboy goestoaPublicSchool preciselytobemadeanormal,sensible boy agoodmixer tobetakenoutofhimself;andeccentricity isseverelypenalised.

Youmustnot,fromthis,hastilyconcludethatmostboysliked playing gamesanybetter thanIdid.ToescapeClubswas consideredbydozensofboysanobviousgood.LeaveoffClubs requiredtheHousemaster’ssignature,andthatharmless Merovingian’ssignaturewasimitable.Acompetentforger (I knew onemember oftheprofession) bymanufacturingand sellingforgedsignaturescouldmakeasteadyadditiontohis pocketmoney.Theperpetual talkaboutgamesdependedon threethings.First,onthesamesortofgenuine(thoughhardly practical) enthusiasmwhichsendsthecrowdstotheLeague Football Matches.Few wantedtoplay,butmanywantedto watch,toparticipatevicariouslyinthetriumphsoftheColl,or theHouse,team.Secondly,thisnatural feelinghadthevigilant backingofall theBloodsandnearlyall theMasters.Tobe lukewarmonsuchmatterswasthesupremesin.Hence enthusiasmhadtobeexaggeratedwhereitexistedandsimulated

whereitdidnot.Atcricketmatchesminor Bloodspatrolledthe crowdofspectatorstodetectandpunishany“slackness”inthe applause;itremindsoneoftheprecautionstakenwhenNero sang.For ofcoursethewholestructureofBlooderywould collapseiftheBloodsplayedinthespiritofplay,for their recreation;theremustbeaudienceandlimelight.Andthisbrings ustothethirdreason.For boyswhowerenotyetBloodsbut whohadsomeathleticpromise,Gameswereessentiallya moyen de parvenir.Therewasnothingrecreational aboutClubs for themanymorethanfor me.Theywenttotheplayingfields notasmengotothetennis-clubbutasstage-struckgirlsgotoan Audition;tenseandanxious,rackedwithdazzlinghopesand sickeningfears,never inpeaceofmindtill theyhadwonsome noticewhichwouldsettheir feetonthefirstrungofthesocial ladder.Andnotthenatpeaceeither;for nottoadvanceistofall back.

Thetruthisthatorganisedandcompulsorygameshad,inmy day,banishedtheelementofplayfromschool lifealmost entirely.Therewasnotimetoplay(intheproper senseofthe word).Therivalrywastoofierce,theprizestooglittering,the “hell offailure”toosevere.

Theonlyboy,almost,who“played”(butnotatgames) wasour Irishearl.Butthenhewasanexceptiontoall rules;notbecause ofhisearldombutbecausehewasanuntamableIrishman, anarchingrain,whomnosocietycouldironout.Hesmokeda pipeinhisfirstterm.Hewentoffbynightonstrange expeditionstoaneighbouringcity;not,Ibelieve,for women, butfor harmlessrowdyism,low life,andadventure.Healways carriedarevolver.Iremember itwell,for hehadahabitof loadingonechamber only,rushingintoyour study,andthen

firingoff(ifthatistherightword) all theothersatyou,so thatyour lifedependedonhiscountingaccurately.Ifeltat thetime,andIfeel still,thatthis(unlikethefagging) wasthe sortofthingnosensibleboycouldobjectto.Itwasdonein defiancebothofmastersandBloods,itwaswhollyuseless,and therewasnomaliceinit.IlikedBallygunnian;he,too,was killedinFrance.Idonotthinkheever becameaBlood;ifhe had,hewouldn’thavenoticedit.Hecarednothingfor the limelightor for social success.HepassedthroughtheColl withoutpayingitanyattention.

IsupposePopsy theprettyred-headwhowashousemaidon “thePrivateside” mightalsorankasanelementmakingfor “play”.Popsy,whencaughtandcarriedbodilyintoour partof theHouse(IthinkbytheCount),wasall gigglesandscreams. Shewastoosensibleagirl tosurrender her “virtue”toany Blood;butitwasrumouredthatthosewhofoundher intheright timeandplacemightinduceher togivecertainlessonsin anatomy.Perhapstheylied.

IhavehardlymentionedaMaster yet.Onemaster,dearlyloved andreverenced,will appear inthenextchapter.Butother mastersarehardlyworthspeakingof.Itisdifficultfor parents (andmoredifficult,perhaps,for schoolmasters) torealisethe unimportanceofmostmastersinthelifeofaschool.Ofthegood andevil whichisdonetoaschoolboymasters,ingeneral,do little,andknow less.Our ownHousemaster musthavebeenan uprightman,for hefedusexcellently.For therest,hetreatedhis Houseinaverygentlemanly,uninquisitiveway.Hesometimes walkedroundthedormitoriesofanight,buthealwayswore boots,trodheavilyandcoughedatthedoor.Hewasnospyand nokill-joy,honestman.Liveandletlive.

AsIgrew moreandmoretired,bothinbodyandmind,Icame tohateWyvern.Ididnotnoticethereal harmitwas doingtome.Itwasgraduallyteachingmetobeaprig; thatis,anintellectual prigor (inthebadsense) aHighBrow. Butthatsubjectmustwaitfor another chapter.Atthetail-endof thisImustrepeat(for thisistheoverall impressionleftby Wyvern) thatIwastired.Consciousnessitselfwasbecomingthe supremeevil;sleep,theprimegood.Toliedown,tobeoutof thesoundofvoices,topretendandgrimaceandevadeandslink nomore,thatwastheobjectofall desire ifonlytherewere notanother morningahead ifonlysleepcouldlastfor ever!

VII.LightandShade

No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of comfort attending it.

GOLDSMITH

Here’safellow,yousay,whousedtocomebeforeusasamoral andreligiouswriter,andnow,ifyouplease,he’swrittena wholechapter describinghisoldschool asaveryfurnaceof impureloveswithoutonewordontheheinousnessofthesin. Buttherearetworeasons.Oneyoushall hear beforethis chapter ends.Theother isthat,asIhavesaid,thesininquestion isoneofthetwo(gamblingistheother) whichIhavenever beentemptedtocommit.Iwill notindulgeinfutilephilippics againstenemiesInever metinbattle.

(“Thismeans,then,thatall theother vicesyouhavesolargely writtenabout...”Well,yes,itdoes,andmore’sthepity;butit’s nothingtoour purposeatthemoment.)

Ihavenow totell youhow Wyvernmademeaprig.WhenI wentthere,nothingwasfurther frommymindthantheideathat myprivatetastefor fairlygoodbooks,for Wagner,for mythology,gavemeanysortofsuperioritytothosewhoread nothingbutmagazinesandlistenedtonothingbutthe(then fashionable) Rag-time.TheclaimmightseemunbelievableifI didnotaddthatIhadbeenprotectedfromthissortofconceitby downrightignorance.Mr.IanHaysomewheredrawsapicture ofthereadingminorityataPublicSchool inhisdayasboys whotalkedabout“G.B.S.andG.K.C.”inthesamespiritin

102 whichother boyssecretlysmoked;bothsetswereinspiredby thesamecravingfor forbiddenfruitandthesamedesire tobegrown-up.AndIsupposeboyssuchashedescribes mightcomefromChelseaor Oxfordor Cambridgehomeswhere theyheardthingsaboutcontemporaryliterature.Butmyposition waswhollydifferent.Iwas,for example,agreatreader of Shaw aboutthetimeIwenttoWyvern,butIhadnever dreamed thatreadingShaw wasanythingtobeproudof.Shaw wasan author onmyfather’sshelveslikeanyother author.Ibegan readinghimbecausehis Dramatic Opinions containedagood deal aboutWagner andWagner’sverynamewasthenalureto me.ThenceIwentontoreadmostoftheother Shawswehad. Buthow hisreputationstoodintheliteraryworldIneither knew nor cared;Ididn’tknow therewas“aliteraryworld”.Myfather toldmeShaw was“amountebank”butthatthereweresome laughsin John Bull’s Other Island.Itwasthesamewithall my other reading;noone(thankGod) hadever admiredor encouragedit.(WilliamMorris,for someunfathomablereason, myfather alwaysreferredtoas“thatwhistlepainter”.) Imight be nodoubtIwas conceitedatChartresfor beinggoodat myLatin;thiswassomethingrecognisedasmeritorious.But “Eng.Lit.”wasblessedlyabsentfromtheofficial syllabus,soI wassavedfromanypossibilityofconceitaboutit.Never inmy lifehadIreadaworkoffiction,poetry,or criticisminmyown languageexceptbecause,after tryingthefirstfew pages,Iliked thetasteofit.Icouldnothelpknowingthatmostother people, boysandgrown-upsalike,didnotcarefor thebooksIread.A veryfew tastesIcouldsharewithmyfather,afew morewith mybrother;apartfromthat,therewasnopointofcontact,and thisIacceptedasasortofnatural law.IfIreflectedonitatall, itwouldhavegivenme,Ithink,aslightfeeling,notof superiority,butofinferiority.Thelatestpopular novel wasso

103 obviouslyamoreadult,amorenormal,amoresophisticated tastethananyofmine.Acertainshameor bashfulnessattached itselftowhatever onedeeplyandprivatelyenjoyed.I wenttotheColl far moredisposedtoexcusemyliterary tastesthantoplumemyselfonthem.

Butthisinnocencedidnotlast.Itwas,fromthefirst,alittle shakenbyall thatIsoonbegantolearnfrommyform-master aboutthegloriesofliterature.Iwasatlastmadefreeofthe dangeroussecretthatothershad,likeme,foundthere“enormous bliss”andbeenmaddenedbybeauty.Amongtheother New Bugsofmyyear,too,Imetapair ofboyswhocamefromthe DragonSchool atOxford(whereNaomi Mitchisoninher ’teens hadjustproducedher firstplay) andfromthemalsoIgotthe dimimpressionthattherewasaworldIhadnever dreamedof, aworldinwhichpoetry,say,wasathingpublicandaccepted, justasGamesandGallantrywereacceptedatWyvern;nay,a worldinwhichatastefor suchthingswasalmostmeritorious.I feltasSiegfriedfeltwhenitfirstdawnedonhimthathewasnot Mime’sson.Whathadbeen“my”tastewasapparently“our” taste(ifonlyIcouldever meetthe“we”towhomthat“our” belonged).Andif“our”taste,then byaperiloustransition perhaps“good”tasteor “therighttaste”.For thattransition involvesakindofFall.Themomentgoodtasteknowsitself, someofitsgoodnessislost.Eventhen,however,itisnot necessarytotakethefurther downwardstepofdespisingthe “philistines”whodonotshareit.UnfortunatelyItookit. Hitherto,thoughincreasinglymiserableatWyvern,Ihadbeen halfashamedofmyownmisery,still ready(ifIwereonly allowed) toadmiretheOlympians,still alittleoverawed, cowedrather thanresentful.Ihad,yousee,nostandingplace againsttheWyvernian ethos,nosidefor whichIcouldplay

104 againstit;itwasabare“I”againstwhatseemedsimplythe world.Butthemomentthat“I”became,however vaguely,a we andWyvernnot the worldbut a world thewholething changed.Itwasnow possible,atleastinthought,to retaliate.Icanremember whatmaywell havebeenthe precisemomentofthistransition.AprefectcalledBluggor Glubbor somesuchnamestoodoppositeme,belchinginmy face,givingmesomeorder.Thebelchingwasnotintendedasan insult.Youcan’t“insult”afaganymorethanananimal.IfBulb hadthoughtofmyreactionsatall,hewouldhaveexpectedmeto findhiseructationsfunny.Whatpushedmeover theedgeinto purepriggerywashisface thepuffybloatedcheeks,thethick, moist,sagginglower lip,theyokel blendofdrowsinessand cunning.“Thelout!”Ithought.“Theclod!Thedull,crassclown! For all hispowersandprivileges,Iwouldnotbehe.”Ihad becomeaPrig,aHigh-Brow.

TheinterestingthingisthatthePublicSchool systemhadthus producedtheverythingwhichitwasadvertisedtopreventor cure.For youmustunderstand(ifyouhavenotbeendippedin thattraditionyourself) thatthewholethingwasdevisedto “knockthenonsense”outofthesmaller boysand“putthemin their place”.“Ifthejunior boysweren’tfagged,”asmybrother oncesaid,“theywouldbecomeinsufferable.”ThatiswhyIfelt soembarrassed,afew pagesago,whenIhadtoconfessthatI gotrather tiredofperpetual fagging.Ifyousaythis,everytrue defender ofthesystemwill diagnoseyour caseatonce,andthey will all diagnoseitinthesameway.“Ho-ho!”theywill cry,“so that’s thetrouble!Thoughtyourselftoogoodtoblackyour betters’boots,didyou?Thatjustshowshow badlyyouneeded tobefagged.It’stocureyoungprigslikeyouthatthesystem exists.”Thatanycauseexcept“thinkingyourselftoogoodfor it”

mightawakendiscontentwithafag’slotwill notbeadmitted. Youhaveonlytotransfer thethingtoadultlifeandyouwill, apparently,seethefull logicoftheposition.Ifsome neighbouringV.I.P.hadirresistibleauthoritytocall onyoufor anyservicehepleasedatanyhour whenyouwerenotinthe office if,whenyoucamehomeonasummer evening, tiredfromworkandwithmoreworktoprepareagainst themorrow,hecoulddragyoutothelinksandmakeyouhis caddytill thelightfailed ifatlasthedismissedyouunthanked withasuitcasefull ofhisclothestobrushandcleanandreturn tohimbeforebreakfast,andahamper full ofhisfoul linenfor your wifetowashandmend andif,under thisregime,you werenotalwaysperfectlyhappyandcontented;wherecouldthe causelieexceptinyour ownvanity?Whatelse,after all,could itbe?For,almostbydefinition,everyoffenceajunior boy commitsmustbedueto“cheek”or “side”;andtobemiserable, eventofall shortofrapturousenthusiasm,isanoffence.

Obviouslyacertaingravedanger wasever-presenttotheminds ofthosewhobuiltuptheWyvernianhierarchy.Itseemedto themself-evidentthat,ifyouleftthingstothemselves,boysof nineteenwhoplayedrugger for thecountyandboxedfor the school wouldeverywherebeknockeddownandsatonbyboys ofthirteen.Andthat,youknow,wouldbeaveryshocking spectacle.Themostelaboratemechanism,therefore,hadtobe devisedfor protectingthestrongagainsttheweak,theclose corporationofOldHandsagainsttheparcel ofnew-comerswho werestrangerstooneanother andtoeveryoneintheplace,the poor,tremblinglionsagainstthefuriousandraveningsheep.

Thereis,ofcourse,sometruthinit.Small boyscanbecheeky; andhalfanhour inthesocietyofaFrenchthirteen-year-old

makesmostofusfeel thatthereissomethingtobesaidfor faggingafter all.YetIcannothelpthinkingthatthebigger boys wouldhavebeenabletoholdtheir ownwithoutall the complicatedassurances,pattingsontheback,and encouragementwhichtheauthoritiesgavethem.For,ofcourse, theseauthorities,notcontentwithknockingthe“nonsense”out ofthesheep,werealwayscoaxingandpettinganatleast equal quantityof“nonsense”intothelions;power and privilegeandanapplaudingaudiencefor thegamestheyplay. Mightnotthemerenatureofboyshavedoneall,andrather more thanall,thatneededdoinginthisdirectionwithoutassistance?

Butwhatever therationalityofthedesign,Icontendthatitdid notachieveitsobject.For thelastthirtyyearsor soEnglandhas beenfilledwithabitter,truculent,sceptical,debunking,and cynical intelligentsia.Agreatmanyofthemwereatpublic schools,andIbelieveveryfew ofthemlikedit.Thosewho defendtheschoolswill,ofcourse,saythatthesePrigsarethe caseswhichthesystemfailedtocure;theywerenotkicked, mocked,fagged,flogged,andhumiliatedenough.Butsurelyitis equallypossiblethattheyaretheproductsofthesystem?that theywerenotPrigsatall whentheycametotheir schoolsbut weremadePrigsbytheir firstyear,asIwas?For,really,that wouldbeaverynatural result.Whereoppressiondoesnot completelyandpermanentlybreakthespirit,hasitnotanatural tendencytoproduceretaliatoryprideandcontempt?We reimburseourselvesfor cuffsandtoil byadoubledoseofselfesteem.Nooneismorelikelytobearrogantthanalatelyfreed slave.

Iwrite,ofcourse,onlytoneutral readers.Withthe wholeheartedadherentsofthesystemthereisnoarguing,for,as

wehavealreadyseen,theyhavemaximsandlogicwhichthelay mindcannotapprehend.Ihaveevenheardthemdefend compulsorygamesonthegroundthatall boys“exceptafew rotters”likethegames;theyhavetobecompulsorybecauseno compulsionisneeded.(IwishIhadnever heardchaplainsinthe ArmedForcesproduceasimilar argumentindefenceofthe wickedinstitutionofChurchParades.)

Buttheessential evil ofpublicschool life,asIseeit,didnotlie either inthesufferingsofthefagsor intheprivilegedarrogance oftheBloods.Theseweresymptomsofsomethingmore all-pervasive,somethingwhich,inthelongrun,didmost harmtotheboyswhosucceededbestatschool andwere happiestthere.Spirituallyspeaking,thedeadlythingwasthat school lifewasalifealmostwhollydominatedbythesocial struggle;togeton,toarrive,or,havingreachedthetop,to remainthere,wastheabsorbingpreoccupation.Itisoften,of course,thepreoccupationofadultlifeaswell;butIhavenotyet seenanyadultsocietyinwhichthesurrender tothisimpulse wassototal.Andfromit,atschool asintheworld,all sortsof meannessflow;thesycophancythatcourtsthosehigher inthe scale,thecultivationofthosewhomitiswell toknow,the speedyabandonmentoffriendshipsthatwill nothelponthe upwardpath,thereadinesstojointhecryagainsttheunpopular, thesecretmotiveinalmosteveryaction.TheWyverniansseem tomeinretrospecttohavebeentheleastspontaneous,inthat sensetheleastboyish,societyIhaveever known.Itwould perhapsnotbetoomuchtosaythatinsomeboys’lives everythingwascalculatedtothegreatendofadvancement.For thisgameswereplayed;for thisclothes,friends,amusements, andviceswerechosen.

AndthatiswhyIcannotgivepederastyanythinglikeafirst placeamongtheevilsoftheColl.Thereismuchhypocrisyon thistheme.Peoplecommonlytalkasifeveryother evil were moretolerablethanthis.Butwhy?Becausethoseofuswhodo notsharethevicefeel for itacertainnausea,aswedo,say,for necrophily?Ithinkthatofverylittlerelevancetomoral judgement.Becauseitproducespermanentperversion?But thereisverylittleevidencethatitdoes.TheBloodswouldhave preferredgirlstoboysiftheycouldhavecomebythem;when, atalater age,girlswereobtainable,theyprobablytookthem.Is itthenonChristiangrounds?Buthow manyofthosewho fulminateonthematter areinfactChristians?Andwhat Christian,inasocietysoworldlyandcruel asthatof Wyvern,wouldpickoutthecarnal sinsfor special reprobation?Crueltyissurelymoreevil thanlustandtheWorld atleastasdangerousastheFlesh.Thereal reasonfor all the pother is,inmyopinion,neither Christiannor ethical.Weattack thisvicenotbecauseitistheworstbutbecauseitis,byadult standards,themostdisreputableandunmentionable,and happensalsotobeacrimeinEnglishlaw.TheWorldwill lead youonlytoHell;butsodomymayleadyoutojail andcreatea scandal,andloseyouyour job.TheWorld,todoitjustice, seldomdoesthat.

Ifthoseofuswhohaveknownaschool likeWyverndaredto speakthetruth,weshouldhavetosaythatpederasty,however greatanevil initself,was,inthattimeandplace,theonly footholdor crannyleftfor certaingoodthings.Itwastheonly counterpoisetothesocial struggle;theoneoasis(thoughgreen onlywithweedsandmoistonlywithfoetidwater) inthe burningdesertofcompetitiveambition.Inhisunnatural loveaffairs,andperhapsonlythere,theBloodwentalittleoutof

himself,forgotfor afew hoursthathewasOneoftheMost ImportantPeopleThereAre.Itsoftensthepicture.Aperversion wastheonlychinkleftthroughwhichsomethingspontaneous anduncalculatingcouldcreepin.Platowasrightafter all.Eros, turnedupsidedown,blackened,distorted,andfilthy,still bore thetracesofhisdivinity.

Whatananswer,bytheby,Wyvernwastothosewhoderiveall theillsofsocietyfromeconomics!For moneyhadnothingtodo withitsclasssystem.Itwasnot(thankHeaven) theboyswith threadbarecoatswhobecamePunts,nor theboyswithplentyof pocket-moneywhobecameBloods.Accordingtosome theorists,therefore,itoughttohavebeenentirelyfreefrom bourgeoisvulgaritiesandiniquities.YetIhaveever seena communitysocompetitive,sofull ofsnobberyandflunkeyism,a rulingclasssoselfishandsoclass-conscious,or aproletariat sofawning,solackinginall solidarityandsenseof corporatehonour.Butperhapsonehardlyneedstocite experiencefor atruthsoobvious a priori.AsAristotle remarked,mendonotbecomedictatorsinorder tokeepwarm. Ifarulingclasshassomeother sourceofstrength,whyneedit bother aboutmoney?Mostofwhatitwantswill bepressed uponitbyemulousflatterers;therestcanbetakenbyforce.

ThereweretwoblessingsatWyvernthatworenodisguise;one ofthemwasmyformmaster,Smewgyaswecalledhim.Ispell thenamesoastoinsuretherightpronunciation thefirst syllableshouldrhymeexactlywith Fugue thoughthe Wyvernianspellingwas“Smugy”.

ExceptatOldie’sIhadbeenfortunateinmyteachersever since Iwasborn;butSmewgywas“beyondexpectation,beyond

hope”.Hewasagrey-headwithlargespectaclesandawide mouthwhichcombinedtogivehimafroglikeexpression,but nothingcouldbelessfroglikethanhisvoice.Hewashoneytongued.Everyversehereadturnedintomusiconhislips: somethingmidwaybetweenspeechandsong.Itisnottheonly goodwayofreadingverse,butitisthewaytoenchantboys; moredramaticandlessrhythmical wayscanbelearnedlater. Hefirsttaughtmetherightsensualityofpoetry,how itshouldbe savouredandmouthedinsolitude.OfMilton’s“Thrones, Dominations,Princedoms,Virtues,Powers”hesaid,“Thatline mademehappyfor aweek.”ItwasnotthesortofthingIhad heardanyonesaybefore.Nor hadIever metbeforeperfect courtesyinateacher.Ithadnothingtodowithsoftness;Smewgy couldbeverysevere,butitwastheseverityofajudge,weighty andmeasured,withouttaunting

He never yet no vileinye ne sayde In all his lyf unto no maner wight.

Hehadadifficultteamtodrive,for our formconsistedpartlyof youngsters,New Bugswithscholarships,startingthere likemyself,andpartlyofveteranswhohadarrivedthere attheendoftheir slow journeyuptheschool.Hemadeusa unitybyhisgoodmanners.Healwaysaddressedusas “gentlemen”andthepossibilityofbehavingotherwiseseemed thustoberuledoutfromthebeginning;andinthatroomatleast thedistinctionbetweenfagsandBloodsnever raiseditshead. Onahotday,whenhehadgivenuspermissiontoremoveour coats,heaskedour permissionbeforeremovinghisgown.Once for badworkIwassentbyhimtotheHeadmaster tobe threatenedandrated.TheHeadmaster misunderstoodSmewgy’s reportandthoughttherehadbeensomecomplaintaboutmy

manners.AfterwardSmewgygotwindoftheHead’sactual wordsandatoncecorrectedthemistake,drawingmeasideand saying,“Therehasbeensomecuriousmisunderstanding.Isaid nothingofthesortaboutyou.Youwill havetobewhippedif youdon’tdobetter atyour GreekGrammar nextweek,but naturallythathasnothingtodowithyour mannersor mine.”The ideathatthetoneofconversationbetweenonegentlemanand another shouldbealteredbyaflogging(anymorethanbya duel) wasridiculous.Hismanner wasperfect: nofamiliarity,no hostility,nothreadbarehumour;mutual respect;decorum. “Never letuslivewith amousia,”wasoneofhisfavourite maxims: amousia,theabsenceoftheMuses.Andheknew,as Spenser knew,thatcourtesywasoftheMuses.

Thus,evenhadhetaughtusnothingelse,tobeinSmewgy’s formwastobeinameasureennobled.Amidstall thebanal ambitionandflashysplendoursofschool lifehestoodasa permanentreminder ofthingsmoregracious,morehumane, larger andcooler.Buthisteaching,inthenarrower sense,was equallygood.Hecouldenchantbuthecouldalsoanalyse.An idiomor atextual crux,onceexpoundedbySmewgy,became clear asday.Hemadeusfeel thatthescholar’sdemandfor accuracywasnotmerelypedantic,still lessanarbitrary moral discipline,butrather aniceness,adelicacy,tolack whichargued“agrossandswainishdisposition”.Ibegantosee thatthereader whomissessyntactical pointsinapoemis missingaestheticpointsaswell.

Inthosedaysaboyontheclassical sideofficiallydidalmost nothingbutclassics.Ithinkthiswaswise;thegreatestservice wecandotoeducationto-dayistoteachfewer subjects.No onehastimetodomorethanaveryfew thingswell beforeheis

112 twenty,andwhenweforceaboytobeamediocrityinadozen subjectswedestroyhisstandards,perhapsfor life.Smewgy taughtusLatinandGreek,buteverythingelsecamein incidentally.ThebooksIlikedbestunder histeachingwere Horace’sOdes,AeneidIV,andEuripides’ Bacchae.Ihad alwaysinonesense“liked”myclassical work,buthithertothis hadonlybeenthepleasurethateveryonefeelsinmasteringa craft.Now Itastedtheclassicsaspoetry.Euripides’pictureof Dionysuswascloselylinkedinmymindwiththewholemood ofMr.Stephens’ Crock of Gold,whichIhadlatelyreadfor the firsttimewithgreatexcitement.Herewassomethingvery differentfromtheNorthernness.PanandDionysuslackedthe cold,piercingappeal ofOdinandFrey.Anew qualityentered myimagination: somethingMediterraneanandvolcanic,the orgiasticdrum-beat.Orgiastic,butnot,or notstrongly,erotic.It wasperhapsunconsciouslyconnectedwithmygrowinghatred ofthepublicschool orthodoxiesandconventions,mydesireto breakandtear itall.

Theother undisguisedblessingoftheColl was“theGurney”, theschool library;notonlybecauseitwasalibrary,butbecause itwassanctuary.Asthenegrousedtobecomefreeontouching Englishsoil,sothemeanestboywas“unfaggable”oncehewas insidetheGurney.Itwasnot,ofcourse,easytogetthere.Inthe winter termsifyouwerenotonthelistfor “Clubs”you hadtogooutfor arun.Insummer youcouldreach sanctuaryofanafternoononlyunder favourableconditions.You mightbeputdownfor Clubs,andthatexcludedyou.Or there mightbeeither aHousematchor aColl matchwhichyouwere compelledtowatch.Thirdly,andmostprobably,onyour wayto theGurneyyoumightbecaughtandfaggedfor thewhole afternoon.Butsometimesonesucceededinrunningthegauntlet

113 ofall thesedangers;andthen books,silence,leisure,the distantsoundofbatandball (“Ohthebravemusicofa distant drum”),beesbuzzingattheopenwindows,andfreedom.Inthe GurneyIfound Corpus Poeticum Boreale andtried,vainlybut happily,tohammer outtheoriginalsfromthetranslationatthe bottomofthepage.TheretooIfoundMilton,andYeats,anda bookonCelticmythology,whichsoonbecame,ifnotarival,yet ahumblecompanion,toNorse.Thatdidmegood;toenjoytwo mythologies(or three,now thatIhadbeguntolovetheGreek), fullyawareoftheir differingflavours,isabalancingthing,and makesfor catholicity.Ifeltkeenlythedifferencebetweenthe stonyandfierysublimityofAsgard,thegreen,leafy,amorous, andelusiveworldofCruachanandtheRedBranchandTir-nanOg,theharder,moredefiant,sun-brightbeautyofOlympus.I began(presumablyintheholidays) anepiconCuchulainand another onFinn,inEnglishhexametersandinfourteeners respectively.Luckilytheywereabandonedbeforetheseeasy andvulgar metreshadtimetospoil myear.

ButtheNorthernnessstill camefirstandtheonlyworkI completedatthistimewasatragedy,Norseinsubjectand Greekinform.Itwascalled Loki Bound andwasasclassical asanyHumanistcouldhavedesired,withPrologos,Parodos, Epeisodia,Stasima,Exodos,Stichomythia,and(ofcourse) one passageintrochaic septenarii withrhyme.Inever enjoyed anythingmore.Thecontentissignificant.MyLoki wasnot merelymalicious.HewasagainstOdinbecauseOdin hadcreatedaworldthoughLoki hadclearlywarnedhim thatthiswasawantoncruelty.Whyshouldcreatureshavethe burdenofexistenceforcedonthemwithouttheir consent?The maincontrastinmyplaywasbetweenthesadwisdomofLoki andthebrutal orthodoxyofThor.Odinwaspartlysympathetic;

hecouldatleastseewhatLoki meantandtherehadbeenold friendshipbetweenthosetwobeforecosmicpoliticsforced themapart.Thor wasthereal villain,Thor withhishammer and histhreats,whowasalwayseggingOdinonagainstLoki and alwayscomplainingthatLoki didnotsufficientlyrespectthe major gods;towhichLoki replied

I pay respect to wisdom not to strength.

Thor was,infact,thesymbol oftheBloods;thoughIseethat moreclearlynow thanIdidatthetime.Loki wasaprojectionof myself;hevoicedthatsenseofpriggishsuperioritywherebyI was,unfortunately,beginningtocompensatemyselffor my unhappiness.

Theother featurein Loki Bound whichmaybeworth commentingonisthepessimism.Iwasatthistimeliving,like somanyAtheistsor Antitheists,inawhirl ofcontradictions.I maintainedthatGoddidnotexist.Iwasalsoveryangrywith Godfor notexisting.IwasequallyangrywithHimfor creating aworld.

How far wasthispessimism,thisdesirenottohavebeen, sincere?Well,Imustconfessthatthisdesirequiteslippedoutof mymindduringthesecondswhenIwascoveredbythewild Earl’srevolver.BytheChestertoniantest,then,thetestof Manalive,itwasnotsincereatall.ButIamstill notconvinced byChesterton’sargument.Itistruethatwhenapessimist’slife isthreatenedhebehaveslikeother men;hisimpulsetopreserve lifeisstronger thanhisjudgementthatlifeisnotworth preserving.Buthow doesthisprovethatthejudgement wasinsincereor evenerroneous?Aman’sjudgementthat

whiskyisbadfor himisnotinvalidatedbythefactthatwhenthe bottleisathandhefindsdesirestronger thanreasonand succumbs.Havingoncetastedlife,wearesubjectedtothe impulseofself-preservation.Life,inother words,isashabitformingascocaine.Whatthen?IfIstill heldcreationtobe“a greatinjustice”Ishouldholdthatthisimpulsetoretainlife aggravatestheinjustice.Ifitisbadtobeforcedtodrinkthe potion,how doesitmendmattersthatthepotionturnsouttobe anaddictiondrug?Pessimismcannotbeansweredso.Thinking asIthenthoughtabouttheuniverse,Iwasreasonablein condemningit.AtthesametimeInow seethatmyview was closelyconnectedwithacertainlop-sidednessoftemperament. Ihadalwaysbeenmoreviolentinmynegativethaninmy positivedemands.Thus,inpersonal relations,Icouldforgive muchneglectmoreeasilythantheleastdegreeofwhatI regardedasinterference.AttableIcouldforgivemuch insipidityinmyfoodmoreeasilythantheleastsuspicionof whatseemedtomeexcessiveor inappropriateseasoning.Inthe courseoflifeIcouldputupwithanyamountofmonotonyfar morepatientlythaneventhesmallestdisturbance,bother,bustle, or whattheScotchcall kurfuffle.Never atanyagedidI clamour tobeamused;alwaysandatall ages(whereIdared) I hotlydemandednottobeinterrupted.Thepessimism,or cowardice,whichwouldprefer non-existenceitselftoeventhe mildestunhappinesswasthusmerelythegeneralisationofall thesepusillanimouspreferences.AnditremainstruethatIhave, almostall mylife,beenquiteunabletofeel thathorror of nonentity,ofannihilation,which,say,Dr.Johnsonfeltso strongly.Ifeltitfor theveryfirsttimeonlyin1947.Butthatwas after Ihadlongbeenre-convertedandthusbeguntoknow what lifereallyisandwhatwouldhavebeenlostbymissingit.

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.

Afew chaptersagoIwarnedthereader thatthereturnofJoy hadintroducedintomylifeadualitywhichmakesitdifficultto narrate.ReadingthroughwhatIhavejustwrittenaboutWyvern, Ifindmyselfexclaiming,“Lies,lies!Thiswasreallyaperiodof ecstasy.Itconsistedchieflyofmomentswhenyouweretoo happytospeak,whenthegodsandheroesriotedthroughyour head,whensatyrsdancedandMaenadsroaredonthemountains, whenBrynhildandSieglinde,Deirdre,MaeveandHelenwere all aboutyou,till sometimesyoufeltthatitmightbreakyouwith mererichness.”Andall thatistrue.Thereweremore LeprechaunsthanfagsinthatHouse.Ihaveseenthevictoriesof Cuchulainmoreoftenthanthoseofthefirsteleven.WasBorage theHeadoftheColl?or wasitConachar MacNessa?Andthe worlditself canIhavebeenunhappy,livinginParadise? Whatkeen,tinglingsunlighttherewas!Themeresmellswere enoughtomakeamantipsy cutgrass,dew-dabbledmosses, sweetpea,autumnwoods,woodburning,peat,saltwater.The senseached.Iwassickwithdesire;thatsicknessbetter than health.All thisistrue,butitdoesnotmaketheother versiona lie.Iamtellingastoryoftwolives.Theyhavenothingtodo witheachother: oil andvinegar,ariver runningbesideacanal, Jekyll andHyde.Fixyour eyeoneither anditclaimstobethe

PEARL

soletruth.WhenIremember myouter lifeIseeclearly thattheother isbutmomentaryflashes,secondsofgold scatteredinmonthsofdross,eachinstantlyswallowedupinthe old,familiar,sordid,hopelessweariness.WhenIremember my inner lifeIseethateverythingmentionedinthelasttwochapters wasmerelyacoarsecurtainwhichatanymomentmightbe drawnasidetoreveal all theheavensIthenknew.Thesame dualityperplexesthestoryofmyhomelife,towhichImustnow turn.

Oncemybrother hadleftWyvernandIhadgonetoit,the classicperiodofour boyhoodwasatanend.Somethingnotso goodsucceededit,butthishadlongbeenpreparedbyslow developmentwithintheclassicageitself.All began,asIhave said,withthefactthatour father wasoutofthehousefromnine inthemorningtill sixatnight.Fromtheveryfirstwebuiltup for ourselvesalifethatexcludedhim.Heonhispartdemanded aconfidenceevenmoreboundless,perhaps,thanafather usually,or wisely,demands.Oneinstanceofthis,earlyinmy life,hadfar reachingeffects.OncewhenIwasatOldie’sand hadjustbeguntotrytoliveasaChristianIwroteoutasetof rulesfor myselfandputtheminmypocket.Onthefirstdayof theholidays,noticingthatmypocketsbulgedwithall sortsof papersandthatmycoatwasbeingpulledoutofall shape,he pluckedoutthewholepileofrubbishandbegantogothroughit. Boylike,Iwouldhavediedrather thanlethimseemylistof goodresolutions.Imanagedtokeepthemoutofhisreachand getthemintothefire.Idonotseethateither ofuswastoblame; butnever fromthatmomentuntil thehour ofhisdeathdidIenter hishousewithoutfirstgoingthroughmyownpocketsand removinganythingthatIwishedtokeepprivate.

AhabitofconcealmentwasthusbredbeforeIhadanything guiltytoconceal.Bynow Ihadplenty.AndevenwhatIhadno wishtohideIcouldnottell.Tohavetoldhimwhat Wyvernor evenChartreswasreallylikewouldhave beenrisky(hemightwritetotheHeadmaster) andintolerably embarrassing.Itwouldalsohavebeenimpossible;andhereI musttouchononeofhisstrangestcharacteristics.

Myfather butthesewords,attheheadofaparagraph,will carrythereader’smindinevitablyto Tristram Shandy.On secondthoughtsIamcontentthattheyshould.Itisonlyina Shandeanspiritthatmymatter canbeapproached.Ihaveto describesomethingasoddandwhimsical asever enteredthe brainofSterne;andifIcould,Iwouldgladlyleadyoutothe sameaffectionfor myfather asyouhavefor Tristram’s.And now for thethingitself.Youwill havegraspedthatmyfather wasnofool.Hehadevenastreakofgeniusinhim.Atthesame timehehad whenseatedinhisownarmchair after aheavy mid-daydinner onanAugustafternoonwithall thewindows shut morepower ofconfusinganissueor takingupafact wronglythananymanIhaveever known.Asaresultitwas impossibletodriveintohisheadanyoftherealitiesofour school life,after which(nevertheless) herepeatedlyenquired.

Thefirstandsimplestbarrier tocommunicationwasthat,having earnestlyasked,hedidnot“stayfor ananswer”or forgotitthe momentitwasuttered.Somefactsmusthavebeenaskedfor and toldhim,onamoderatecomputation,onceaweek,andwere receivedbyhimeachtimeasperfectnovelties.Butthiswasthe simplestbarrier.Far moreoftenheretainedsomething,but somethingveryunlikewhatyouhadsaid.Hismindsobubbled over withhumour,sentiment,andindignationthat,longbefore hehadunderstoodor evenlistenedtoyour words,some

118 accidental hinthadsethisimaginationtowork,hehadproduced hisownversionofthefacts,andbelievedthathewasgettingit fromyou.Asheinvariablygotproper nameswrong(noname seemedtohimlessprobablethananother) his textus receptus wasoftenalmostunrecognisable.Tell himthata boycalledChurchwoodhadcaughtafieldmouseandkeptitasa pet,andayear,or tenyearslater,hewouldaskyou,“Didyou ever hear whatbecameofpoor Chickweedwhowassoafraid oftherats?”For hisownversion,onceadopted,wasindelible, andattemptstocorrectitonlyproducedanincredulous“Hm! Well,that’snotthestoryyou used totell.”Sometimes,indeed, hetookinthefactsyouhadstated;buttruthfarednonethebetter for that.Whatarefactswithoutinterpretation?Itwasaxiomatic tomyfather (intheory) thatnothingwassaidor donefroman obviousmotive.Hencehewhoinhisreal lifewasthemost honourableandimpulsiveofmen,andtheeasiestvictimthatany knaveor impostor couldhopetomeet,becameapositive Machiavel whenheknittedhisbrowsandappliedtothe behaviour ofpeoplehehadnever seenthespectral and labyrinthineoperationwhichhecalled“readingbetweenthe lines”.Onceembarkeduponthat,hemightmakehislandfill anywhereinthewideworld: andalwayswithunshakable conviction.“Iseeitall” “Iunderstanditperfectly” “It’sas plainasapikestaff,”hewouldsay;andthen,aswesoon learned,hewouldbelievetill hisdyingdayinsomedeadly quarrel,someslight,somesecretsorrow or someimmensely complexmachination,whichwasnotonlyimprobablebut impossible.Dissentonour partwasattributed,withkindly laughter,toour innocence,gullibility,andgeneral ignoranceof life.Andbesidesall theseconfusions,therewerethesheer non sequiturs whenthegroundseemedtoopenatone’sfeet.“Did Shakespearespell hisnamewithanEattheend?”askedmy

brother.“Ibelieve,”saidI butmyfather interrupted: “Ivery muchdoubtifheusedtheItaliancalligraphy at all.”Acertain churchinBelfasthasbothaGreekinscriptionover thedoor and acurioustower.“Thatchurchisagreatlandmark,”saidI,“Ican pickitoutfromall sortsofplaces evenfromthetopof CaveHill.”“Suchnonsense,”saidmyfather,“how could youmakeoutGreeklettersthreeor four milesaway?”

Oneconversation,heldseveral yearslater,mayberecordedas aspecimenofthesecontinual cross-purposes.Mybrother had beenspeakingofare-uniondinner for theofficersoftheNth Divisionwhichhehadlatelyattended.“Isupposeyour friend Collinswasthere,”saidmyfather.

B.Collins?Ohno.Hewasn’tintheNth,youknow.

F.(After apause.) DidthesefellowsnotlikeCollinsthen?

B.Idon’tquiteunderstand.Whatfellows?

F.TheJohnniesthatgotupthedinner.

B.Ohno,notatall.Itwasnothingtodowithlikingor not liking.Yousee,itwasapurelyDivisional affair.There’d benoquestionofaskinganyonewhohadn’tbeeninthe Nth.

F.(After alongpause.) Hm!Well,I’msurepoor Collinswas verymuchhurt. TherearesituationsinwhichtheverygeniusofFilial Piety wouldfinditdifficultnottoletsomesignofimpatienceescape him.

IwouldnotcommitthesinofHam.Nor wouldI,ashistorian, reduceacomplexcharacter toafalsesimplicity.Themanwho, inhisarmchair,sometimesappearednotsomuchincapableof understandinganythingasdeterminedtomisunderstand everything,wasformidableinthepolicecourtand,Ipresume, efficientinhisoffice.Hewasahumorist,even,onoccasion,a wit.Whenhewasdying,theprettynurse,rallyinghim,said, “Whatanoldpessimistyouare!You’rejustlikemyfather.”“I suppose,”repliedher patient,“hehas several daughters.”

Thehoursmyfather spentathomewerethushoursofperplexity for usboys.After aneveningofthesortofconversationI havebeendescribingonefeltasifone’sheadwere spinninglikeatop.Hispresenceputanendtoall our innocent aswell astoall our forbiddenoccupations.Itisahardthing nay,awickedthing whenamanisfelttobeanintruder inhis ownhouse.Andyet,asJohnsonsaid,“Sensationissensation.”I amsureitwasnothisfault,Ibelievemuchofitwasours;what iscertainisthatIincreasinglyfounditoppressivetobewith him.Oneofhismostamiablequalitieshelpedtomakeitso.I havesaidbeforethathe“connednostate”;exceptduringhis Philippicshetreatedusasequals.Thetheorywasthatwelived together morelikethreebrothersthanlikeafather andtwosons. That,Isay,wasthetheory.Butofcourseitwasnotandcould notbeso;indeedoughtnottohavebeenso.Thatrelationcannot reallyexistbetweenschoolboysandamiddle-agedmanof overwhelmingpersonalityandofhabitsutterlyunliketheirs. Andthepretencethatitdoesendsbyputtingacuriousstrainon thejuniors.Chestertonhaslaidhisfinger ontheweakpointof all suchfactitiousequality: “Ifaboy’sauntsarehispals,will it notsoonfollow thataboyneedsnopalsbuthisaunts?”That wasnot,ofcourse,thequestionfor us;wewantednopals.But

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121 wedidwantliberty,ifonlylibertytowalkaboutthehouse.And myfather’stheorythatwewerethreeboystogether actually meantthatwhilehewasathomewewereascloselyboundto hispresenceasifthethreeofushadbeenchainedtogether;and all our habitswerefrustrated.Thusifmyfather camehome unexpectedlyatmidday,havingallowedhimselfanextrahalfholiday,hemight,ifitweresummer,finduswithchairsand booksinthegarden.Anaustereparent,oftheformal school, wouldhavegoneintohisownadultoccupations.Notsomy father.Sittinginthegarden?Anexcellentidea.Butwouldnot all threeofusbebetter onthesummer-seat?Thither,after he hadassumedoneofhis“lightspringovercoats”,wewouldgo. (Idonotknow how manyovercoatshehad;Iamstill wearingtwoofthem.) After sittingfor afew minutes, thusclad,onashadelessseatwherethenoondaysunwas blisteringthepaint,henotunnaturallybegantoperspire.“I don’tknow whatyoutwothink,”hewouldsay,“butI’mfinding thisalmost too hot.Whataboutmovingindoors?”Thatmeantan adjournmenttothestudy,whereeventhesmallestchinkofopen window wasrather grudginglyallowed.Isay“allowed”,but therewasnoquestionofauthority.Intheory,everythingwas decidedbythegeneral Will.“LibertyHall,boys,LibertyHall,” ashedelightedtoquote.“Whattimewouldyoulikelunch?”But weknew onlytoowell thatthemeal whichwouldotherwise havebeenatonehadalreadybeenshifted,inobediencetohis lifelongpreference,totwoor eventwo-thirty;andthatthecold meatswhichwelikedhadalreadybeenwithdrawninfavour of theonlyfoodour father ever voluntarilyate hotbutcher’s meat,boiled,stewedor roast...andthistobeeateninmidafternooninadining-roomthatfacedsouth.For thewholeofthe restoftheday,whether sittingor walking,wewereinseparable; andthespeech(youseethatitcouldhardlybecalled

conversation),thespeechwithitscross-purposes,withitstone (inevitably) alwayssetbyhim,continuedintermittentlytill bedtime.IshouldbeworsethanadogifIblamedmylonely father for thusdesiringthefriendshipofhissons;or evenifthe miserablereturnImadehimdidnottothisdaylieheavyonmy conscience.But“sensationissensation”.Itwasextraordinarily tiring.Andinmyowncontributionstotheseendlesstalks whichwereindeedtooadultfor me,tooanecdotal,too prevailinglyjocular Iwasincreasinglyawareofan artificiality.Theanecdoteswere,indeed,admirableintheir kind: businessstories,Mahaffystories(manyofwhichIfound attachedtoJowettatOxford),storiesofingeniousswindles, social blunders,police-court“drunks”.ButIwasactingwhenI respondedtothem.Drollery,whimsicality,thekindof humour thatbordersonthefantastic,wasmyline.Ihad toact.Myfather’sgenialityandmyownfurtivedisobediences bothhelpedtodrivemeintohypocrisy.Icouldnot“bemyself” whilehewasathome.Godforgiveme,IthoughtMonday morning,whenhewentbacktohiswork,thebrightestjewel in theweek.

Suchwasthesituationwhichdevelopedduringtheclassic period.Now,whenIhadgonetoWyvernandmybrother toa tutor topreparefor Sandhurst,therecameachange.Mybrother hadlikedWyvernasmuchasIloathedit.Thereweremany reasonsfor this: hismoreadaptabletemper,hisfacewhichbore nosuchsmack-invitingsignatureasmine,butmostofall thefact thathehadgonetherestraightfromOldie’sandIfroma preparatoryschool whereIhadbeenhappy.Noschool in Englandbutwouldhaveappearedaheavenonearthafter Oldie’s.ThusinoneofhisfirstlettersfromWyvernmybrother communicatedthestartlingfactthatyoucouldreallyeatasmuch

(or aslittle) asyouwantedattable.Toaboyfreshfromthe school atBelsen,thisalonewouldhaveoutweighedalmost everythingelse.ButbythetimeIwenttoWyvernIhadlearned totakedecentfeedingfor granted.Andnow aterriblething happened.MyreactiontoWyvernwasperhapsthefirstgreat disappointmentmybrother hadever experienced.Lovingthe placeashedid,hehadlookedforwardtothedayswhenthistoo couldbesharedbetweenus an idem sentire aboutWyvern succeedingan idem sentire aboutBoxen.Insteadheheard,from me,blasphemiesagainstall hisgods;fromWyvern,thathis youngbrother lookedlikebecomingaColl Punt.The immemorial leaguebetweenuswasstrained,all butbroken.

All thiswascruellycomplicatedbythefactthatrelations betweenmyfather andmybrother werenever beforeor sinceso badasatthistime;andWyvernwasbehindthattoo.My brother’sreportshadgrownworseandworse;andthe tutor towhomhehadnow beensentconfirmedthemtotheextent ofsayingthatheseemedtohavelearnedalmostnothingat school.Nor wasthatall.Sentencessavagelyunderlinedinmy father’scopyof The Lanchester Tradition reveal histhoughts. Theyarepassagesaboutacertainglazedinsolence,an elaborate,heartlessflippancy,whichthereformingHeadmaster inthatstoryencounteredintheBloodsoftheschool hewished toreform.Thatwashow myfather envisagedmybrother atthis period: flippant,languid,emptiedoftheintellectual interests whichhadappearedinhisearlier boyhood,immovable, indifferenttoall real values,andurgentinhisdemandfor a motor-bicycle. Itwas,ofcourse,toturnusintopublic-school boysthatmy father hadoriginallysentustoWyvern;thefinishedproduct

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appalledhim.Itisafamiliar tragi-comedyandyoucanstudyit inLockhart;Scottlabouredhardtomakehissonahussar,but whentheactual hussar waspresentedtohim,Scottsometimes forgottheillusionofbeinganaristocratandbecameoncemore arespectableEdinburghlawyer withstrongviewsabout Puppyism.Soinour family.Mispronunciationwasoneofmy father’sfavouriterhetorical weapons.Henow alwayssounded thefirstsyllableofWyvernwrongly.Icanstill hear himgrowl, “Wyvernianaffectation.”Inproportionasmybrother’stone becamelanguidandurbanelyweary,somyfather’svoice becamemorerichlyandenergeticallyIrish,andall manner of strangemusicfromhisboyhoodinCorkandDublinforcedits wayupthroughthemorerecentBelfastiancrust.

DuringthesemiserabledebatesIoccupiedamostunfortunate position.Tohavebeenonmyfather’ssideandagainstmy brother Ishouldhavehadtounmakemyself;itwasastateof partiesoutsidemywholephilosophyofdomesticpolitics.It wasall verydisagreeable.

Yetoutofthis“unpleasantness”(afavouritewordofmy father’s) theresprangwhatIstill reckon,bymerely natural standards,themostfortunatethingthatever happenedto me.Thetutor (inSurrey) towhommybrother hadbeensentwas oneofmyfather’soldestfriends.Hehadbeenheadmaster of Lurganwhenmyfather wasaboythere.Inasurprisinglyshort timehesore-builtandextendedtheruinsofmybrother’s educationthathenotonlypassedintoSandhurstbutwasplaced amongthoseveryfew candidatesatthetopofthelistwho receivedprizecadetships.Idonotthinkmyfather ever did justicetomybrother’sachievement;itcameatatimewhenthe gulfbetweenthemwastoowide,andwhentheywerefriends

againithadbecomeancienthistory.Buthesaw veryclearly whatitprovedabouttheexceptional powersofhisteacher.At thesametime,hewasalmostassickasIoftheverynameof Wyvern.AndInever ceased,byletter andbywordofmouth,to begthatImightbetakenaway.All thesefactorsurgedhimtothe decisionwhichhenow made.Mightitnotafter all bebestto givememydesire?tohavedonewithschool for goodandsend mealsotoSurreytoreadfor theUniversitywithMr. Kirkpatrick?Hedidnotformthisplanwithoutmuchdoubtand hesitation.Hedidhisbesttoputall therisksbeforeme: the dangersofsolitude,thesuddenchangefromthelifeandbustle ofagreatschool (whichchangeImightnotlikesomuchasI anticipated),thepossiblydeadeningeffectoflivingwithonlyan oldmanandhisoldwifefor company.ShouldIreallybehappy withnocompanionsofmyownage?Itriedtolookverygraveat thesequestions.Butitwasall imposture.Myheartlaughed. Happywithoutother boys?Happywithouttoothache,without chilblains,happywithoutpebblesinmyshoes?Andsothe arrangementwasmade.Ifithadhadnothingelsetorecommend it,themerethought,“Never,never,never,shall Ihavetoplay gamesagain,”wasenoughtotransportme.Ifyouwantto know how Ifelt,imagineyour ownfeelingsonwaking onemorningtofindthatincometaxor unrequitedlovehad somehow vanishedfromtheworld.

IshouldbesorryifIwereunderstoodtothink,or ifI encouragedanyreader inthinking,thatthisinvincibledislikeof doingthingswithabator aball wereother thanamisfortune. Not,indeed,thatIallow togamesanyofthemoral andalmost mystical virtuewhichschoolmastersclaimfor them;theyseem tometoleadtoambition,jealousy,andembitteredpartisan feeling,quiteasoftenastoanythingelse.Yetnottolikethemis

amisfortune,becauseitcutsyouofffromcompanionshipwith manyexcellentpeoplewhocanbeapproachedinnoother way. Amisfortune,notavice;for itisinvoluntary.Ihadtriedtolike gamesandfailed.Thatimpulsehadbeenleftoutofmymake-up; Iwastogames,astheproverbhasit,likeanasstotheharp.

Itisacurioustruth,noticedbymanywriters,thatgoodfortuneis nearlyalwaysfollowedbymoregoodfortune,andbad,bymore bad.AboutthesametimethatmyFather decidedtosendmeto Mr.Kirkpatrick,another greatgoodcametome.Manychapters agoImentionedaboywholivednear usandwhohadtried, quiteunsuccessfully,tomakefriendswithmybrother and myself.HisnamewasArthur andhewasmybrother’sexact contemporary;heandIhadbeenatCampbell together though wenever met.Ithinkitwasshortlybeforethebeginningofmy lasttermatWyvernthatIreceivedamessagesayingthatArthur wasinbed,convalescent,andwouldwelcomeavisit.Ican’t remember whatledmetoacceptthisinvitation,butfor some reasonIdid.

IfoundArthur sittingupinbed.Onthetablebesidehimlaya copyof Myths of the Norsemen.

“Do you likethat?”saidI.

“Do you likethat?”saidhe.

Nextmomentthebookwasinour hands,our headswere bentclosetogether,wewerepointing,quoting,talking soonalmostshouting discoveringinatorrentofquestionsthat welikednotonlythesamething,butthesamepartsofitandin thesameway;thatbothknew thestabofJoyandthat,for both,

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thearrow wasshotfromtheNorth.Manythousandsofpeople havehadtheexperienceoffindingthefirstfriend,anditisnone thelessawonder;asgreatawonder (pace thenovelists) asfirst love,or evenagreater.Ihadbeensofar fromthinkingsucha friendpossiblethatIhadnever evenlongedfor one;nomore thanIlongedtobeKingofEngland.IfIhadfoundthatArthur hadindependentlybuiltupanexactreplicaoftheBoxonian worldIshouldnotreallyhavebeenmuchmoresurprised. Nothing,Isuspect,ismoreastonishinginanyman’slifethanthe discoverythattheredoexistpeoplevery,verylikehimself.

Duringmylastfew weeksatWyvernstrangestoriesbeganto appear inthepapers,for thiswasthesummer of1914.I remember how afriendandIpuzzledover acolumnthatbore theheadline“CanEnglandkeepoutofit?”“Keepoutofit?” saidhe,“Idon’tseehow shecangetintoit.”Memorypaintsthe lasthoursofthatterminslightlyapocalypticcolours,and perhapsmemorylies.Or perhapsfor meitwasapocalyptic enoughtoknow thatIwasleaving,toseeall thosehatedthings for thelasttime;yetnotsimply(atthatmoment) tohatethem. Thereisa“rumness”,aghostliness,aboutevenaWindsor chair whenitsays,“Youwill notseemeagain.”Earlyintheholidays wedeclaredwar.Mybrother,thenonleavefromSandhurst, wasrecalled.Someweekslater IwenttoMr.Kirkpatrickat GreatBookhaminSurrey.

IX.TheGreatKnock

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

OnaSeptember day,havingcrossedtoLiverpool andreached London,ImademywaytoWaterlooandrandowntoGreat Bookham.IhadbeentoldthatSurreywas“suburban”,andthe landscapethatactuallyflittedpastthewindowsastonishedme.I saw steeplittlehills,wateredvalleys,andwoodedcommons whichrankedbymyWyvernianandIrishstandardsasforests; brackeneverywhere;aworldofredandrussetandyellowish greens.Eventhesprinklingofsuburbanvillas(muchrarer then thannow) delightedme.Thesetimberedandred-tiledhouses, embosomedintrees,werewhollyunlikethestuccoed monstrositieswhichformedthesuburbsofBelfast.WhereIhad expectedgravel drivesandirongatesandinterminablelaurels andmonkeypuzzlers,Isaw crookedpathsrunningupor down hill fromwicketgates,betweenfruittreesandbirches.Bya severer tastethanminethesehouseswouldall bemocked perhaps;yetIcannothelpthinkingthatthosewhodesignedthem andtheir gardensachievedtheir object,whichwastosuggest Happiness.Theyfilledmewithadesirefor thatdomesticity which,initsfull development,Ihadnever known;theysetone thinkingofteatrays.

AtBookhamIwasmetbymynew teacher “Kirk”or “Knock” or theGreatKnockasmyfather,mybrother,andIall

calledhim.Wehadheardabouthimall our livesandI thereforehadaveryclear impressionofwhatIwasinfor.I camepreparedtoendureaperpetual luke-warmshower bathof sentimentality.ThatwasthepriceIwasreadytopayfor the infiniteblessednessofescapingschool;butaheavyprice.One storyofmyfather’s,inparticular,gavemethemost embarrassingforebodings.Hehadlovedtotell how onceat Lurgan,whenhewasinsomekindoftroubleor difficulty,the OldKnock,or thedear OldKnock,haddrawnhimasideand there“quietlyandnaturally”slidhisarmroundhimandrubbed hisdear oldwhiskersagainstmyfather’syouthful cheekand whisperedafew wordsofcomfort....AndherewasBookham atlast,andtherewasthearch-sentimentalisthimselfwaitingto meetme.

Hewasover sixfeettall,veryshabbilydressed(likea gardener,Ithought),leanasarake,andimmenselymuscular. Hiswrinkledfaceseemedtoconsistentirelyofmuscles,sofar asitwasvisible;for heworemoustacheandsidewhiskerswith aclean-shavenchinliketheEmperor FranzJoseph.The whiskers,youwill understand,concernedmeverymuchatthat moment.Mycheekalreadytingledinanticipation.Wouldhe beginatonce?Therewouldbetearsfor certain;perhapsworse things.ItisoneofmylifelongweaknessesthatInever could enduretheembraceor kissofmyownsex.(Anunmanly weakness,bytheway;Aeneas,Beowulf,Roland,Launcelot, Johnson,andNelsonknew nothingofit.)

Apparently,however,theoldmanwasholdinghisfire.We shookhands,andthoughhisgripwaslikeironpincersitwas notlingering.Afew minuteslater wewerewalkingawayfrom thestation.

“Youarenow,”saidKirk,“proceedingalongtheprincipal arterybetweenGreatandLittleBookham.”

Istoleaglanceathim.Wasthisgeographical exordiuma heavyjoke?Or washetryingtoconceal hisemotions? Hisface,however,showedonlyaninflexiblegravity.Ibeganto “makeconversation”inthedeplorablemanner whichIhad acquiredatthoseeveningpartiesandindeedfoundincreasingly necessarytousewithmyfather.IsaidIwassurprisedatthe “scenery”ofSurrey;itwasmuch“wilder”thanIhadexpected.

“Stop!”shoutedKirkwithasuddennessthatmademejump. “Whatdoyoumeanbywildnessandwhatgroundshadyoufor notexpectingit?”

IrepliedIdon’tknow what,still “makingconversation”.As answer after answer wastorntoshredsitatlastdawnedupon methathereallywantedtoknow.Hewasnotmaking conversation,nor joking,nor snubbingme;hewantedtoknow.I wasstungintoattemptingareal answer.Afew passessufficed toshow thatIhadnoclear anddistinctideacorrespondingto theword“wildness”,andthat,insofar asIhadanyideaatall, “wildness”wasasingularlyineptword.“Doyounotsee,then,” concludedtheGreatKnock,“thatyour remarkwas meaningless?”Ipreparedtosulkalittle,assumingthatthe subjectwouldnow bedropped.Never wasImoremistakenin mylife.Havinganalysedmyterms,Kirkwasproceedingtodeal withmypropositionasawhole.OnwhathadIbased(buthe pronouncedit baized) myexpectationsabouttheFloraand GeologyofSurrey?Wasitmaps,or photographs,or books?I couldproducenone.Ithad,heavenhelpme,never occurredto methatwhatIcalledmythoughtsneededtobe“baized”on

anything.Kirkoncemoredrew aconclusion withoutthe slightestsignofemotion,butequallywithouttheslightest concessiontowhatIthoughtgoodmanners: “Doyounotsee, then,thatyouhadnorighttohaveanyopinionwhatever onthe subject?”

Bythistimeour acquaintancehadlastedaboutthreeandahalf minutes;butthetonesetbythisfirstconversationwas preservedwithoutasinglebreakduringall theyearsI spentatBookham.Anythingmoregrotesquelyunlikethe“dear OldKnock”ofmyfather’sreminiscencescouldnotbe conceived.Knowingmyfather’sinvariableintentionofveracity andalsoknowingwhatstrangetransformationseverytruth underwentwhenonceitenteredhismind,Iamsurehedidnot meantodeceiveus.ButifKirkatanytimeofhislifetookaboy asideandthere“quietlyandnaturally”rubbedtheboy’sface withhiswhiskers,Ishall aseasilybelievethathesometimes variedthetreatmentbyquietlyandnaturallystandingonhis venerableandegg-baldhead.

Ifever amancamenear tobeingapurelylogical entity,thatman wasKirk.Bornalittlelater,hewouldhavebeenaLogical Positivist.Theideathathumanbeingsshouldexercisetheir vocal organsfor anypurposeexceptthatofcommunicatingor discoveringtruthwastohimpreposterous.Themostcasual remarkwastakenasasummonstodisputation.Isooncameto know thedifferingvaluesofhisthreeopenings.Theloudcryof “Stop!”wasflungintoarrestatorrentofverbiagewhichcould notbeenduredamomentlonger;notbecauseitfrettedhis patience(henever thoughtofthat) butbecauseitwaswasting time,darkeningcounsel.Thehastier andquieter “Excuse!”(i.e. “Excuseme”) usheredinacorrectionor distinctionmerely

parenthetical andbetokenedthat,thussetright,your remark mightstill,withoutabsurdity,beallowedtoreachcompletion. Themostencouragingofall was,“Ihear you.”Thismeantthat your remarkwassignificantandonlyrequiredrefutation;ithad risentothedignityoferror.Refutation(whenwegotsofar) alwaysfollowedthesamelines.HadIreadthis?HadIstudied that?HadIanystatistical evidence?HadIanyevidenceinmy ownexperience?Andsotothealmostinevitableconclusion, “Doyounotseethenthatyouhadnoright,etc.”

Someboyswouldnothavelikedit;tomeitwasredbeef andstrongbeer.Ihadtakenitfor grantedthatmyleisure hoursatBookhamwouldbepassedin“grown-up conversation”.Andthat,asyouknow already,Ihadnotastefor. Inmyexperienceitmeantconversationaboutpolitics,money, deaths,anddigestion.Iassumedthatatastefor it,asfor eating mustardor readingnewspapers,woulddevelopinmewhenI grew older (sofar,all threeexpectationshavebeen disappointed).TheonlytwokindsoftalkIwantedwerethe almostpurelyimaginativeandthealmostpurelyrational;such talkasIhadaboutBoxenwithmybrother or aboutValhallawith Arthur,ontheonehand,or suchtalkasIhadhadwithmyuncle Gussieaboutastronomyontheother.Icouldnever havegone far inanysciencebecauseonthepathofeverysciencethelion Mathematicsliesinwaitfor you.EveninMathematics, whatever couldbedonebymerereasoning(asinsimple geometry) Ididwithdelight;butthemomentcalculationcamein Iwashelpless.Igraspedtheprinciplesbutmyanswerswere alwayswrong.YetthoughIcouldnever havebeenascientist,I hadscientificaswell asimaginativeimpulses,andIloved ratiocination.Kirkexcitedandsatisfiedonesideofme.Here wastalkthatwasreallyaboutsomething.Herewasamanwho

thoughtnotaboutyoubutaboutwhatyousaid.NodoubtI snortedandbridledalittleatsomeofmytossings;but,takingit all inall,Ilovedthetreatment.After beingknockeddown sufficientlyoftenIbegantoknow afew guardsandblows,and toputonintellectual muscle.Intheend,unlessIflatter myself,I becameanotcontemptiblesparringpartner.Itwasagreatday whenthemanwhohadsolongbeenengagedinexposingmy vaguenessatlastcautionedmeagainstthedangersofexcessive subtlety.

IfKirk’sruthlessdialectichadbeenmerelyapedagogic instrumentImighthaveresentedit.Butheknew noother wayof talking.Noageor sexwassparedtheelenchus.Itwasa continuousastonishmenttohimthatanyoneshouldnot desiretobeclarifiedor corrected.Whenaverydignified neighbour,inthecourseofaSundaycall,observedwithanair offinality,“Well,well,Mr.Kirkpatrick,ittakesall sortsto makeaworld.YouareaLiberal andIamaConservative;we naturallylookatthefactsfromdifferentangles,”Kirkreplied, “Whatdoyoumean?AreyouaskingmetopictureLiberalsand Conservativesplayingpeep-boatarectangular Factfrom oppositesidesofatable?”Ifanunwaryvisitor,hopingtowaive asubject,observed,“Ofcourse,Iknow opinionsdiffer ” Kirkwouldraisebothhishandsandexclaim,“Goodheavens!I haveno opinions onanysubjectwhatsoever.”Afavourite maximwas,“Youcanhaveenlightenmentfor ninepencebutyou prefer ignorance.”Thecommonestmetaphorswouldbe questionedtill somebitter truthhadbeenforcedfromitshiding place.“ThesefiendishGermanatrocities ”“Butarenot fiendsafigmentoftheimagination?” “Verywell,then;these brutal atrocities ”“Butnoneofthebrutesdoesanythingof thekind!” “Well,whatamItocall them?”“Isitnotplainthat

wemustcall themsimply Human?”Whatexcitedhissupreme contemptwastheconversationofother Headmasters,whichhe hadsometimeshadtoendureatconferenceswhenhehimself wasHeadofLurgan.“Theywouldcomeandaskme,‘What attitudedoyouadopttoaboywhodoesso-and-so?’Good Heavens!AsifIever adoptedanattitudetoanybodyor anything!”Sometimes,butrarely,hewasdriventoirony.On suchoccasionshisvoicebecameevenweightier thanusual and onlythedistentionofhisnostrilsbetrayedthesecrettothose whoknew him.Itwasinsuchfashionthatheproducedhis dictum,“TheMaster ofBalliol isoneofthemostimportant beingsintheuniverse.”

Itwill beimaginedthatMrs.Kirkpatrickledasomewhat uneasylife: witnesstheoccasiononwhichher husband bysomestrangeerror foundhimselfinthedrawing-roomatthe beginningofwhathisladyhadintendedtobeabridgeparty. Abouthalfanhour later shewasobservedtoleavetheroom witharemarkableexpressiononher face;andmanyhourslater still theGreatKnockwasdiscoveredsittingonastool inthe midstofsevenelderlyladies(“ful drerywashirechere”) beggingthemtoclarifytheir terms.

Ihavesaidthathewasalmostwhollylogical;butnotquite.He hadbeenaPresbyterianandwasnow anAtheist.Hespent Sunday,ashespentmostofhistimeonweek-days,workingin hisgarden.ButonecurioustraitfromhisPresbyterianyouth survived.Healways,onSundays,gardenedinadifferent,and slightlymorerespectable,suit.AnUlster Scotmaycometo disbelieveinGod,butnottowear hisweek-dayclothesonthe Sabbath.

HavingsaidthathewasanAtheist,Ihastentoaddthathewasa “Rationalist”oftheold,highanddrynineteenth-centurytype. For Atheismhascomedownintheworldsincethosedays,and mixeditselfwithpoliticsandlearnedtodabbleindirt.The anonymousdonor whonow sendsmeanti-Godmagazines hopes,nodoubt,tohurttheChristianinme;hereallyhurtsthe ex-Atheist.Iamashamedthatmyoldmatesand(whichmatters muchmore) Kirk’soldmatesshouldhavesunktowhattheyare now.Itwasdifferentthen;evenMcCabewrotelikeaman.At thetimewhenIknew him,thefuel ofKirk’sAtheismwas chieflyoftheanthropological andpessimistickind.Hewas greaton The Golden Bough andSchopenhauer.

Thereader will remember thatmyownAtheismandPessimism werefullyformedbeforeIwenttoBookham.WhatIgotthere wasmerelyfreshammunitionfor thedefenceofaposition alreadychosen.EventhisIgotindirectlyfromthetoneof hismindor independentlyfromreadinghisbooks.He never attackedreligioninmypresence.Itisthesortoffactthat noonewouldinfer fromanoutsideknowledgeofmylife,butit isafact. IarrivedatGastons(sotheKnock’shomewascalled) ona Saturday,andheannouncedthatwewouldbeginHomer on Monday.IexplainedthatIhadnever readawordinanydialect buttheAttic,assumingthatwhenheknew thishewould approachHomer throughsomepreliminarylessonsontheEpic language.Herepliedmerelywithasoundveryfrequentinhis conversationwhichIcanonlyspell “Huh”.Ifoundthisrather disquieting;andIwokeonMondaysayingtomyself,“Now for Homer.Golly!”Thenamestruckaweintomysoul.Atnine o’clockwesatdowntoworkinthelittleupstairsstudywhich

135 soonbecamesofamiliar tome.Itcontainedasofa(onwhichwe satsidebysidewhenhewasworkingwithme),atableand chair (whichIusedwhenIwasalone),abookcase,agasstove, andaframedphotographofMr.Gladstone.Weopenedour booksat Iliad,BookI.WithoutawordofintroductionKnock readaloudthefirsttwentylinesor sointhe“new” pronunciation,whichIhadnever heardbefore.LikeSmewgy,he wasachanter;lessmellow invoice,yethisfrill gutturalsand rollingR’sandmorevariedvowelsseemedtosuitthebronzeageepicaswell asSmewgy’shoneytonguehadsuitedHorace. For Kirk,evenafter yearsofresidenceinEngland,spokethe purestUlster.Hethentranslated,withafew,averyfew explanations,aboutahundredlines.Ihadnever seenaclassical author takeninsuchlargegulpsbefore.Whenhehadfinishedhe handedmeover Crusius’ Lexicon and,havingtoldmetogo throughagainasmuchasIcouldofwhathehaddone,leftthe room.Itseemsanoddmethodofteaching,butitworked.Atfirst Icouldtravel onlyaveryshortwayalongthetrail hehad blazed,buteverydayIcouldtravel further.PresentlyI couldtravel thewholeway.ThenIcouldgoalineor two beyondhisfurthestNorth.Thenitbecameakindofgametosee how far beyond.Heappearedatthisstagetovaluespeedmore thanabsoluteaccuracy.ThegreatgainwasthatIverysoon becameabletounderstandagreatdeal without(evenmentally) translatingit;IwasbeginningtothinkinGreek.Thatisthegreat Rubicontocrossinlearninganylanguage.Thoseinwhomthe Greekwordlivesonlywhiletheyarehuntingfor itinthe lexicon,andwhothensubstitutetheEnglishwordfor it,arenot readingtheGreekatall;theyareonlysolvingapuzzle.Thevery formula,“Naus meansaship,”iswrong. Naus and ship both meanathing,theydonotmeanoneanother.Behind Naus,as behind navis or naca,wewanttohaveapictureofadark,

slender masswithsail or oars,climbingtheridges,withno officiousEnglishwordintruding.

Wenow settledintoaroutinewhichhasever sinceservedinmy mindasanarchtype,sothatwhatIstill meanwhenIspeakofa “normal”day(andlamentthatnormal daysaresorare) isaday oftheBookhampattern.For ifIcouldpleasemyselfIwould alwaysliveasIlivedthere.Iwouldchoosealwaystobreakfast atexactlyeightandtobeatmydeskbynine,theretoreador writetill one.Ifacupofgoodteaor coffeecouldbebroughtme abouteleven,somuchthebetter.Astepor sooutofdoorsfor a pintofbeer wouldnotdoquitesowell;for amandoesnotwant todrinkaloneandifyoumeetafriendinthetap-roomthebreak islikelytobeextendedbeyonditstenminutes.Atoneprecisely lunchshouldbeonthetable;andbytwoatthelatestIwouldbe ontheroad.Not,exceptatrareintervals,withafriend.Walking andtalkingaretwoverygreatpleasures,butitisamistaketo combinethem.Our ownnoiseblotsoutthesoundsandsilences oftheout-door world;andtalkingleadsalmostinevitablyto smoking,andthenfarewell tonatureasfar asoneofour sensesisconcerned.Theonlyfriendtowalkwithisone (suchasIfound,duringtheholidays,inArthur) whosoexactly sharesyour tastefor eachmoodofthecountrysidethataglance, ahalt,or atmostanudge,isenoughtoassureusthatthe pleasureisshared.Thereturnfromthewalk,andthearrival of tea,shouldbeexactlycoincident,andnotlater thanaquarter pastfour.Teashouldbetakeninsolitude,asItookitat Bookhamonthose(happilynumerous) occasionswhenMrs. Kirkpatrickwasout;theKnockhimselfdisdainedthismeal.For eatingandreadingaretwopleasuresthatcombineadmirably.Of coursenotall booksaresuitablefor meal-timereading.Itwould beakindofblasphemytoreadpoetryattable.Whatonewants

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isagossipy,formlessbookwhichcanbeopenedanywhere.The onesIlearnedsotouseatBookhamwereBoswell,anda translationofHerodotus,andLang’s History of English Literature. Tristram Shandy, Elia andthe Anatomy of Melancholy areall goodfor thesamepurpose.Atfiveaman shouldbeatworkagain,andatittill seven.Then,attheevening meal andafter,comesthetimefor talk,or,failingthat,for lighter reading;andunlessyouaremakinganightofitwithyour cronies(andatBookhamIhadnone) thereisnoreasonwhyyou shouldever beinbedlater thaneleven.Butwhenisamanto writehisletters?YouforgetthatIamdescribingthehappylifeI ledwithKirkor theideal lifeIwouldlivenow ifIcould.And itisanessential ofthehappylifethatamanwouldhavealmost nomail andnever dreadthepostman’sknock.Inthoseblessed daysIreceived,andanswered,onlytwolettersaweek;one frommyfather,whichwasamatter ofduty,andonefromArthur whichwasthehighlightoftheweek,for wepouredouttoeach other onpaper all thedelightthatwasintoxicatingusboth. Lettersfrommybrother,now onactiveservice,werelonger and rarer,andsoweremyreplies.

Suchismyideal,andsuchthen(almost) wasthereality, of“settled,calm,Epicureanlife”.Itisnodoubtfor my owngoodthatIhavebeensogenerallypreventedfromleading it,for itisalifealmostentirelyselfish.Selfish,notselfcentred: for insuchalifemymindwouldbedirectedtowardsathousand things,notoneofwhichismyself.Thedistinctionisnot unimportant.Oneofthehappiestmenandmostpleasing companionsIhaveever knownwasintenselyselfish.Onthe other handIhaveknownpeoplecapableofreal sacrificewhose liveswereneverthelessamiserytothemselvesandtoothers, becauseself-concernandself-pityfilledall their thoughts.

Either conditionwill destroythesoul intheend.Buttill theend, givemethemanwhotakesthebestofeverything(evenatmy expense) andthentalksofother things,rather thanthemanwho servesmeandtalksofhimself,andwhoseverykindnessesarea continual reproach,acontinual demandfor pity,gratitude,and admiration. Kirkdidnot,ofcourse,makemereadnothingbutHomer.The TwoGreatBores(DemosthenesandCicero) couldnotbe avoided.Therewere(ohglory!) Lucretius,Catullus,Tacitus, Herodotus.TherewasVirgil,for whomIstill hadnotruetaste. TherewereGreekandLatincompositions.(Itisastrangething thatIhavecontrivedtoreachmylatefiftieswithoutever readingonewordofCaesar.) TherewereEuripides,Sophocles, Aeschylus.IntheeveningstherewasFrenchwithMrs. Kirkpatrick,treatedmuchasher husbandtreatedHomer.Wegot throughagreatmanygoodnovelsinthiswayandIwassoon buyingFrenchbooksonmyown.Ihadhopedtherewouldbe Englishessays,butwhether becausehefelthecouldnotendure mineor becausehesoonguessedthatIwasalreadyonlytoo proficientinthatart(whichhealmostcertainlydespised) Kirk never setmeone.For thefirstweekor sohegavemedirections aboutmyEnglishreading,butwhenhediscoveredthat, lefttomyself,Iwasnotlikelytowastemytime,hegave meabsolutefreedom.Later inmycareer webranchedoutinto GermanandItalian.Herehismethodswerethesame.After the verybriefestcontactwithGrammarsandExercisesIwas plungedinto Faust andthe Inferno.InItalianwesucceeded.In GermanIhavelittledoubtthatweshouldequallyhave succeededifIhadstayedwithhimalittlelonger.ButIlefttoo soonandmyGermanhasremainedall mylifethatofa schoolboy.Whenever Ihavesetaboutrectifyingthis,someother

andmoreurgenttaskhasalwaysinterruptedme.

ButHomer camefirst.Dayafter dayandmonthafter monthwe drovegloriouslyonward,tearingthewhole Achilleid outofthe Iliad andtossingtherestononeside,andthenreadingthe Odyssey entire,till themusicofthethingandtheclear,bitter brightnessthatlivesinalmosteveryformulahadbecomepartof me.Ofcoursemyappreciationwasveryromanticised the appreciationofaboysoakedinWilliamMorris.Butthisslight error savedmefromthatfar deeper error of“classicism”with whichtheHumanistshavehoodwinkedhalftheworld.Icannot thereforedeeplyregretthedayswhenIcalledCircea“wisewife”andeverymarriagea“high-tide”.Thathasall burned itselfoutandleftnosnuff,andIcannow enjoythe Odyssey ina maturer way.Thewanderingsmeanasmuchasever theydid; thegreatmomentof“eucatastrophe”(asProfessor Tolkien wouldcall it) whenOdysseusstripsoffhisragsandbendsthe bow,meansmore;andperhapswhatnow pleasesmebestofall isthoseexquisite,CharlotteM.YongefamiliesatPylosand elsewhere.How rightlySir MauricePowickesays,“Therehave beencivilisedpeopleinall ages.”Andletusadd,“Inall ages theyhavebeensurroundedbybarbarism.”

Meanwhile,onafternoonsandonSundays,Surreylayopento me.CountyDownintheholidaysandSurreyintheterm itwas anexcellentcontrast.Perhaps,sincetheir beautieswere suchthatevenafool couldnotforcetheminto competition,thiscuredmeonceandfor all ofthepernicious tendencytocompareandtoprefer anoperationthatdoeslittle goodevenwhenwearedealingwithworksofartandendless harmwhenwearedealingwithnature.Total surrender isthe firststeptowardsthefruitionofeither.Shutyour mouth;open

140 your eyesandears.Takeinwhatisthereandgivenothoughtto whatmighthavebeenthereor whatissomewhereelse.Thatcan comelater,ifitmustcomeatall.(Andnoticeherehow thetrue trainingfor anythingwhatever thatisgoodalwaysprefigures and,ifsubmittedto,will alwayshelpusin,thetruetrainingfor theChristianlife.Thatisaschool wheretheycanalwaysuse your previousworkwhatever subjectitwason.) Whatdelighted meinSurreywasitsintricacy.MyIrishwalkscommandedlarge horizonsandthegeneral lieoflandandseacouldbetakeninat aglance;Iwill trytospeakofthemlater.ButinSurreythe contoursweresotortuous,thelittlevalleyssonarrow,there wassomuchtimber,somanyvillagesconcealedinwoodsor hollows,somanyfieldpaths,sunklanes,dingles,copses,such anunpredictablevarietyofcottage,farmhouse,villa,and countryseat,thatthewholethingcouldnever lieclearlyinmy mind,andtowalkinitdailygaveonethesamesortofpleasure thatthereisinthelabyrinthinecomplexityofMaloryor the Faerie Queene.Evenwheretheprospectwastolerablyopen,as whenIsatlookingdownontheLeatherheadandDorkingvalley fromPolesdanLacey,italwayslackedtheclassic comprehensibilityoftheWyvernlandscape.Thevalleytwisted awaysouthwardintoanother valley,atrainthuddedpast invisibleinawoodedcutting,theoppositeridgeconcealedits baysandpromontories.This,evenonasummer morning.ButI remember moredearlyautumnafternoonsinbottomsthatlay intenselysilentunder oldandgreattrees,andespecially themoment,near FridayStreet,whenour party(thattime Iwasnotalone) suddenlydiscovered,fromrecognisinga curiouslyshapedstump,thatwehadtravelledroundinacircle for thelasthalf-hour;or onefrostysunsetover theHog’sBack atGuildford.OnaSaturdayafternooninwinter,whennoseand fingersmightbepinchedenoughtogiveanaddedrelishtothe

For Ihadforgotten.WhenIspokeofthepostIforgottotell you thatitbroughtparcelsaswell asletters.Everymanofmyage hashadinhisyouthoneblessingfor whichour juniorsmaywell envyhim: wegrew upinaworldofcheapandabundantbooks. Your Everyman wasthenabareshilling,and,whatismore, alwaysinstock;your World’s Classic, Muses’ Library, Home University Library, Temple Classic,Nelson’sFrenchseries, Bohn,andLongman’sPocketLibrary,atproportionateprices.

All themoneyIcouldsparewentinpostal orderstoMessrs. DennyoftheStrand.Nodays,evenatBookham,werehappier thanthoseonwhichtheafternoonpostbroughtmeaneatlittle parcel indarkgreypaper.Milton,Spenser,Malory, The High History of the Holy Grail,the Laxdale Saga,Ronsard,Chénier, Voltaire, Beowulf and Gawain and the Green Knight (bothin translations),Apuleius,the Kalevala,Herrick,Walton,Sir John Mandeville,Sidney’s Arcadia,andnearlyall ofMorris,came volumebyvolumeintomyhands.Someofmypurchasesproved disappointmentsandsomewentbeyondmyhopes,butthe undoingoftheparcel alwaysremainedadeliciousmoment.On myrarevisitstoLondonIlookedatMessrs.DennyintheStrand withakindofawe;somuchpleasurehadcomefromit.

SmewgyandKirkweremytwogreatestteachers.

141 anticipationofteaandfireside,andthewholeweek-end’s readinglayahead,IsupposeIreachedasmuchhappinessasis ever tobereachedonearth.Andespeciallyifthereweresome new,long-covetedbookawaitingme.

Roughly,onemightsay(inmedieval language) that SmewgytaughtmeGrammar andRhetoricandKirktaughtme Dialectic.Eachhad,andgaveme,whattheother lacked.Kirk hadnoneofSmewgy’sgraciousnessor delicacy,andSmewgy

hadlesshumour thanKirk.Itwasasaturninehumour.Indeedhe wasverylikeSaturn notthedispossessedKingofItalian legend,butgrimoldCronos,Father Timehimselfwithscythe andhour-glass.Thebitterest,andalsofunniest,thingscameout whenhehadrisenabruptlyfromtable(alwaysbeforetherestof us) andstoodferretinginavillainousoldtobaccojar onthe mantelpiecefor thedottlesofformer pipeswhichitwashis frugal habittouseagain.Mydebttohimisverygreat,my reverencetothisdayundiminished.

X.Fortune’sSmile

The fields, the floods, the heavens, with one consent Did seeme to laugh on me, and favour mine intent.

SPENSER

AtthesametimethatIexchangedWyvernfor BookhamIalso exchangedmybrother for Arthur asmychiefcompanion.My brother,asyouknow,wasservinginFrance.From1914to 1916,whichistheBookhamperiod,hebecomesafigurethatat rareintervalsappearsunpredictedonleave,inall thegloryofa youngofficer,withwhatthenseemedunlimitedwealthathis command,andwhisksmeofftoIreland.Luxurieshitherto unknowntome,suchasfirst-classrailwaycarriagesand sleepingcars,glorifythesejourneys.Youwill understandthatI hadbeencrossingtheIrishseasixtimesayear sinceIwasnine. Mybrother’sleavesnow oftenaddedjourneysextraordinary. Thatiswhymymemoryisstoredwithship’s-sideimagestoa degreeunusual for suchanuntravelledman.Ihaveonlytoclose myeyestoseeifIchoose,andsometimeswhether Ichooseor no,thephosphorescenceofaship’swash,themastunmoving againstthestarsthoughthewater isrushingpastus,thelong salmon-colouredriftsofdawnor sunsetonthehorizonofcold grey-greenwater,or theastonishingbehaviour oflandasyou approachit,thepromontoriesthatwalkouttomeetyou,the complexmovementsandfinal disappearanceofthemountains further inland. Theseleaveswereofcourseagreatdelight.Thestrainsthathad beendeveloping(thankstoWyvern) beforemybrother wentto

Francewereforgotten.Therewasatacitdetermination onbothsidestorevive,for theshorttimeallowedus,the classicperiodofour boyhood.Asmybrother wasinthe R.A.S.C.,whichinthosedayswasreckonedasafeplacetobe, wedidnotfeel thatdegreeofanxietyabouthimwhichmost familiesweresufferingatthistime.Theremayhavebeenmore anxietyintheunconsciousthancameoutinfullywakingthought. That,atleast,wouldexplainanexperienceIhad,certainlyonce, andperhapsmoreoften;notabelief,nor quiteadream,butan impression,amental image,ahaunting,whichonabitter winter nightatBookhamrepresentedmybrother hangingaboutthe gardenandcalling or rather tryingtocall,butasinVirgil’s Hell inceptus clamor frustratur hiantem,abat’scryisall that comes.Therehungover thisimageanatmospherewhichI dislikeasmuchasanyIever breathed,ablendofthemacabre andtheweakly,wretchedly,hopelesslypathetic thedreary miasmaofthePaganHades.

ThoughmyfriendshipwithArthur beganfromanidentityof tasteonaparticular point,weweresufficientlydifferenttohelp oneanother.Hishome-lifewasalmosttheoppositeofmine.His parentsweremembersofthePlymouthBrothers,andhewasthe youngestofalargefamily;hishome,nevertheless,wasalmost assilentasourswasnoisy.Hewasatthistimeworkinginthe businessofoneofhisbrothers,buthishealthwasdelicateand after anillnessor twohewaswithdrawnfromit.Hewasaman ofmorethanonetalent: apianistand,inhope,acomposer,and alsoapainter.Oneofour earliestschemeswasthatheshould makeanoperaticscorefor Loki Bound aprojectwhich,of course,after anextremelyshortandhappylife,diedapainless death.Inliteratureheinfluencedmemore,or morepermanently, thanIdidhim.Hisgreatdefectwasthathecaredverylittlefor

145 verse.SomethingIdidtomendthis,butlessthanIwished.He, ontheother hand,sidebysidewithhislovefor mythand marvel,whichIfullyshared,hadanother tastewhichI lackedtill Imethimandwithwhich,tomygreatgood,he infectedmefor life.Thiswasthetastefor whathecalled“the good,solid,oldbooks”,theclassicEnglishnovelists.Itis astonishinghow IhadavoidedthembeforeImetArthur.Ihad beenpersuadedbymyfather toread The Newcomes whenIwas rather tooyoungfor itandnever triedThackerayagaintill Iwas atOxford.Heisstill antipathetictome,notbecausehepreaches butbecausehepreachesbadly.DickensIlookeduponwitha feelingofhorror,engenderedbylongporingover the illustrationsbeforeIhadlearnedtoread.Istill thinkthem depraved.Here,asinWaltDisney,itisnottheuglinessofthe uglyfiguresbutthesimperingdollsintendedfor our sympathy whichreallybetraythesecret(notthatWaltDisneyisnotfar superior totheillustratorsofDickens).OfScottIknew onlya few ofthemedieval,thatis,theweakest,novels.Under Arthur’s influenceIreadatthistimeall thebestWaverleys,all the Brontës,andall theJaneAustens.Theyprovidedanadmirable complementtomymorefantasticreading,andeachwasthe moreenjoyedfor itscontrasttotheother.Theveryqualities whichhadpreviouslydeterredmefromsuchbooksArthur taughtmetoseeastheir charm.WhatIwouldhavecalledtheir “stodginess”or “ordinariness”hecalled“Homeliness” akey wordinhisimagination.HedidnotmeanmerelyDomesticity, thoughthatcameintoit.Hemeanttherootedqualitywhich attachesthemtoall our simpleexperiences,toweather,food, thefamily,theneighbourhood.Hecouldgetendlessenjoyment outoftheopeningsentenceof Jane Eyre,or thatother opening sentenceinoneofHansAndersen’sstories,“How itdidrain,to besure.”Themereword“beck”intheBrontëswasafeastto

him;andsoweretheschoolroomandkitchenscenes.Thislove ofthe“Homely”wasnotconfinedtoliterature;helookedfor it inout-of-door scenesaswell andtaughtmetodothesame.

Hithertomyfeelingsfor naturehadbeentoonarrowly romantic.IattendedalmostentirelytowhatIthought awe-inspiring,or wild,or eerie,andaboveall todistance. Hencemountainsandcloudsweremyespecial delight;thesky was,andstill is,tomeoneoftheprincipal elementsinany landscape,andlongbeforeIhadseenthemall namedandsorted outin Modern Painters Iwasveryattentivetothedifferent qualities,anddifferentheights,ofthecirrus,thecumulus,and therain-cloud.Asfor theEarth,thecountryIgrew upinhad everythingtoencouragearomanticbent,hadindeeddoneso ever sinceIfirstlookedattheunattainableGreenHillsthrough thenurserywindow.For thereader whoknowsthosepartsit will beenoughtosaythatmymainhauntwastheHolywood Hills-theirregular polygonyouwouldhavedescribedifyou drew alinefromStormonttoComber,fromComber to Newtownards,fromNewtownardstoScrabo,fromScraboto Craigantlet,fromCraigantlettoHolywood,andthencethrough KnocknagonneybacktoStormont.How tosuggestitall toa foreigner Ihardlyknow.

Firstofall,itisbySouthernEnglishstandardsbleak.The woods,for wehaveafew,areofsmall trees,rowanandbirch andsmall fir.Thefieldsaresmall,dividedbyditcheswith raggedsea-nippedhedgesontopofthem.Thereisagooddeal ofgorseandmanyoutcroppingsofrock.Small abandoned quarries,filledwithcold-lookingwater,aresurprisingly numerous.Thereisnearlyalwaysawindwhistlingthroughthe grass.Whereyouseeamanploughingtherewill begulls

followinghimandpeckingatthefurrow.Therearenofieldpathsor rightsofway,butthatdoesnotmatter for everyone knowsyou or iftheydonotknow you,theyknow your kind andunderstandthatyouwill shutgatesandnotwalkover crops. Mushroomsarestill felttobecommonproperty,liketheair. Thesoil hasnoneoftherichchocolateor ochreyoufindinparts ofEngland: itispale whatDysoncalls“theancient, bitter earth”.Butthegrassissoft,rich,andsweet,and thecottages,alwayswhitewashedandsinglestoreyedand roofedwithblueslate,lightupthewholelandscape.

Althoughthesehillsarenotveryhigh,theexpanseseenfrom themishugeandvarious.Standatthenorth-easternextremity wheretheslopesgosteeplydowntoHolywood.Beneathyouis thewholeexpanseoftheLough.TheAntrimcoasttwistssharply tothenorthandoutofsight;green,andhumbleincomparison, Downcurvesawaysouthward.BetweenthetwotheLough mergesintothesea,andifyoulookcarefullyonagooddayyou canevenseeScotland,phantom-likeonthehorizon.Now come further tothesouthandwest.Takeyour standattheisolated cottagewhichisvisiblefrommyfather’shouseandoverlooks our wholesuburb,andwhicheveryonecallsTheShepherd’s Hut,thoughwearenotreallyashepherdcountry.Youarestill lookingdownontheLough,butitsmouthandtheseaarenow hiddenbytheshoulder youhavejustcomefrom,anditmight (for all yousee) bealandlockedlake.Andherewecometoone ofthosegreatcontrastswhichhavebittendeeplyintomymind NiflheimandAsgard,BritainandLogres,Handramitand Harandra,air andether,thelow worldandthehigh.Your horizonfromhereistheAntrimMountains,probablyauniform massofgreyishblue,thoughifitisasunnydayyoumayjust traceontheCaveHill thedistinctionbetweenthegreenslopes

thatclimbtwo-thirdsofthewaytothesummitandthecliffwall thatperpendicularlyaccomplishestherest.Thatisonebeauty; andherewhereyoustandisanother,quitedifferentandeven moredearlyloved sunlightandgrassanddew,crowingcocks andgagglingducks.Inbetweenthem,ontheflatfloor ofthe Valleyatyour feet,aforestoffactorychimneys,gantries,and giantcranesrisingoutofawelter ofmist,liesBelfast.Noises comeupfromitcontinually,whiningandscreechingof trams,clatter ofhorsetrafficonunevensets,and, dominatingall else,thecontinual throbandstammer ofthegreat shipyards.Andbecausewehaveheardthisall our livesitdoes not,for us,violatethepeaceofthehill-top;rather,itemphasises it,enrichesthecontrast,sharpensthedualism.Downinthat “smokeandstir”isthehatedofficetowhichArthur,less fortunatethanI,mustreturnto-morrow: for itisonlyoneofhis rareholidaysthatallowsustostandheretogether onaweekday morning.Anddowntheretooarethebarefootoldwomen,the drunkenmenstumblinginandoutofthe“spiritgrocers” (Ireland’shorriblesubstitutefor thekindlyEnglish“pub”),the straining,overdrivenhorses,thehard-facedrichwomen all theworldwhichAlberichcreatedwhenhecursedloveand twistedthegoldintoaring.

Now stepalittleway onlytwofieldsandacrossalaneandup tothetopofthebankonthefar side andyouwill see,looking southwithalittleeastinit,adifferentworld.Andhavingseen it,blamemeifyoucanfor beingaromantic.For hereisthe thingitself,utterlyirresistible,thewaytotheworld’send,the landoflonging,thebreakingandblessingofhearts.Youare lookingacrosswhatmaybecalled,inacertainsense,theplain ofDown,andseeingbeyondittheMourneMountains.

ItwasK. thatis,CousinQuartus’seconddaughter,the Valkyrie whofirstexpoundedtomewhatthisplainofDown isreallylike.Hereistherecipefor imaginingit.Takeanumber ofmedium-sizedpotatoesandlaythemdown(onelayer ofthem only) inaflat-bottomedtinbasin.Now shakelooseearthover themtill thepotatoesthemselves,butnottheshapeofthem,is hidden;andofcoursethecrevicesbetweenthemwill now be depressionsofearth.Now magnifythewholethingtill those crevicesarelargeenoughtoconceal eachitsstreamand itshuddleoftrees.Andthen,for colouring,changeyour brownearthintothechequeredpatternoffields,alwayssmall fields(acoupleofacreseach),withall their normal varietyof crop,grass,andplough.Youhavenow gotapictureofthe “plain”ofDown,whichisaplainonlyinthissensethatifyou wereaverylargegiantyouwouldregarditaslevel butveryill towalkon likecobbles.Andnow remember thatevery cottageiswhite.Thewholeexpanselaughswiththeselittle whitedots;itislikenothingsomuchastheassemblyofwhite foam-capswhenafreshbreezeisonasummer sea.Andthe roadsarewhitetoo;thereisnotarmacyet.Andbecausethe wholecountryisaturbulentdemocracyoflittlehills,these roadsshootineverydirection,disappearingandreappearing. Butyoumustnotspreadover thislandscapeyour hardEnglish sunlight;makeitpaler,makeitsofter,blur theedgesofthewhite cumuli,cover itwithwaterygleams,deepeningit,makingall unsubstantial.Andbeyondall this,soremotethattheyseem fantasticallyabrupt,attheverylimitofyour vision,imaginethe mountains.Theyarenostragglers.Theyaresteepandcompact andpointedandtoothedandjagged.Theyseemtohavenothing todowiththelittlehillsandcottagesthatdivideyoufromthem. Andsometimestheyareblue,sometimesviolet;butquiteoften theylooktransparent asifhugesheetsofgauzehadbeencut

150 outintomountainousshapesandhungupthere,sothatyoucould seethroughthemthelightoftheinvisibleseaattheir backs.

Inumber itamongmyblessingsthatmyfather hadnocar,while yetmostofmyfriendshad,andsometimestookmefor adrive. Thismeantthatall thesedistantobjectscouldbevisitedjust enoughtoclothethemwithmemoriesandnotimpossible desires,whileyettheyremainedordinarilyasinaccessibleas theMoon.Thedeadlypower ofrushingaboutwherever I pleasedhadnotbeengivenme.Imeasureddistancesbythe standardofman,manwalkingonhistwofeet,notbythe standardoftheinternal combustionengine.Ihadnotbeen allowedtodeflower theveryideaofdistance;inreturnI possessed“infiniteriches”inwhatwouldhavebeento motorists“alittleroom”.Thetruestandmosthorribleclaim madefor moderntransportisthatit“annihilatesspace”.Itdoes. Itannihilatesoneofthemostgloriousgiftswehavebeengiven. Itisavileinflationwhichlowersthevalueofdistance,sothata modernboytravelsahundredmileswithlesssenseof liberationandpilgrimageandadventurethanhisgrandfather got fromtravellingten.Ofcourseifamanhatesspaceandwantsit tobeannihilated,thatisanother matter.Whynotcreepintohis coffinatonce?Thereislittleenoughspacethere.

Suchweremyoutdoor delightsbeforeImetArthur,andall these hesharedandconfirmed.Andinhissearchfor theHomelyhe taughtmetoseeother thingsaswell.Butfor himIshouldnever haveknownthebeautyoftheordinaryvegetablesthatwe destinetothepot.“Drills,”heusedtosay.“Justordinarydrills ofcabbages whatcanbebetter?”Andhewasright.Oftenhe recalledmyeyesfromthehorizonjusttolookthroughaholein ahedge,toseenothingmorethanafarmyardinitsmid-morning

solitude,andperhapsagreycatsqueezingitswayunder abarn door,or abentoldwomanwithawrinkled,motherlyface comingbackwithanemptybucketfromthepigstye.Butbestof all welikeditwhentheHomelyandtheunhomelymetinsharp juxtaposition;ifalittlekitchengardenransteeplyupa narrowing enclave offertilegroundsurroundedbyoutcroppings andfurze,or someshiveringquarrypool under amoonrise couldbeseenonour left,andonour rightthesmokingchimney andlamplitwindow ofacottagethatwasjustsettlingdownfor thenight.

Meanwhile,onthecontinent,theunskilledbutcheryofthefirst GermanWar wenton.AsitdidsoandasIbegantoforeseethat itwouldprobablylasttill Ireachedmilitaryage,Iwas compelledtomakeadecisionwhichthelaw hadtaken outofthehandsofEnglishboysofmyownage;for inIreland wehadnoconscription.Ididnotmuchplumemyselfeventhen for decidingtoserve,butIdidfeel thatthedecisionabsolved mefromtakinganyfurther noticeofthewar.For Arthur,whose hearthopelesslydisqualifiedhim,therewasnosuchquestion. AccordinglyIputthewar ononesidetoadegreewhichsome peoplewill thinkshameful andsomeincredible.Otherswill call itaflightfromreality.Imaintainthatitwasrather atreaty withreality,thefixingofafrontier.Isaidtomycountry,in effect,“Youshall havemeonacertaindate,notbefore.Iwill dieinyour warsifneedbe,buttill thenIshall livemyownlife. Youmayhavemybody,butnotmymind.Iwill takepartin battlesbutnotreadaboutthem.”IfthisattitudeneedsexcusingI mustsaythataboywhoisunhappyatschool inevitablylearns thehabitofkeepingthefutureinitsplace;ifoncehebeganto allow infiltrationsfromthecomingtermintothepresent holidayshewoulddespair.Also,theHamiltoninmewas

152 alwaysonguardagainsttheLewis;Ihadseenenoughofthe self-torturingtemperament.

Nodoubt,eveniftheattitudewasright,thequalityinmewhich madeitsoeasytoadoptissomewhatrepellent.Yet,evenso,I canhardlyregrethavingescapedtheappallingwasteoftime andspiritwhichwouldhavebeeninvolvedinreadingthewar newsor takingmorethananartificial andformal partin conversationsaboutthewar.Toreadwithoutmilitary knowledgeor goodmapsaccountsoffightingwhichwere distortedbeforetheyreachedtheDivisional general andfurther distortedbeforetheylefthimandthen“writtenup”outofall recognitionbyjournalists,tostrivetomaster whatwill be contradictedthenextday,tofear andhopeintenselyonshaky evidence,issurelyanill useofthemind.EveninpeacetimeI thinkthoseareverywrongwhosaythatschoolboys shouldbeencouragedtoreadthenewspapers.Nearlyall thataboyreadsthereinhisteenswill beknownbeforeheis twentytohavebeenfalseinemphasisandinterpretation,ifnot infactaswell,andmostofitwill havelostall importance. Mostofwhatheremembershewill thereforehavetounlearn; andhewill probablyhaveacquiredanincurabletastefor vulgarityandsensationalismandthefatal habitofflutteringfrom paragraphtoparagraphtolearnhow anactresshasbeen divorcedinCalifornia,atrainderailedinFrance,and quadrupletsborninNew Zealand.

Iwasnow happier thanIhadever been.All thestinghadbeen drawnfromthebeginningofterm.Yetthehomecomingatitsend remainedalmostasjoyful asbefore.Theholidaysgrew better andbetter.Our grown-upfriends,andespeciallymycousinsat Mountbracken,now seemedlessgrownup for one’s

immediateeldersgrow downwardsor backwardstomeetoneat thatage.Thereweremanymerrymeetings,muchgoodtalk.I discoveredthatother peoplebesidesArthur lovedbooksthatI loved.Thehorribleold“social functions”,thedances,wereat anend,for myfather now allowedmetorefusetheinvitations. All myengagementswerenow pleasantones,withinasmall circleofpeoplewhowereall intermarried,or veryold neighbours,or (thewomenanyway) oldschool-fellows.Iam shyofmentioningthem.OfMountbrackenIhavehadtospeak becausethestoryofmylifecouldnotbetoldwithoutit;beyond thatIhesitatetogo.Praiseofone’sfriendsisnear impertinence. Icannottell youhereofJanieM.nor ofher mother,nor ofBill andMrs.Bill.Innovels,provincial-suburbansocietyisusually paintedgreytoblack.Ihavenotfounditso.Ithinkwe StrandtownandBelmontpeoplehadamongusasmuch kindness,wit,beauty,andtasteasanycircleofthesamesize thatIhaveever known.

Athomethereal separationandapparentcordiality betweenmyfather andmyselfcontinued.Everyholidays IcamebackfromKirkwithmythoughtsandmyspeechalittle clearer,andthismadeitprogressivelylesspossibletohaveany real conversationwithmyfather.Iwasfar tooyoungandraw to appreciatetheother sideoftheaccount,toweightherich(if vague) fertility,thegenerosityandhumour ofmyfather’smind againstthedryness,therather death-likelucidity,ofKirk’s.With thecrueltyofyouthIallowedmyselftobeirritatedbytraitsin myfather which,inother elderlymen,Ihavesinceregardedas lovablefoibles.Thereweresomanyunbridgeable misunderstandings.OnceIreceivedaletter frommybrother in myfather’spresencewhichheimmediatelydemandedtosee. Heobjectedtosomeexpressionsinitaboutathirdperson.In

defenceofthemIpleadedthattheyhadnotbeenaddressedto him.“Whatnonsense!”answeredmyfather.“Heknew you wouldshow metheletter,andintendedyoutoshow methe letter.”Inreality,asIwell knew,mybrother hadfoolishly gambledonthechancethatitwouldarrivewhenmyfather was out.Butthismyfather couldnotconceive.Hewasnot overridingbyauthorityaclaimtoprivacywhichhedisallowed; hecouldnotimagineanyonemakingsuchaclaim.

Myrelationstomyfather helptoexplain(Iamnotsuggesting thattheyexcuse) oneoftheworstactsofmylife.Iallowed myselftobepreparedfor confirmation,andconfirmed,andto makemyfirstCommunion,intotal disbelief,actingapart, eatinganddrinkingmyowncondemnation.AsJohnsonpoints out,wherecourageisnot,noother virtuecansurviveexceptby accident.Cowardicedrovemeintohypocrisyandhypocrisy intoblasphemy.ItistruethatIdidnotandcouldnotthenknow thereal natureofthethingIwasdoing: butIknew verywell that Iwasactingaliewiththegreatestpossiblesolemnity.Itseemed tomeimpossibletotell myfather myreal views.Notthat hewouldhavestormedandthunderedlikethetraditional orthodoxparent.Onthecontrary,hewould(atfirst) have respondedwiththegreatestkindness.“Let’stalkthewholething over,”hewouldhavesaid.Butitwouldhavebeenquite impossibletodriveintohisheadmyreal position.Thethread wouldhavebeenlostalmostatonce,andtheanswer implicitin all thequotations,anecdotes,andreminiscenceswhichwould havepouredover mewouldhavebeenoneIthenvaluednota straw thebeautyoftheAuthorisedVersion,thebeautyofthe Christiantraditionandsentimentandcharacter.Andlater,when thisfailed,whenIstill triedtomakemyexactpointsclear,there wouldhavebeenanger betweenus,thunder fromhimandathin,

peevishrattlefromme.Nor couldthesubject,onceraised,ever havebeendroppedagain.All this,ofcourse,oughttohavebeen daredrather thanthethingIdid.Butatthetimeitseemedtome impossible.TheSyriancaptainwasforgivenfor bowinginthe houseofRimmon.Iamoneofmanywhohavebowedinthe houseofthereal GodwhenIbelievedHimtobenomorethan Rimmon.

Duringtheweek-endsandeveningsIwascloselytetheredtomy father andfeltthissomethingofahardship,sincethesewerethe timeswhenArthur wasmostoftenaccessible.Myweek-days continuedtosupplymewithafull rationofsolitude.Ihad,tobe sure,thesocietyofTim,whooughttohavebeenmentionedfar sooner.Timwasour dog.Hemayholdarecordfor longevity amongIrishterrierssincehewasalreadywithuswhenIwasat Oldie’sanddidnotdietill 1922.ButTim’ssocietydidnot amounttomuch.Ithadlongsincebeenagreedbetweenhimand methatheshouldnotbeexpectedtoaccompanymeonwalks.I wentagooddeal further thanheliked,for hisshapewas alreadythatofabolster,or evenabarrel,onfour legs.Also,I wenttoplaceswhereother dogsmightbemet;andthoughTim wasnocoward(Ihaveseenhimfightlikeademononhis homeground) hehateddogs.Inhiswalkingdayshehad beenknown,onseeingadogfar ahead,todisappear behindthe hedgeandre-emergeahundredyardslater.Hismindhadbeen formedduringour schooldaysandhehadperhapslearnedhis attitudetoother dogsfromour attitudetoother boys.Bynow he andIwerelesslikemaster anddogthanliketwofriendly visitorsinthesamehotel.Wemetconstantly,passedthetimeof day,andpartedwithmuchesteemtofollow our ownpaths.I thinkhehadonefriendofhisownspecies,aneighbouringred setter;averyrespectable,middle-ageddog.Perhapsagood

influence;for poor Tim,thoughIlovedhim,wasthemost undisciplined,unaccomplished,anddissipated-lookingcreature thatever wentonfour legs.Henever exactlyobeyedyou;he sometimesagreedwithyou.

Thelonghoursintheemptyhousepasseddelightfullyinreading andwriting.IwasinthemidstoftheRomanticsnow.Therewas ahumilityinme(asareader) atthattimewhichIshall never recapture.SomepoemsIcouldnotenjoyaswell asothers.It never occurredtomethatthesemightbetheinferior ones;I merelythoughtthatIwasgettingtiredofmyauthor or wasnotin therightmood.The longueurs ofEndymionIattributedwholly tomyself.The“swoony”elementinKeats’sensuality(aswhen Porphyrogrows“faint”) Itriedhardtolike,andfailed.Ithought thoughIhaveforgottenwhy thatShelleymustbebetter than KeatsandwassorryIlikedhimless.Butmygreatauthor atthis periodwasWilliamMorris.Ihadmethimfirstinquotationin booksonNorseMythology;thatledmeto Sigurd the Volsung.I didnotreallylikethisasmuchasItriedto,andIthinkInow know why: themetredoesnotsatisfymyear.Butthen,in Arthur’sbookcase,Ifound The Well at the World’s End.I looked Ireadchapter headings Idipped andnextdayI wasoffintotowntobuyacopyofmyown.Likesomanynew stepsitappearedtobepartlyarevival “Knightsin Armour”returningfromaveryearlyperiodofmy childhood.After thatIreadall theMorrisIcouldget, Jason, The Earthly Paradise,theproseromances.Thegrowthofthe new delightismarkedbymysuddenrealisation,almostwitha senseofdisloyalty,thattheletters WILLIAMMORRIS werecoming tohaveatleastaspotentamagicinthemas WAGNER.

Oneother thingthatArthur taughtmewastolovethebodiesof

books.Ihadalwaysrespectedthem.Mybrother andImightcut upstepladderswithoutscruple;tohavethumb-markedor dog’searedabookwouldhavefilleduswithshame.ButArthur did notmerelyrespect,hewasenamoured;andsoon,Itoo.Theset upofthepage,thefeel andsmell ofthepaper,thediffering soundsthatdifferentpapersmakeasyouturntheleaves,became sensuousdelights.Thisrevealedtomeaflaw inKirk.How oftenhaveIshudderedwhenhetookanew classical textof mineinhisgardener’shands,bentbacktheboardstill they creaked,andlefthissignoneverypage.

“Yes,Iremember,”saidmyfather.“ThatwasoldKnock’sone fault.” “Abadone,”saidI.

“Anall butunforgivableone,”saidmyfather.

When bale is at highest, boote is at next.

SIRALDINGAR

ThehistoryofJoy,sinceitcameridingbacktomeonhuge wavesofWagnerianmusicandNorseandCelticmythology several chaptersago,mustnow bebroughtuptodate.

Ihavealreadyhintedhow myfirstdelightinValhallaand Valkyriesbegantoturnitselfimperceptiblyintoascholar’s interestinthem.Igotaboutasfar asaboywhoknew noold Germaniclanguagecouldget.Icouldhavefacedaprettystiff examinationinmysubject.Iwouldhavelaughedatpopular bunglerswhoconfusedthelatemythological Sagaswiththe classicSagas,or theProsewiththeVerseEdda,or even,more scandalously,EddawithSaga.Iknew mywayabouttheEddaic cosmos,couldlocateeachoftherootsoftheAshandknew who ranupanddownit.AndonlyverygraduallydidIrealisethatall thiswassomethingquitedifferentfromtheoriginal Joy.AndI wentonaddingdetail todetail,progressingtowardsthemoment when“Ishouldknow mostandshouldleastenjoy”.FinallyI wokefrombuildingthetempletofindthattheGodhadflown. OfcourseIdidnotputitthatway.Iwouldhavesaidsimplythat Ididn’tgettheoldthrill.IwasintheWordsworthian predicament,lamentingthat“aglory”hadpassedaway.

Thencearosethefatal determinationtorecover theoldthrill, andatlastthemomentwhenIwascompelledtorealisethatall sucheffortswerefailures.Ihadnoluretowhichthebird

wouldcome.Andnow,noticemyblindness.Atthatvery momenttherearosethememoryofaplaceandtimeatwhichI hadtastedthelostJoywithunusual fullness.Ithadbeena particular hill-walkonamorningofwhitemist.Theother volumesofthe Ring (The Rheingold and The Valkyrie) hadjust arrivedasaChristmaspresentfrommyfather,andthethoughtof all thereadingbeforeme,mixedwiththecoldnessand lonelinessofthehillside,thedropsofmoistureoneverybranch, andthedistantmurmur oftheconcealedtown,hadproduceda longing(yetitwasalsofruition) whichhadflowedover from themindandseemedtoinvolvethewholebody.ThatwalkI now remembered.ItseemedtomethatIhadtastedheaventhen. Ifonlysuchamomentcouldreturn!ButwhatInever realised wasthatithadreturned thattherememberingofthatwalkwas itselfanew experienceofjustthesamekind.True,itwas desire,notpossession.ButthenwhatIhadfeltonthewalkhad alsobeendesire,andonlypossessioninsofar asthatkindof desireisitselfdesirable,isthefullestpossessionwecanknow onearth;or rather,becausetheverynatureofJoymakes nonsenseofour commondistinctionbetweenhavingand wanting.There,tohaveistowantandtowantistohave.Thus, theverymomentwhenIlongedtobesostabbedagain,was itselfagainsuchastabbing.TheDesirablewhichhadonce alightedonValhallawasnow alightingonaparticular moment ofmyownpast;andIwouldnotrecognisehimtherebecause, beinganidolater andaformalist,Iinsistedthatheoughtto appear inthetempleIhadbuilthim;notknowingthathecares onlyfor templesbuildingandnotatall for templesbuilt. Wordsworth,Ibelieve,madethismistakeall hislife.Iamsure thatall thatsenseofthelossofvanishedvisionwhichfills The Prelude wasitselfvisionofthesamekind,ifonlyhecouldhave believedit.

Inmyschemeofthoughtitisnotblasphemoustocompare theerror whichIwasmakingwiththaterror whichthe angel attheSepulchrerebukedwhenhesaidtothewomen, “Whyseekyethelivingamongthedead?Heisnothere,Heis risen.”Thecomparisonisofcoursebetweensomethingof infinitemomentandsomethingverysmall;likecomparison betweentheSunandtheSun’sreflectioninadewdrop.Indeed, inmyview,verylikeit,for Idonotthinktheresemblance betweentheChristianandthemerelyimaginativeexperienceis accidental.Ithinkthatall things,intheir way,reflectheavenly truth,theimaginationnotleast.“Reflect”istheimportantword. Thislower lifeoftheimaginationisnot [5] abeginningof,nor a steptowards,thehigher lifeofthespirit,merelyanimage.In me,atanyrate,itcontainednoelementeither ofbeliefor of ethics;however far pursued,itwouldnever havemademe either wiser or better.Butitstill had,athowever many removes,theshapeoftherealityitreflected.

Ifnothingelsesuggeststhisresemblanceitisatleastsuggested bythefactthatwecanmakeexactlythesamemistakesonboth levels.Youwill remember how,asaschoolboy,Ihaddestroyed myreligiouslifebyavicioussubjectivismwhichmade “realisations”theaimofprayer;turningawayfromGodtoseek statesofmind,andtryingtoproducethosestatesofmindby “maistry”.WithunbelievablefollyInow proceededtomake exactlythesameblunder inmyimaginativelife;or rather the samepair ofblunders.Thefirstwasmadeattheverymoment whenIformulatedthecomplaintthatthe“oldthrill”was becomingrarer andrarer.For bythatcomplaintIsmuggledin theassumptionthatwhatIwantedwasa“thrill”,astateofmy ownmind.Andthereliesthedeadlyerror.Onlywhenyour

wholeattentionanddesirearefixedonsomethingelse whether adistantmountain,or thepast,or thegodsofAsgard doesthe“thrill”arise.Itisaby-product.Itsvery existencepresupposesthatyoudesirenotitbut somethingother andouter.Ifbyanyperverseaskesisor theuse ofanydrugitcouldbeproducedfromwithin,itwouldatonce beseentobeofnovalue.For takeawaytheobject,andwhat, after all,wouldbeleft? awhirl ofimages,afluttering sensationinthediaphragm,amomentaryabstraction.Andwho couldwantthat?This,Isay,isthefirstanddeadlyerror,which appearsoneverylevel oflifeandisequallydeadlyonall, turningreligionintoaself-caressingluxuryandloveintoautoeroticism.Andtheseconderror is,havingthusfalselymadea stateofmindyour aim,toattempttoproduceit.Fromthefading oftheNorthernnessIoughttohavedrawntheconclusionthatthe Object,theDesirable,wasfurther away,moreexternal,less subjective,thanevensuchacomparativelypublicandexternal thingasasystemofmythology had,infact,onlyshonethrough thatsystem.Instead,Iconcludedthatitwasamoodor state withinmyselfwhichmightturnupinanycontext.To“getit again”becamemyconstantendeavour;whilereadingevery poem,hearingeverypieceofmusic,goingfor everywalk,I stoodanxioussentinel atmyownmindtowatchwhether the blessedmomentwasbeginningandtoendeavour toretainitifit did.BecauseIwasstill youngandthewholeworldofbeauty wasopeningbeforeme,myownofficiousobstructionswere oftensweptasideand,startledintoself-forgetfulness,Iagain tastedJoy.Butfar moreoftenIfrighteneditawaybymygreedy impatiencetosnareit,and,evenwhenitcame,instantly destroyeditbyintrospection,andatall timesvulgariseditby myfalseassumptionaboutitsnature.

Onething,however,Ilearned,whichhassincesavedmefrom manypopular confusionsofmind.Icametoknow byexperience thatitisnotadisguiseofsexual desire.Thosewhothinkthatif adolescentswereall providedwithsuitablemistresses weshouldsoonhear nomoreof“immortal longings”are certainlywrong.Ilearnedthismistaketobeamistakebythe simple,ifdiscreditable,processofrepeatedlymakingit.From theNorthernnessonecouldnoteasilyhaveslidintoerotic fantasieswithoutnoticingthedifference;butwhentheworldof MorrisbecamethefrequentmediumofJoy,thistransition becamepossible.Itwasquiteeasytothinkthatonedesired thoseforestsfor thesakeoftheir femaleinhabitants,thegarden ofHesperusfor thesakeofhisdaughters,Hylas’ river for the river nymphs.Irepeatedlyfollowedthatpath totheend.And attheendonefoundpleasure;whichimmediatelyresultedinthe discoverythatpleasure(whether thatpleasureor anyother) was notwhatyouhadbeenlookingfor.Nomoral questionwas involved;Iwasatthistimeasnearlynon-moral onthatsubject asahumancreaturecanbe.Thefrustrationdidnotconsistin findinga“lower”pleasureinsteadofa“higher”.Itwasthe irrelevanceoftheconclusionthatmarredit.Thehoundshad changedscent.Onehadcaughtthewrongquarry.Youmightas well offer amuttonchoptoamanwhoisdyingofthirstasoffer sexual pleasuretothedesireIamspeakingof.Ididnotrecoil fromtheeroticconclusionwithchastehorror,exclaiming,“Not that!”Myfeelingscouldrather havebeenexpressedinthe words,“Quite.Isee.Buthaven’twewanderedfromthereal point?”Joyisnotasubstitutefor sex;sexisveryoftena substitutefor Joy.Isometimeswonder whether all pleasuresare notsubstitutesfor Joy.

Such,then,wasthestateofmyimaginativelife;over againstit

stoodthelifeofmyintellect.Thetwohemispheresofmymind wereinthesharpestcontrast.Ontheonesideamany-islanded seaofpoetryandmyth;ontheother aglibandshallow “rationalism”.Nearlyall thatIlovedIbelievedtobeimaginary; nearlyall thatIbelievedtobereal Ithoughtgrimand meaningless.Theexceptionswerecertainpeople(whomI lovedandbelievedtobereal) andnatureherself.Thatis, natureassheappearedtothesenses.Ichewedendlessly ontheproblem: “How canitbesobeautiful andalsosocruel, wasteful andfutile?”HenceatthistimeIcouldalmosthavesaid withSantayana,“All thatisgoodisimaginary;all thatisreal is evil.”Inonesensenothinglesslikea“flightfromreality”could beconceived.Iwassofar fromwishful thinkingthatIhardly thoughtanythingtrueunlessitcontradictedmywishes.

Hardly,butnotquite.For therewasonewayinwhichthe world,asKirk’srationalismtaughtmetoseeit,gratifiedmy wishes.Itmightbegrimanddeadlybutatleastitwasfreefrom theChristianGod.Somepeople(notall) will findithardto understandwhythisseemedtomesuchanoverwhelming advantage.Butyoumusttakeintoaccountbothmyhistoryand mytemperament.TheperiodoffaithwhichIhadlivedthrough atOldie’shadcontainedagooddeal offear.Andbynow, lookingbackonthatfear,andeggedonbyShaw andVoltaire andLucretiusWithhis Tantum religio,Igreatlyexaggeratedthat elementinmymemoryandforgotthemanyother elementswhich hadbeencombinedwithit.Atall costsIwasanxiousthatthose full-moon-litnightsinthedormitoryshouldnever comeagain.I wasalso,asyoumayremember,onewhosenegativedemands weremoreviolentthanhispositive,far moreeager toescape painthantoachievehappiness,andfeelingitsomethingofan outragethatIhadbeencreatedwithoutmyownpermission.To

suchacraventhematerialist’suniversehadtheenormous attractionthatitofferedyoulimitedliabilities.Nostrictly infinitedisaster couldovertakeyouinit.Deathendedall.Andif ever finitedisastersprovedgreater thanonewishedtobear, suicidewouldalwaysbepossible.Thehorror oftheChristian universewasthatithadnodoor marked Exit.Itwasalso perhapsnotunimportantthattheexternalsofChristianitymade noappeal tomysenseofbeauty.Oriental imageryand stylelargelyrepelledme;andfor therest,Christianity wasmainlyassociatedfor mewithuglyarchitecture,ugly music,andbadpoetry.WyvernPrioryandMilton’sversewere almosttheonlypointsatwhichChristianityandbeautyhad overlappedinmyexperience.But,ofcourse,whatmattered mostofall wasmydeep-seatedhatredofauthority,my monstrousindividualism,mylawlessness.Nowordinmy vocabularyexpresseddeeper hatredthantheword Interference. ButChristianityplacedatthecentrewhatthenseemedtomea transcendental Interferer.Ifitspictureweretruethennosortof “treatywithreality”couldever bepossible.Therewasno regionevenintheinnermostdepthofone’ssoul (nay,thereleast ofall) whichonecouldsurroundwithabarbedwirefenceand guardwithanoticeNoAdmittance.AndthatwaswhatI wanted;somearea,however small,ofwhichIcouldsaytoall other beings,“Thisismybusinessandmineonly.”

Inthisrespect,andthisonlyatfirst,Imayhavebeenguiltyof wishful thinking.AlmostcertainlyIwas.Thematerialist conceptionwouldnothaveseemedsoimmenselyprobableto meifithadnotfavouredatleastoneofmywishes.Butthe difficultyofexplainingevenaboy’sthoughtentirelyintermsof hiswishesisthatonsuchlargequestionsasthesehealwayshas wishesonbothsides.Anyconceptionofrealitywhichasane

mindcanadmitmustfavour someofitswishesandfrustrate others.Thematerialisticuniversehadonegreat,negative attractiontooffer me.Ithadnoother.Andthishadtobe accepted;onehadtolookoutonameaninglessdanceofatoms (remember,IwasreadingLucretius),torealisethatall the apparentbeautywasasubjectivephosphorescence,andto relegateeverythingonevaluedtotheworldofmirage.That priceItriedloyallytopay.For Ihadlearnedsomethingfrom Kirkaboutthehonour oftheintellectandtheshameofvoluntary inconsistency.And,ofcourse,Iexultedwithyouthful and vulgar prideinwhatIthoughtmyenlightenment.In argumentwithArthur Iwasaveryswashbuckler.Mostofit,asI now see,wasincrediblycrudeandsilly.Iwasinthatstateof mindinwhichaboythinksitextremelytellingtocall God Jahveh andJesus Yeshua.

Lookingbackonmylifenow,IamastonishedthatIdidnot progressintotheoppositeorthodoxy didnotbecomeaLeftist, Atheist,satiricIntellectual ofthetypeweall know sowell.All theconditionsseemtobepresent.Ihadhatedmypublicschool. Ihatedwhatever Iknew or imaginedoftheBritishEmpire.And thoughItookverylittlenoticeofMorris’ssocialism(therewere toomanythingsinhimthatinterestedmefar more) continual readingofShaw hadbroughtitaboutthatsuchembryonic political opinionsasIhadwerevaguelysocialistic.Ruskinhad helpedmeinthesamedirection.Mylifelongfear of sentimentalismoughttohavequalifiedmetobecomeavigorous “debunker”.ItistruethatIhatedtheCollectiveasmuchasany mancanhateanything;butIcertainlydidnotthenrealiseits relationstosocialism.IsupposethatmyRomanticismwas destinedtodividemefromtheorthodoxIntellectualsassoonas Imetthem;andalsothatamindsolittlesanguineasmineabout

thefutureandaboutcommonactioncouldonlywithgreat difficultybemaderevolutionary.

Such,then,wasmyposition: tocarefor almostnothingbutthe godsandheroes,thegardenoftheHesperides,Launcelotand theGrail,andtobelieveinnothingbutatomsandevolutionand militaryservice.Attimesthestrainwassevere,butIthinkthis wasawholesomeseverity.Nor doIbelievethattheintermittent waveringinmymaterialistic“faith”(sotocall it) whichsetin towardstheendoftheBookhamperiodwouldever havearisen simplyfrommywishes.Itcamefromanother source.

Amongall thepoetswhomIwasreadingatthistime(I read The Faerie Queene and The Earthly Paradise entire) therewasonewhostoodapartfromtherest.Yeatswas thispoet.Ihadbeenreadinghimfor alongtimebeforeI discoveredthedifference,andperhapsIshouldnever have discovereditifIhadnotreadhisproseaswell: thingslike Rosa Alchemica and Per Amica Silentia Lunae.Thedifference wasthatYeatsbelieved.His“ever livingones”werenotmerely feignedor merelydesired.Hereallythoughtthattherewasa worldofbeingsmoreor lesslikethem,andthatcontactbetween thatworldandourswaspossible.Toputitquiteplainly,he believedseriouslyinMagic.Hislater career asapoethas somewhatobscuredthatphaseinpopular estimatesofhim,but thereisnodoubtaboutthefact asIlearnedwhenImethim someyearslater.Herewasaprettykettleoffish.Youwill understandthatmyrationalismwasinevitablybasedonwhatI believedtobethefindingsofthesciences,andthosefindings, notbeingascientist,Ihadtotakeontrust infact,onauthority. Well,herewasanoppositeauthority.IfhehadbeenaChristian Ishouldhavediscountedhistestimony,for IthoughtIhadthe

Christians“placed”anddisposedofforever.ButInow learned thattherewerepeople,nottraditionallyorthodox,who neverthelessrejectedthewholeMaterialistphilosophyoutof hand.AndIwasstill veryingenuous.Ihadnoconceptionofthe amountofnonsensewrittenandprintedintheworld.Iregarded Yeatsasalearned,responsiblewriter: whathesaidmustbe worthyofconsideration.Andafter YeatsIplungedinto Maeterlinck;quiteinnocentlyandnaturallysinceeveryonewas readinghimatthattimeandsinceImadeapointofincludinga fair amountofFrenchinmydiet.InMaeterlinckIcameup againstSpiritualism,Theosophy,andPantheism.Hereonce morewasaresponsibleadult(andnotaChristian) who believedinaworldbehind,or around,thematerial world.I mustdomyselfthejusticeofsayingthatIdidnotgivemy assentcategorically.Butadropofdisturbingdoubtfell intomyMaterialism.Itwasmerelya“Perhaps”.Perhaps(oh joy!) therewas,after all,“somethingelse”;and(oh reassurance!) perhapsithadnothingtodowithChristian Theology.AndassoonasIpausedonthat“Perhaps”,inevitably all theoldOccultistlore,andall theoldexcitementwhichthe MatronatChartreshadinnocentlyarousedinme,roseoutofthe past.

Now thefatwasinthefirewithavengeance.Twothings hithertowidelyseparatedinmymindrushedtogether: the imaginativelongingfor Joy,or rather thelongingwhich was Joy, andtheravenous,quasi-prurientdesirefor theOccult,the Preternatural assuch.Andwiththesetherecame(less welcome) somestirringofunease,someoftheimmemorial fear wehaveall knowninthenursery,and(ifwearehonest) long after thenurseryage.Thereisakindofgravitationinthemind wherebygoodrushestogoodandevil toevil.Thismingled

repulsionanddesiredrew towardsthemeverythingelseinme thatwasbad.TheideathatiftherewereOccultknowledgeit wasknowntoveryfew andscornedbythemanybecamean addedattraction;“wefew”,youwill remember,wasan evocativeexpressionfor me.ThatthemeansshouldbeMagic themostexquisitelyunorthodoxthingintheworld,unorthodox bothbyChristianandbyRationaliststandards ofcourse appealedtotherebel inme.Iwasalreadyacquaintedwiththe moredepravedsideofRomanticism;hadread Anactoria,and Wilde,andporeduponBeardsley,nothithertoattracted,but makingnomoral judgement.Now IthoughtIbegantoseethe pointofit.Inaword,youhavealreadyhadinthisstorythe WorldandtheFlesh;now cametheDevil.Iftherehadbeenin theneighbourhoodsomeelder personwhodabbledindirtofthe Magical kind(suchhaveagoodnosefor potential disciples) I mightnow beaSatanistor amaniac.

Inactual factIwaswonderfullyprotected,andthis spiritual debauchhadintheendonerather goodresult.I wasprotected,first,byignoranceandincapacity.Whether Magicwerepossibleor not,Iatanyratehadnoteacher tostart meonthepath.Iwasprotectedalsobycowardice;the reawakenedterrorsofchildhoodmightaddaspicetomygreed andcuriosityaslongasitwasdaylight.Alone,andindarkness, IusedmybestendeavourstobecomeastrictMaterialistagain; notalwayswithsuccess.A“Perhaps”isquiteenoughfor the nervestoworkupon.Butmybestprotectionwastheknown natureofJoy.Thisravenousdesiretobreakthebounds,totear thecurtain,tobeinthesecret,revealeditself,moreandmore clearlythelonger Iindulgedit,tobequitedifferentfromthe longingthatisJoy.Itscoarsestrengthbetrayedit.Slowly,and withmanyrelapses,Icametoseethatthemagical conclusion

wasjustasirrelevanttoJoyastheeroticconclusionhadbeen. Onceagainonehadchangedscents.Ifcirclesandpentangles andtheTetragrammatonhadbeentriedandhadinfactraised,or seemedtoraise,aspirit,thatmighthavebeen ifaman’s nervescouldstandit extremelyinteresting;butthereal Desirablewouldhaveevadedone,thereal Desirewouldhave beenleftsaying,“Whatisthistome?”

WhatIlikeaboutexperienceisthatitissuchanhonestthing. Youmaytakeanynumber ofwrongturnings;butkeepyour eyes openandyouwill notbeallowedtogoveryfar beforethe warningsignsappear.Youmayhavedeceivedyourself,but experienceisnottryingtodeceiveyou.Theuniverseringstrue wherever youfairlytestit.

Theother resultsofmyglanceintothedarkroomwereas follows.First,Inow hadbothafreshmotivefor wishing Materialismtobetrueandadecreasedconfidencethatitwas. Thefreshmotivecame,asyouhavedivined,fromthosefears whichIhadsowantonlystirredupfromtheir sleepingplacein thememoriesofchildhood;behavinglikeatrueLewis whowill notleavewell alone.Everymanwhoisafraid ofspookswill haveareasonfor wishingtobeaMaterialist; thatcreedpromisestoexcludethebogies.Asfor myshaken confidence,itremainedintheformofa“Perhaps”,strippedof itsdirectlyandgrosslymagical “affect” apleasingpossibility thattheUniversemightcombinethesnugnessofMaterialism hereandnow with...well,withIdidn’tknow what; somewhereor somethingbeyond,“theunimaginablelodgefor solitarythinkings”.Thiswasverybad.Iwasbeginningtotryto haveitbothways: togetthecomfortsbothofamaterialistand ofaspiritual philosophywithouttherigoursofeither.Butthe

secondresultwasbetter.Ihadlearnedawholesomeantipathyto everythingoccultandmagical whichwastostandmeingood steadwhen,atOxford,IcametomeetMagicians,Spiritualists, andthelike.Notthattheravenouslustwasnever totemptme againbutthatInow knew itfor atemptation.Andaboveall,I now knew thatJoydidnotpointinthatdirection. Youmightsumupthegainsofthiswholeperiodbysayingthat henceforwardtheFleshandtheDevil,thoughtheycouldstill tempt,couldnolonger offer methesupremebribe.Ihadlearned thatitwasnotintheir gift.AndtheWorldhadnever even pretendedtohaveit.

Andthen,ontopofthis,insuperabundanceofmercy,camethat eventwhichIhavealreadymorethanonceattemptedto describeinotherbooks.Iwasinthehabitofwalkingover to Leatherheadaboutonceaweekandsometimestakingthetrain back.Insummer IdidsochieflybecauseLeatherheadboasteda tinyswimming-bath;betterthannothingtomewhohadlearned toswimalmostbeforeIcanremember andwho,till middleage andrheumatismcreptuponme,waspassionatelyfondofbeing inwater.ButIwentinwinter,too,tolookforbooksandtoget myhair cut.TheeveningthatInow speakofwasin October.Iandoneporter hadthelong,timberedplatform ofLeatherheadstationtoourselves.Itwasgettingjustdark enoughfor thesmokeofanenginetoglow redontheunderside withthereflectionofthefurnace.ThehillsbeyondtheDorking Valleywereofabluesointenseastobenearlyvioletandthe skywasgreenwithfrost.Myearstingledwiththecold.The gloriousweek-endofreadingwasbeforeme.Turningtothe bookstall,IpickedoutanEverymaninadirtyjacket, Phantasies, a faerie Romance,GeorgeMacDonald.Thenthe

170 traincamein.Icanstill rememberthevoiceoftheporter calling outthevillagenames,Saxonandsweetasanut “Bookham, Effingham,Horsleytrain”.ThateveningIbegantoreadmynew book.

Thewoodlandjourneyingsinthatstory,theghostlyenemies,the ladiesbothgoodandevil,werecloseenoughtomyhabitual imagerytoluremeonwithouttheperceptionofachange.Itisas ifIwerecarriedsleepingacrossthefrontier,or asifIhaddied intheoldcountryandcouldnever rememberhow Icamealive inthenew.For inonesensethenew countrywasexactlylike theold.Imetthereall thathadalreadycharmedmeinMalory, Spenser,Morris,andYeats.Butinanother senseall was changed.Ididnotyetknow (andIwaslonginlearning) the nameofthenew quality,thebrightshadow,thatrestedonthe travelsofAnodos.Idonow.ItwasHoliness.For thefirsttime thesongofthesirenssoundedlikethevoiceofmymother or my nurse.Herewereoldwives’tales;therewasnothingtobe proudofinenjoyingthem.Itwasasthoughthevoicewhichhad calledtomefromtheworld’sendwerenow speakingatmy side.Itwaswithmeintheroom,orinmyownbody,or behind me.Ifithadonceeludedmebyitsdistance,itnow eludedme byproximity somethingtoonear tosee,tooplaintobe understood,onthissideofknowledge.Itseemedtohavebeen alwayswithme;ifIcouldever haveturnedmyhead quickenoughIshouldhaveseizedit.Now for thefirst timeIfeltthatitwasoutofreachnotbecauseofsomethingI couldnotdobutbecauseofsomethingIcouldnotstopdoing.If Icouldonlyleaveoff,letgo,unmakemyself,itwouldbethere. Meanwhile,inthisnew regionall theconfusionsthathad hithertoperplexedmysearchfor Joyweredisarmed.Therewas notemptationtoconfusethescenesofthetalewiththelightthat

resteduponthem,or tosupposethattheywereputforwardas realities,or eventodreamthatiftheyhadbeenrealitiesandI couldreachthewoodswhereAnodosjourneyedIshould therebycomeastepnearer tomydesire.Yet,atthesametime, never hadthewindofJoyblowingthroughanystorybeenless separablefromthestoryitself.Wherethegodandthe idolon weremostnearlyonetherewasleastdanger ofconfounding them.Thus,whenthegreatmomentscameIdidnotbreakaway fromthewoodsandcottagesthatIreadoftoseeksomebodiless lightshiningbeyondthem,butgradually,withaswelling continuity(likethesunatmid-morningburningthroughafog)I foundthelightshiningonthosewoodsandcottages,andthenon myownpastlife,andonthequietroomwhereIsatandonmy oldteacher wherehenoddedabovehislittle Tacitus.For Inow perceivedthatwhiletheair ofthenew regionmadeall my eroticandmagical perversionsofJoylooklikesordidtrumpery, ithadnosuchdisenchantingpower over thebreaduponthe tableor thecoalsinthegrate.Thatwasthemarvel.Uptill now eachvisitationofJoyhadleftthecommonworldmomentarilya desert “Thefirsttouchoftheearthwentnightokill”.Even whenreal cloudsor treeshadbeenthematerial ofthevision, theyhadbeensoonlybyremindingmeofanother world;andI didnotlikethereturntoours.Butnow Isaw thebrightshadow comingoutofthebookintothereal worldandrestingthere, transformingall commonthingsandyetitselfunchanged.Or, moreaccurately,Isaw thecommonthingsdrawnintothe brightshadow. Unde hoc mihi? Inthedepthofmy disgraces,inthetheninvincibleignoranceofmyintellect,all thiswasgivenmewithoutasking,evenwithoutconsent.That nightmyimaginationwas,inacertainsense,baptised;therest ofme,notunnaturally,tooklonger.Ihadnotthefaintestnotion whatIhadletmyselfinfor bybuying Phantastes.

La compagnie, de tant d’hommes vous plaist, nobles, jeunes, actifs; la liberté de cette conversation sans art, et une façon de vie masle et sans cérémonie.

MONTAIGNE

Theoldpatternbegantorepeatitself.TheBookhamdays,likea longer andmoregloriousholidays,drew totheir end;a scholarshipexaminationand,after that,theArmy,loomed behindthemlikeagrimmer term.Thegoodtimehadnever been betterthaninitslastmonths.Iremember,inparticular,glorious hoursofbathinginDonegal.Itwassurfbathing: nottheformal affairwithboardsthatyouhavenow,butmereroughand tumble,inwhichthewaves,themonstrous,emerald,deafening waves,arealwaysthewinner,anditisatonceajoke,aterror, andajoytolookover your shoulder andsee(toolate) one breaker ofsuchsublimeproportionsthatyouwouldhave avoidedhimhadyouknownhewascoming.Buttheygather themselvesup,pre-eminentabovetheir fellows,assuddenly andunpredictablyasarevolution.

Itwaslateinthewintertermof1916thatIwenttoOxfordtosit for myscholarshipexamination.Boyswhohavefacedthis ordeal inpeace-timewill noteasilyimaginetheindifference withwhichIwent.ThisdoesnotmeanthatIunderestimatedthe importance(inonesense) ofsucceeding.Iknew verywell by now thattherewashardlyanypositionintheworldsavethatof adoninwhichIwasfittedtoearnaliving,andthatIwas stakingeverythingonagameinwhichfew wonandhundreds

lost.AsKirkhadsaidofmeinaletter tomyfather(Idid not,ofcourse,seeittill manyyearslater),“Youmay makeawriteror ascholar ofhim,butyou’ll notmakeanything else.Youmaymakeupyour mindto that.”AndIknew this myself;sometimesitterrifiedme.Whatbluntedtheedgeofit now wasthatwhether Iwonascholarshipor noIshouldnext yeargointothearmy;andevenatempermoresanguinethan minecouldfeel in1916thataninfantrysubalternwouldbe insanetowasteanxietyonanythingsohypothetical ashispostwarlife.Ioncetriedtoexplainthistomyfather;itwasoneof theattemptsIoftenmade(thoughdoubtlesslessoftenthanI ought) tobreakthroughtheartificialityofour intercourseand admithimtomyreal life.Itwasatotal failure.Herepliedat oncewithfatherlycounselsaboutthenecessityofhardworkand concentration,theamountthathehadalreadyspentineducating me,theverymoderate,naynegligible,assistancehewouldbe abletogivemeinlaterlife.Poor man!Hemisjudgedmesadly ifhethoughtthatidlenessatmybookwasamongmymany vices.Andhow,Iaskedmyself,couldheexpectthewinningor losingofascholarshiptolosenoneofitsimportancewhenlife anddeathwerethereal issues?Thetruthis,Ithink,thatwhile death(mine,his,everyone’s) wasoftenvividlypresenttohim asasubjectofanxietyandotheremotions,ithadnoplaceinhis mindasasober,matter-of-factcontingencyfromwhich consequencescouldbedrawn.Atanyratetheconversationwas afailure.Itshipwreckedontheoldrock.Hisintensedesirefor mytotal confidenceco-existedwithaninabilitytolisten(inany strictsense) towhatIsaid.Hecouldnever empty,or silence, hisownmindtomakeroomforanalienthought.

MyfirsttasteofOxfordwascomical enough.Ihadmadeno arrangementsaboutquartersand,havingnomoreluggagethanI

175 couldcarryinmyhand,Isalliedoutoftherailwaystationon foottofindeither alodging-houseor acheaphotel;all agogfor “dreamingspires”and“lastenchantments”.My firstdisappointmentatwhatIsaw couldbedealtwith.Towns alwaysshow their worstfacetotherailway.ButasIwalkedon andonIbecamemorebewildered.Couldthissuccessionof meanshopsreallybeOxford?ButIstill wenton,always expectingthenextturntoreveal thebeauties,andreflectingthat itwasamuchlarger townthanIhadbeenledtosuppose.Only whenitbecameobviousthattherewasverylittletownleft aheadofme,thatIwas,infact,gettingtoopencountry,didI turnroundandlook.There,behindme,far away,never more beautiful since,wasthefabledcluster ofspiresandtowers.I hadcomeoutofthestationonthewrongsideandbeenall this timewalkingintowhatwaseventhenthemeanandsprawling suburbofBotley.Ididnotseetowhatextentthislittleadventure wasanallegoryofmywholelife.Imerelywalkedbacktothe station,somewhatfootsore,tookahansom,andaskedtobe drivento“someplacewhereIcangetroomsfor aweek, please”.Themethod,whichIshouldnow thinkhazardous,was acompletesuccess,andIwassoonatteaincomfortable lodgings.Thehouseisstill there,thefirstontherightasyou turnintoMansfieldRoadoutofHolywell.Isharedthesittingroomwithanother candidate,amanfromCardiffCollege, whichhepronouncedtobearchitecturallysuperior toanything inOxford.Hislearningterrifiedme,buthewasanagreeable man.Ihavenever seenhimsince. Itwasverycoldandnextdaysnow begantofall,turning pinnaclesintowedding-cakedecorations.Theexaminationwas heldintheHall ofOriel,andweall wroteingreatcoatsand mufflersandwearingatleastour left-handgloves.TheProvost,

oldPhelps,gaveoutthepapers.Iremember verylittleabout them,butIsupposeIwasoutshoneinpureclassicsbymanyof myrivalsandsucceededonmygeneral knowledgeand dialectics.IhadtheimpressionthatIwasdoingbadly. Longyears(or yearsthatseemedlong)withtheKnock hadcuredmeofmydefensiveWyvernianpriggery,andIno longer supposedother boystobeignorantofwhatIknew.Thus theessaywasonaquotationfromJohnson.Ihadreadseveral timestheBoswellianconversationinwhichitoccurredandwas abletoreplacethewholequestioninthatcontext;butInever thoughtthatthis(anymorethanafairishknowledgeof Schopenhauer) wouldgainmeanyparticular credit.Itwasa blessedstatetobein,butfor themomentdepressing.AsIleft theHall after thatessayIheardonecandidatesaytohisfriend, “Iworkedinall mystuffaboutRousseauandtheSocial Contract.”Thatstruckdismayintomysoul,for thoughIhad dabbled(nottomygood) inthe Confessions Iknew nothingof the Contrat Social.Atthebeginningofthemorninganice Harrovianhadwhisperedtome,“Idon’tevenknow ifit’sSam or Ben.”InmyinnocenceIexplainedtohimthatitwasSamand couldnotbeBenbecauseBenwasspelledwithoutanH.Idid notthinktherecouldbeanyharmingivingawaysuch information.

WhenIarrivedhomeItoldmyfather thatIhadalmostcertainly failed.Itwasanadmissioncalculatedtobringoutall his tendernessandchivalry.Themanwhocouldnotunderstanda boy’stakinghisownpossible,or probable,deathintoaccount couldverywell understandachild’sdisappointment.Nota wordwasnow heardofexpensesanddifficulties;nothingbut consolation,reassuranceandaffection.Then,almoston ChristmasEve,weheardthat“Univ.”(UniversityCollege) had

electedme.

ThoughIwasnow ascholar ofmyCollegeIstill hadtopass “Responsions”,whichinvolvedelementarymathematics.To prepareforthisIreturnedafter Christmasfor onelasttermwith Kirk agoldenterm,poignantlyhappyunder theapproaching shadow.AtEaster Iwashandsomelyploughedin Responsions,havingbeenunableasusual togetmysums right.“Bemorecareful,”wastheadvicethateveryonegaveme, butIfoundituseless.ThemorecareItookthemoremistakesI made;justas,tothisday,themoreanxiouslyIfair copyapiece ofwritingthemorecertainIamtomakeaghastlyclerical error intheveryfirstline.

InspiteofthisIcameintoresidenceinthesummer (Trinity) termof1917;for thereal objectnow wassimplytoenterthe UniversityOfficers’TrainingCorpsasmymostpromisingroute intotheArmy.MyfirststudiesatOxford,nevertheless,still had Responsionsinview.Ireadalgebra(devil takeit!) witholdMr. Campbell ofHertfordwhoturnedouttobeafriendofour dear friendJanieM.ThatInever passedResponsionsiscertain,butI cannotremember whether Iagainsatfor itandwasagain ploughed.Thequestionbecameunimportantafter thewar,for a benevolentdecreeexemptedex-Servicemenfromtakingit. Otherwise,nodoubt,Ishouldhavehadtoabandontheideaof goingtoOxford. IwaslessthanatermatUnivwhenmypaperscamethroughand Ienlisted;andtheconditionsmadeitamostabnormal term. HalftheCollegehadbeenconvertedintoahospital andwasin thehandsoftheR.A.M.C.Intheremainingportionlivedatiny communityofundergraduates twoofusnotyetofmilitaryage,

twounfit,oneaSinn-Feiner whowouldnotfightfor England, andafew other oddmentswhichInever quiteplaced.Wedined inthelittlelectureroomwhichisnow apassagebetween CommonRoomandHall.Small thoughour numberswere (abouteight) wewereratherdistinguished,forweincludedE. V.Gordon,afterwardsProfessor ofEnglishatManchester,and A.C.Ewing,theCambridgephilosopher;alsothatwittyand kindlyman,TheobaldButler,skilledinturningthemostlurid limericksintoGreekverse.Ienjoyedmyselfgreatly;butitbore littleresemblancetonormal undergraduatelifeandwas for meanunsettled,excited,andgenerallyuseless period.ThencametheArmy.Byaremarkableturnoffatethis didnotmeanremoval fromOxford.IwasdraftedintoaCadet BattalionwhosebilletwasKeble.

Ipassedthroughtheordinarycourseoftraining(amildaffair in thosedayscomparedwiththatoftherecentwar) andwas commissionedasaSecondLieutenantintheSomersetLight Infantry,theoldXIIIthFoot.Iarrivedinthefrontlinetrenches onmynineteenthbirthday(November1917),saw mostofmy serviceinthevillagesbeforeArras FampouxandMonchy andwaswoundedatMt.Bernenchon,near Lillers,inApril 1918. IamsurprisedthatIdidnotdisliketheArmymore.Itwas,of course,detestable.Butthewords“ofcourse”drew thesting. ThatiswhereitdifferedfromWyvern.Onedidnotexpectto likeit.Nobodysaidyououghttolikeit.Nobodypretendedto likeit.Everyoneyoumettookitfor grantedthatthewholething wasanodiousnecessity,aghastlyinterruptionofrational life. Andthatmadeall thedifference.Straighttribulationiseasier to bear thantribulationwhichadvertisesitselfaspleasure.The

179 onebreeds camaraderie andeven(whenintense) akindoflove betweenthefellow-sufferers;theother,mutual distrust, cynicism,concealedandfrettingresentment.Andsecondly,I foundmymilitaryeldersandbettersincomparablynicer thanthe WyvernBloods.ThisisnodoubtbecauseThirtyisnaturally kinder toNineteenthanNineteenistoThirteen: itisreally grown-upanddoesnotneedtoreassureitself.ButIaminclined tothinkthatmyfacehadaltered.That“look”whichIhadso oftenbeentoldto“takeoffit”hadapparentlytakenitselfoff perhapswhenIread Phantastes.Thereisevensomeevidence thatithadbeensucceededbyalookwhichexcitedeither pityor kindlyamusement.Thus,onmyveryfirstnightinFrance,ina vastmarqueeor drill hall whereaboutahundredofficers weretosleeponplankbeds,twomiddle-agedCanadians atoncetookchargeofmeandtreatedme,notlikeason(that mighthavegivenoffence) butlikealong-lostfriend.Blessings uponthem!Once,too,intheOfficers’ClubatArraswhereI wasdiningalone,andquitehappywithmybookandmywine(a bottleofHeidsieckthencost8francs,andabottleofPerrier Jouet,12)twoimmenselysenior officers,all coveredwith ribbonsandredtabs,cameover tomytabletowardstheendof themeal,andhailingmeas“SunnyJim”carriedmeofftotheir ownfor brandyandcigars.Theyweren’tdrunkeither;nor did theymakemedrunk.Itwaspuregoodwill.Andthough exceptional,thiswasnotsoveryexceptional.Therewerenasty peopleinthearmy;butmemoryfillsthosemonthswithpleasant, transitorycontacts.Everyfew daysoneseemedtomeeta scholar,anoriginal,apoet,acheerybuffoon,araconteur,or at theleastamanofgoodwill.

Sometimeinthemiddleofthatwinter Ihadthegoodlucktofall sickwithwhatthetroopscalled“trenchfever”andthedoctors

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P.U.O.(Pyrexia,unknownorigin) andwassentfor awholly delightful threeweekstohospital atLeTréport.PerhapsIought tohavementionedbeforethatIhadhadaweakchestever since childhoodandhadveryearlylearnedtomakeaminorillness oneofthepleasuresoflife,eveninpeace-time.Now,asan alternativetothetrenches,abedandabookwere“very heaven”.Thehospital wasaconvertedhotel andweweretwo inaroom.Myfirstweekwasmarredbythefactthatoneofthe nightnurseswasconductingafuriousloveaffair withmyroommate.Ihadtoohighatemperaturetobeembarrassed,butthe humanwhisper isaverytediousandunmusical noise; especiallyatnight.After thatmyfortunemended.Theamorous manwassentelsewhereandreplacedbyamusical misogynist fromYorkshire,whoonoursecondmorningtogether said tome,“Eh,lad,ifwemakebedsourselvesdomb s won’tstayinroomsolong”(or wordstothateffect). Accordingly,wemadeourownbedseveryday,andeveryday whenthetwoV.A.D.’slookedintheysaid,“Oh,they’vemade their beds!Aren’tthesetwogood?”andrewardeduswiththeir brightestsmiles.Ithinktheyattributedour actiontogallantry.

ItwasherethatIfirstreadavolumeofChesterton’sessays.I hadnever heardofhimandhadnoideaofwhathestoodfor; nor canIquiteunderstandwhyhemadesuchanimmediate conquestofme.Itmighthavebeenexpectedthatmypessimism, myatheism,andmyhatredofsentimentwouldhavemadehimto metheleastcongenial ofall authors.Itwouldalmostseemthat Providence,or some“secondcause”ofaveryobscurekind, quiteover-rulesour previoustasteswhenItdecidestobring twomindstogether.Likinganauthormaybeasinvoluntaryand improbableasfallinginlove.Iwasbynow asufficiently experiencedreader todistinguishlikingfromagreement.Idid

181 notneedtoacceptwhatChestertonsaidinorder toenjoyit.His humour wasofthekindwhichIlikebest not“jokes” imbeddedinthepagelikecurrantsinacake,still less(whatI cannotendure),ageneral toneofflippancyandjocularity,but thehumour whichisnotinanywayseparablefromtheargument butisrather (asAristotlewouldsay) the“bloom”ondialectic itself.Theswordglittersnotbecausetheswordsmansetoutto makeitglitter butbecauseheisfightingfor hislifeand thereforemovingitveryquickly.For thecriticswhothink Chestertonfrivolousor “paradoxical”Ihavetoworkhardto feel evenpity;sympathyisoutofthequestion.Moreover, strangeasitmayseem,Ilikedhimfor hisgoodness.Ican attributethistastetomyselffreely(evenatthatage) becauseit wasalikingfor goodnesswhichhadnothingtodowithany attempttobegoodmyself.Ihavenever feltthedislikeof goodnesswhichseemstobequitecommoninbetter men thanme.“Smug”and“smugness”weretermsofdisapprobation whichhadnever hadaplaceinmycritical vocabulary.Ilacked thecynic’snose,the odora canum vis or bloodhoundsensitivity for hypocrisyor Pharisaism.Itwasamatter oftaste: Ifeltthe “charm”ofgoodnessasamanfeelsthecharmofawomanhe hasnointentionofmarrying.Itis,indeed,atthatdistancethatits “charm”ismostapparent.

InreadingChesterton,asinreadingMacDonald,Ididnotknow whatIwaslettingmyselfinfor.Ayoungmanwhowishesto remainasoundAtheistcannotbetoocareful ofhisreading. Therearetrapseverywhere “Bibleslaidopen,millionsof surprises,”asHerbertsays,“finenetsandstratagems.”Godis, ifImaysayit,veryunscrupulous.

InmyownbattalionalsoIwasassailed.HereImetoneJohnson

182 (onwhombepeace) whowouldhavebeenalifelongfriendif hehadnotbeenkilled.Hewas,likeme,alreadyascholar ofan Oxfordcollege(Queen’s)whohopedtotakeuphisscholarship after thewar,butafew yearsmysenior andatthattimein commandofacompany.InhimIfounddialectical sharpness suchasIhadhithertoknownonlyinKirk,butcoupledwith youthandwhimandpoetry.HewasmovingtowardsTheism andwehadendlessargumentsonthatandeveryothertopic whenever wewereoutoftheline.Butitwasnotthisthat mattered.Theimportantthingwasthathewasamanof conscience.Ihadhardlytill now encounteredprinciplesin anyonesonearlyofmyownageandmyownsort.Thealarming thingwasthathetookthemfor granted.Itcrossedmymindfor thefirsttimesincemyapostasythattheseverer virtuesmight havesomerelevancetoone’sownlife.Isay“theseverer virtues”becauseIalreadyhadsomenotionofkindnessand faithfulnesstofriendsandgenerosityaboutmoney aswhohas nottill hemeetsthetemptationwhichgivesall their oppositevicesnew andmorecivil names?Butithadnot seriouslyoccurredtomethatpeoplelikeourselves,peoplelike Johnsonandmewhowantedtoknow whether beautywas objectiveor how AeschylushandledthereconciliationofZeus andPrometheus,shouldbeattemptingstrictveracity,chastity,or devotiontoduty.Ihadtakenitthattheywerenotoursubjects. TherewasnodiscussionbetweenusonthepointandIdonot thinkheever suspectedthetruthaboutme.Iwasatnopainsto displayit.Ifthisishypocrisy,thenImustconcludethat hypocrisycandoamangood.Tobeashamedofwhatyouwere abouttosay,topretendthatsomethingwhichyouhadmeant seriouslywasonlyajoke thisisanignoblepart.Butitis better thannottobeashamedatall.Andthedistinctionbetween pretendingyouarebetter thanyouareandbeginningtobebetter

inrealityisfiner thanmoral sleuthhoundsconceive.Iwas,in intention,concealingonlyapart: Iacceptedhisprinciplesat once,madenoattemptinternallytodefendmyown“unexamined life”.Whenaboor firstentersthesocietyofcourteouspeople whatcanhedo,for awhile,exceptimitatethemotions?How canhelearnexceptbyimitation?

Youwill havedivinedthatourswasaverynicebattalion;a minorityofgoodregularsrulingapleasantlymixedpopulation ofpromotedrankers(westcountryfarmers,these),barristers, anduniversitymen.Youcouldgetasgoodtalkthereas anywhere.Perhapsthebestofusall wasour butt,Wallie. Walliewasafarmer,aRomanCatholic,apassionatesoldier (theonlymanImetwhoreallylongedfor fighting) andgullible toanydegreebytherawestsubaltern.Thetechniquewasto criticisetheYeomanry.Poor Wallieknew thatitwasthe bravest,themostefficient,thehardestandcleanestcorpsthat ever satonhorses.Heknew all thatinside,havinglearnedit fromanuncleintheYeomanrywhenhewasachild.Buthe couldnotgetitout.Hestammeredandcontradictedhimselfand alwayscameatlasttohistrumpcard: “IwishmyUncle Benwasheretotalktoyou.UncleBendtalktoyou.He’d tell you.”Mortalsmustnotjudge;butIdoubtwhether anyman foughtinFrancewhowasmorelikelytogostraighttoHeavenif hewerekilled.Iwouldhavebeenbetter employedcleaninghis bootsthanlaughingathim.ImayaddthatIdidnotenjoythe shorttimeIspentinthecompanyhecommanded.Walliehada genuinepassionfor killingGermansandacompletedisregard ofhisownor anyoneelse’ssafety.Hewasalwaysstrikingout brightideasatwhichthehair ofussubalternsstoodonend. Luckilyhecouldbeveryeasilydissuadedbyanyplausible argumentthatoccurredtous.Suchwashisvalour andinnocence

thathenever for amomentsuspectedusofanybutamilitary motive.Hecouldnevergrasptheneighbourlyprincipleswhich, bythetacitagreementofthetroops,wereheldtogoverntrenchwarfare,andtowhichIwasintroducedatoncebymysergeant. Ihadsuggested“pooping”ariflegrenadeintoaGermanpost wherewehadseenheadsmoving.“Justas’eelike,zir,”said thesergeant,scratchinghishead,“butonce’eestartdoingthat kindofthing,’ee’ll getzummitback,zee?”

Imustnotpaintthewar-timearmyall gold.Imetthereboththe WorldandthegreatgoddessNonsense.Theworldpresented itselfinaveryridiculousformonthatnight(mynineteenth birthday) whenIfirstarrived“uptheline”.AsIemergedfrom theshaftintothedug-outandblinkedinthecandle-lightI noticedthattheCaptaintowhomIwasreportingwasamaster whomIhadlikedmorethanIhadrespectedatoneofmy schools.Iventuredtoclaimacquaintance.Headmittedinalow, hurriedvoicethathehadoncebeenaschoolmaster,andthe topicwasnever raisedbetweenusagain.Theimpactofthe GreatGoddesswasevenfunnier,andImetitlongbeforeIhad reachedmyownbattalion.ThetrooptrainfromRouen that interminable,twelve-mile-an-hour train,inwhichnotwo coacheswerealike leftatabouttenintheevening. Threeother officersandIwereallottedacompartment.There wasnoheating;for lightwebroughtour owncandles;for sanitationtherewerethewindows.Thejourneywouldlast aboutfifteenhours.Itwasfreezinghard.Inthetunnel just outsideRouen(all mygenerationremember it) therewasa suddenwrenchingandgratingnoiseandoneofour doors droppedoffbodilyintothedark.Wesatwithchatteringteethtill thenextstop,wheretheofficer commandingthetraincame bustlingupanddemandedwhatwehaddonewithour door.“It

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cameoff,sir,”saidwe.“Don’ttalknonsense,”saidhe,“it wouldn’thavecomeoffiftherehadn’tbeensomehorseplay!” asifnothingweremorenatural thanthatfour officers(being,of course,providedwithscrewdrivers) shouldbeginanight journeyinmidwinter byremovingthedoor oftheircarriage.

Thewar itselfhasbeensooftendescribedbythosewhosaw moreofitthanIthatIshall heresaylittleaboutit.Until the greatGermanattackcameintheSpringwehadaprettyquiet time.EventhentheyattackednotusbuttheCanadiansonour right,merely“keepingusquiet”bypouringshellsintoour line aboutthreeaminuteall day.IthinkitwasthatdayInoticedhow agreater terror overcomesaless: amousethatImet(andapoor shiveringmouseitwas,asIwasapoor shiveringman) madeno attempttorunfromme.Throughthewinter,wearinessandwater wereour chiefenemies.Ihavegonetosleepmarchingand wokenagainandfoundmyselfmarchingstill.Onewalkedinthe trenchesinthighgumbootswithwater abovetheknee;one rememberstheicystreamwellingupinsidethebootwhenyou punctureditonconcealedbarbedwire.Familiaritybothwith theveryoldandtheveryrecentdeadconfirmedthatview of corpseswhichhadbeenformedthemomentIsaw mydead mother.Icametoknow andpityandreverencethe ordinaryman: particularlydear SergeantAyres,whowas (Isuppose) killedbythesameshell thatwoundedme.Iwasa futileofficer (theygavecommissionstooeasilythen),apuppet movedaboutbyhim,andheturnedthisridiculousandpainful relationintosomethingbeautiful,becametomealmostlikea father.Butfortherest,thewar thefrights,thecold,thesmell ofH.E.,thehorriblysmashedmenstill movinglikehalf-crushed beetles,thesittingor standingcorpses,thelandscapeofsheer earthwithoutabladeofgrass,thebootsworndayandnighttill

theyseemedtogrow toyour feet all thisshowsrarelyand faintlyinmemory.Itistoocutofffromtherestofmyexperience andoftenseemstohavehappenedtosomeoneelse.Itisevenin awayunimportant.Oneimaginativemomentseemsnow to matter morethantherealitiesthatfollowed.Itwasthefirst bulletIheard sofar frommethatit“whined”likea journalist’sorapeace-timepoet’sbullet.Atthatmomentthere wassomethingnotexactlylikefear,muchlesslikeindifference: alittlequaveringsignal thatsaid,“ThisisWar.Thisiswhat Homer wroteabout.”

This wall I was many a weary month in finishing, and yet never thought myself safe till it was done.

DEFOE, Robinson Crusoe

Therestofmywar experienceshavelittletodowiththisstory. How I“took”aboutsixtyprisoners thatis,discoveredtomy greatreliefthatthecrowdoffield-greyfigureswhosuddenly appearedfromnowhere,all hadtheir handsup-isnotworth telling,saveasajoke.DidnotFalstaff“take”SirColvilleof theDale?Nor doesitconcernthereadertoknow how Igota sound“Blighty”fromanEnglishshell,or how theexquisite Sister N.intheC.C.S.haseversinceembodiedmyideaof Artemis.Twothingsstandout.Oneisthemoment,justafter I hadbeenhit,whenIfound(or thoughtIfound) thatIwasnot breathingandconcludedthatthiswasdeath.Ifeltnofear and certainlynocourage.Itdidnotseemtobeanoccasionfor either.Theproposition“Hereisamandying”stoodbeforemy mindasdry,asfactual,asunemotional assomethinginatextbook.Itwasnoteveninteresting.Thefruitofthisexperience wasthatwhen,someyearslater,ImetKant’sdistinction betweentheNoumenal andthePhenomenal self,itwasmoreto methananabstraction.Ihadtastedit;Ihadprovedthatthere wasafullyconscious“I”whoseconnectionswiththe“me”of introspectionwerelooseandtransitory.Theother momentous experiencewasthatofreadingBergsoninaConvalescentCamp onSalisburyPlain.Intellectuallythistaughtmetoavoidthe snaresthatlurkabouttheword Nothing.Butitalsohada

revolutionaryeffectonmyemotional outlook.Hitherto mywholebenthadbeentowardsthingspale,remote,and evanescent;thewater-colour worldofMorris,theleafy recessesofMalory, [6] thetwilightofYeats.Theword“life”had formeprettymuchthesameassociationsithadfor Shelleyin The Triumph of Life.IwouldnothaveunderstoodwhatGoethe meantby des Lebens goldnes Baum.Bergsonshowedme.He didnotabolishmyoldloves,buthegavemeanew one.From himIfirstlearnedtorelishenergy,fertility,andurgency;the resource,thetriumphs,andeventheinsolence,ofthingsthat grow.Ibecamecapableofappreciatingartistswhowould,I believe,havemeantnothingtomebefore;all theresonant, dogmatic,flaming,unanswerablepeoplelikeBeethoven,Titian (inhismythological pictures),Goethe,Dunbar,Pindar, ChristopherWren,andthemoreexultantPsalms.

IreturnedtoOxford “demobbed” inJanuary1919.But beforeIsayanythingofmylifethereImustwarnthereader that onehugeandcomplexepisodewill beomitted.Ihavenochoice aboutthisreticence.All Icanor needsayisthatmyearlier hostilitytotheemotionswasveryfullyandvariouslyavenged. ButevenwereIfreetotell thestory,Idoubtifithasmuchtodo withthesubjectofthebook.

ThefirstlifelongfriendImadeatOxfordwasA.K.Hamilton Jenkin,sinceknownfor hisbooksonCornwall.Hecontinued (whatArthur hadbegun) myeducationasaseeing,listening, smelling,receptivecreature.Arthur hadhadhispreferencefor theHomely.ButJenkinseemedtobeabletoenjoyeverything; evenugliness.Ilearnedfromhimthatweshouldattemptatotal surrender towhatever atmospherewasofferingitselfatthe

moment;inasqualidtowntoseekoutthoseveryplaceswhere itssqualorrosetogrimnessandalmostgrandeur,ona dismal daytofindthemostdismal anddrippingwood, onawindydaytoseekthewindiestridge.Therewasno Betjemannicironyaboutit;onlyaserious,yetgleeful, determinationtorubone’snoseintheveryquiddityofeach thing,torejoiceinitsbeing(somagnificently) whatitwas.

MynextwasOwenBarfield.ThereisasenseinwhichArthur andBarfieldarethetypesofeveryman’sFirstFriendand SecondFriend.TheFirstisthe alter ego,themanwhofirst revealstoyouthatyouarenotaloneintheworldbyturningout (beyondhope) toshareall your mostsecretdelights.Thereis nothingtobeovercomeinmakinghimyour friend;heandyou joinlikerain-dropsonawindow.ButtheSecondFriendisthe manwhodisagreeswithyouabouteverything.Heisnotso muchthe alter ego astheanti-self.Ofcoursehesharesyour interests;otherwisehewouldnotbecomeyour friendatall.But hehasapproachedthemall atadifferentangle.Hehasreadall therightbooksbuthasgotthewrongthingoutofeveryone.Itis asifhespokeyour languagebutmispronouncedit.How canhe besonearlyrightandyet,invariably,justnotright?Heisas fascinating(andinfuriating) asawoman.Whenyousetoutto correcthisheresies,youfindthatheforsoothhasdecidedto correctyours!Andthenyougoatit,hammer andtongs,far into thenight,nightafternight,or walkingthroughfinecountrythat neither givesaglanceto,eachlearningtheweightoftheother’s punches,andoftenmorelikemutuallyrespectful enemiesthan friends.Actually(thoughitnever seemssoatthetime) you modifyoneanother’sthought;outofthisperpetual dog-fighta communityofmindandadeepaffectionemerge.ButIthinkhe changedmeagooddeal morethanIhim.Muchofthethought

whichheafterwardsputinto Poetic Diction hadalready becomeminebeforethatimportantlittlebookappeared.It wouldbestrangeifithadnot.Hewasofcoursenotso learnedthenashehassincebecome;butthegeniuswas alreadythere.

CloselylinkedwithBarfieldofWadhamwashisfriend(and soonmine),A.C.HarwoodofTheHouse,later apillarof Michael Hall,theSteineriteschool atKidbrooke.Hewas differentfromeitherofus;awhollyimperturbableman.Though poor (likemostofus) andwhollywithout“prospects”,hewore theexpressionofanineteenth-centurygentlemanwithsomething intheFunds.Onawalkingtour whenthelastlightofawet eveninghadjustrevealedsomeghastlyerror inmap-reading (probablyhisown)andthebesthopewas“Fivemilesto Mudham(ifwecouldfindit)andwe might getbedsthere,”he still worethatexpression.Intheheatofargumentheworeit still.Youwouldthinkthathe,ifanyone,wouldhavebeentoldto “takethatlookoffhisface”.ButIdon’tbelieveheeverwas.It wasnomaskandcamefromnostupidity.Hehasbeentried sincebyall theusual sorrowsandanxieties.Heisthesole HoratioknowntomeinthisageofHamlets;no“stopfor Fortune’sfinger”.

Thereisonethingtobesaidabouttheseandother friendswhom ImadeatOxford.Theywereall,bydecentPaganstandards (muchmore,bysolow astandardasmine),“good”.Thatis, theyall,likemyfriendJohnson,believed,andactedonthe belief,thatveracity,publicspirit,chastity,andsobrietywere obligatory “tobeattempted,”astheexaminerssay,“byall candidates.”Johnsonhadpreparedmetobeinfluencedbythem. Iacceptedtheir standardsinprincipleandperhaps(thispartI

donotverywell remember)triedtoactaccordingly.

DuringmyfirsttwoyearsatOxfordIwasbusilyengaged(apart from“doingMods.”and“beginningGreats”) inassumingwhat wemaycall anintellectual “New Look”.Therewastobeno morepessimism,nomoreself-pity,noflirtationswithanyidea ofthesupernatural,noromanticdelusions.Inaword, liketheheroineof Northanger Abbey,Iformedthe resolution“ofalwaysjudgingandactinginfuturewiththe greatestgoodsense”.Andgoodsensemeant,for meatthat moment,aretreat,almostapanic-strickenflight,fromall that sortofromanticismwhichhadhithertobeenthechiefconcernof mylife.Several causesoperatedtogether.

For onething,Ihadrecentlycometoknow anold,dirty, gabbling,tragic,Irishparsonwhohadlongsincelosthisfaith butretainedhisliving.BythetimeImethimhisonlyinterest wasthesearchforevidenceof“humansurvival”.Onthishe readandtalkedincessantly,and,havingahighlycritical mind, couldnever satisfyhimself.Whatwasespeciallyshockingwas thattheravenousdesireforpersonal immortalityco-existedin himwith(apparently) atotal indifferencetoall thatcould,ona saneview,makeimmortalitydesirable.Hewasnotseekingthe BeatificVisionanddidnotevenbelieveinGod.Hewasnot hopingformoretimeinwhichtopurgeandimprovehisown personality.Hewasnotdreamingofreunionwithdeadfriends or lovers;Inever heardhimspeakwithaffectionofanybody. All hewantedwastheassurancethatsomethinghecouldcall “himself”would,onalmostanyterms,lastlonger thanhis bodilylife.So,atleast,Ithought.Iwastooyoungandhardto suspectthatwhatsecretlymovedhimwasathirstfor the happinesswhichhadbeenwhollydeniedhimonearth.Andhis

stateofmindappearedtomethemostcontemptibleIhadever encountered.Anythoughtsor dreamswhichmightleadoneinto thatfiercemonomaniawere,Idecided,tobeutterlyshunned. Thewholequestionofimmortalitybecamerather disgustingto me.Ishutitout.All one’sthoughtsmustbeconfinedto

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,ithadbeenmychancetospendfourteendays, andmostofthefourteennightsaswell,inclosecontact withamanwhowasgoingmad.HewasamanwhomIhad dearlyloved,andwell hedeservedlove.Andnow Ihelpedto holdhimwhilehekickedandwallowedonthefloor,screaming outthatdevilsweretearinghimandthathewasthatmoment fallingdownintoHell.Andthisman,asIwell knew,hadnot keptthebeatentrack.HehadflirtedwithTheosophy,Yoga, Spiritualism,Psychoanalysis,whatnot?Probablythesethings hadinfactnoconnectionwithhisinsanity,forwhich(Ibelieve) therewerephysical causes.Butitdidnotseemsotomeatthe time.IthoughtIhadseenawarning;itwastothis,thisravingon thefloor,thatall romanticlongingsandunearthlyspeculations ledamanintheend

Be not too wildly amorous of the far

Nor lure thy fantasy to its utmost scope.

Safetyfirst,thoughtI: thebeatentrack,theapprovedroad,the centreoftheroad,thelightson.Forsomemonthsafterthat nightmarefortnight,thewords“ordinary”and“humdrum” summedupeverythingthatappearedtomemostdesirable.

Thirdly,thenew Psychologywasatthattimesweepingthrough usall.Wedidnotswallow itwhole(few peoplethendid) but wewereall influenced.Whatweweremostconcernedabout was“Fantasy”or“wishful thinking”.For (ofcourse) wewere all poetsandcriticsandsetaverygreatvalueon“Imagination” insomehighColeridgeansense,sothatitbecameimportantto distinguishImagination,notonly(asColeridgedid) fromFancy, butalsofromFantasyasthepsychologistsunderstandthatterm.

Now what,Iaskedmyself,wereall mydelectablemountains andwesterngardensbutsheer Fantasies?Hadtheynotrevealed their truenaturebyluringme,timeandagain,intoundisguisedly eroticreverieorthesqualidnightmareofMagic?In reality,ofcourse,aspreviouschaptershavetold,my ownexperiencehadrepeatedlyshownthattheseromantic imageshadneverbeenmorethanasortofflash,or evenslag, thrownoffbytheoccurrenceofJoy,thatthosemountainsand gardenshadnever beenwhatIwantedbutonlysymbolswhich professedthemselvestobenomore,andthateveryeffortto treatthemasthereal Desirablesoonhonestlyproveditselftobe afailure.Butnow,busywithmyNew Look,Imanagedtoforget this.InsteadofrepentingmyidolatryIvilifiedtheunoffending imagesonwhichIhadlavishedit.Withtheconfidenceofaboy IdecidedIhaddonewithall that.NomoreAvalon,nomore Hesperides.Ihad(thiswasverypreciselytheoppositeofthe truth) “seenthrough”them.AndIwasnevergoingtobetakenin again. Finally,therewasofcourseBergson.Somehow or other (for it doesnotseemveryclear whenIre-openhisbookstoday) I foundinhimarefutationoftheoldhauntingidea, Schopenhauer’sidea,thattheuniverse“mightnothaveexisted”. InotherwordsoneDivineattribute,thatofnecessaryexistence,

roseabovemyhorizon.Itwasstill,andlongafter,attachedto thewrongsubject;totheuniverse,nottoGod.Butthemere attributewasitselfofimmensepotency.Whenonceonehas droppedtheabsurdnotionthatrealityisanarbitraryalternative to“nothing”,onegivesupbeingapessimist(or evenan optimist).Thereisnosenseinblamingor praisingtheWhole, nor,indeed,insayinganythingaboutit.Evenifyoupersistin hurlingPrometheanor Hardyesquedefiancesatit,then,since youarepartofit,itisonlythatsameWholewhichthroughyou “quietlydeclaimsthecursingsofitself” afutilitywhichseems tometovitiateLordRussell’sstirringessayon“TheWorship ofaFreeMan”.Cursingswereasfutile,andasimmature,as dreamsaboutthewesterngarden.Onemust(likeCarlyle’slady) “accept”theuniverse;totally,withnoreservations, loyally.ThissortofStoical Monismwasthephilosophy ofmyNew Look.Anditgavemeagreatsenseofpeace.Itwas perhapsthenearestthingtoareligiousexperiencewhichIhad hadsincemyprep.school days.Itended(Ihopeforever) any ideaofatreatyor compromisewithreality.Somuchthe perceptionofevenoneDivineattributecando.

Asfor Joy,Ilabelledit“aestheticexperience”andtalkedmuch aboutitunder thatnameandsaiditwasvery“valuable”.Butit cameveryseldomandwhenitcameitdidn’tamounttomuch.

ThoseearlydaysoftheNew Lookwereonthewholehappy ones.Verygraduallytheskychanged.Therecametobemore unhappinessandanxietyinmyownlife;andBarfieldwasliving through

that whole year of youth

When life ached like an aching tooth.

Our generation,thegenerationofthereturnedsoldiers,beganto pass.Oxfordwasfull ofnew faces.Freshmenbegantomake historical allowancesforour warpedpointofview.The problemofone’scareerloomedlarger andgrimmer.

Itwasthenthatareallydreadful thing(dreadful tome) happened.FirstHarwood(still withoutchanginghis expression),andthenBarfield,embracedthedoctrinesof SteinerandbecameAnthroposophists.Iwashideouslyshocked. EverythingthatIhadlabouredsohardtoexpel frommyown lifeseemedtohaveflaredupandmetmeinmybestfriends.Not onlymybestfriendsbutthosewhomIwouldhavethought safest;theonesoimmovable,theother broughtupinafreethinkingfamilyandsoimmunefromall “superstition”thathe hadhardlyheardofChristianityitselfuntil hewenttoschool. (Thegospel firstbrokeonBarfieldintheformofadictatedlist ofParablesPeculiar toSt.Matthew.) Notonlyinmyseemingsafestfriendsbutatamomentwhenweall hadmostneed tostandtogether.AndasIcametolearn(sofar asIever havelearned) whatSteiner thought,myhorror turnedinto disgustandresentment.For here,apparently,wereall the abominations;nonemoreabominablethanthosewhichhadonce attractedme.Hereweregods,spirits,after-lifeandpreexistence,initiates,occultknowledge,meditation.“Why damn it it’s medieval,”Iexclaimed;for Istill hadall the chronological snobberyofmyperiodandusedthenamesof earlierperiodsastermsofabuse.Herewaseverythingwhich theNew Lookhadbeendesignedtoexclude;everythingthat mightleadoneoffthemainroadintothosedarkplaceswhere menwallow onthefloorandscreamthattheyarebeingdragged downintoHell.Ofcourseitwasall arrantnonsense.Therewas nodanger of my beingtakenin.Butthen,theloneliness,the

senseofbeingdeserted.

Naturally,Iattributedtomyfriendsthesamedesireswhich,had IbecomeanAnthroposophist,wouldhavebeenoperativeinme. Ithoughttheywerefallingunder thatravenous,saltlustfor the occult.Inow seethat,fromtheveryfirst,all theevidencewas againstthis.Theywerenotthatsort.Nor doesAnthroposophy, sofarasIcansee,caterfor thatsort.Thereisadifficultyand (tome) are-assuringGermanicdullnessaboutitwhichwould soondeter thosewhowerelookingfor thrills.Nor haveIever seenthatithadadeleteriouseffectonthecharacterofthose whoembracedit;Ihaveonceknownittohaveaverygoodone.

Isaythis,notbecauseIever camewithinahundredmilesof acceptingthethingmyself,butincommonfairness,andalsoasa tardyamendsfor themanyhard,unjustandbitter thingsIonce saidaboutittomyfriends.For Barfield’sconversionto AnthroposophymarkedthebeginningofwhatIcanonly describeastheGreatWar betweenhimandme.Itwasnever, thankGod,aquarrel,thoughitcouldhavebecomeonein amomentifhehadusedtomeanythingliketheviolence Iallowedmyselftohim.Butitwasanalmostincessant disputation,sometimesbyletter andsometimesfacetoface, whichlastedfor years.AndthisGreatWarwasoneofthe turningpointsofmylife.

BarfieldnevermademeanAnthroposophist,buthiscounterattacksdestroyedforever twoelementsinmyownthought.In thefirstplacehemadeshortworkofwhatIhavecalledmy “chronological snobbery”,theuncritical acceptanceofthe intellectual climatecommontoour ownageandtheassumption thatwhatever hasgoneoutofdateisonthataccountdiscredited.

Youmustfindwhyitwentoutofdate.Wasiteverrefuted(and ifsobywhom,where,andhow conclusively) or diditmerely dieawayasfashionsdo?Ifthelatter,thistellsusnothingabout itstruthor falsehood.Fromseeingthis,onepassestothe realisationthatour ownageisalso“aperiod”,andcertainly has,likeall periods,itsowncharacteristicillusions.Theyare likeliesttolurkinthosewide-spreadassumptionswhichareso ingrainedintheagethatnoonedarestoattackor feelsit necessarytodefendthem.Inthesecondplaceheconvincedme thatthepositionswehadhithertoheldleftnoroomfor any satisfactorytheoryofknowledge.Wehadbeen,inthetechnical senseoftheterm,“realists”;thatis,weacceptedasrock-bottom realitytheuniverserevealedbythesenses.Butatthesametime wecontinuedtomakefor certainphenomenaofconsciousness all theclaimsthatreallywentwithatheisticor idealisticview. Wemaintainedthatabstractthought(ifobedienttological rules) gaveindisputabletruth,thatour moral judgmentwas“valid”, andour aestheticexperiencenotmerelypleasingbut“valuable”. Theview was,Ithink,commonatthetime;itrunsthrough Bridges’ Testament of Beauty,theworkofGilbertMurray,and LordRussell’s“WorshipofaFreeMan”.Barfield convincedmethatitwasinconsistent.Ifthoughtwerea purelysubjectiveevent,theseclaimsfor itwouldhavetobe abandoned.Ifonekept(asrock-bottomreality) theuniverseof thesenses,aidedbyinstrumentsandco-ordinatedsoastoform “science”,thenonewouldhavetogomuchfurther asmany havesincegone andadoptaBehaviouristictheoryoflogic, ethics,andaesthetics.Butsuchatheorywas,andis, unbelievabletome.Iamusingtheword“unbelievable”,which manyusetomean“improbable”or even“undesirable”,ina quiteliteral sense.Imeanthattheactofbelievingwhatthe behaviouristbelievesisonethatmymindsimplywill not

perform.Icannotforcemythoughtintothatshapeanymorethan Icanscratchmyear withmybigtoeor pour wineoutofabottle intothecavityatthebaseofthatsamebottle.Itisasfinal asa physical impossibility.Iwasthereforecompelledtogiveup realism.Ihadbeentryingtodefenditever sinceIbeganreading philosophy.Partly,nodoubt,thiswasmere“cussedness”. IdealismwasthenthedominantphilosophyatOxfordandIwas bynature“againstGovernment”.Butpartly,too,realism satisfiedanemotional need.IwantedNaturetobequite independentofour observation;somethingother,indifferent, self-existing.(ThiswentwiththeJenkinianzestfor rubbing one’snoseinthemerequiddity.) Butnow,itseemedtome,Ihad togivethatup.UnlessIweretoacceptanunbelievable alternative,Imustadmitthatmindwasnolate-come epiphenomenon;thatthewholeuniversewas,inthelastresort, mental;thatour logicwasparticipationinacosmic Logos. Itisastonishing(atthistimeofday) thatIcouldregardthis positionassomethingquitedistinctfromTheism.Isuspectthere wassomewilful blindness.Buttherewereinthosedaysall sortsofblankets,insulators,andinsuranceswhichenabledone togetall theconveniencesofTheism,withoutbelieving inGod.TheEnglishHegelians,writerslikeT.H.Green, Bradley,andBosanquet(thenmightynames),dealtinprecisely suchwares.TheAbsoluteMind betterstill,theAbsolute wasimpersonal,or itknew itself(butnotus?) onlyinus,andit wassoabsolutethatitwasn’treallymuchmorelikeamindthan anythingelse.Andanyway,themoremuddledonegotaboutit andthemorecontradictionsonecommitted,themorethis provedthatour discursivethoughtmovedonlyonthelevel of “Appearance”,and“Reality”mustbesomewhereelse.And whereelsebut,ofcourse,intheAbsolute?There,nothere,was

“thefuller splendour”behindthe“sensuouscurtain”.The emotionthatwentwithall thiswascertainlyreligious.Butthis wasareligionthatcostnothing.Wecouldtalkreligiouslyabout theAbsolute: buttherewasnodanger ofItsdoinganything aboutus.Itwas“there”;safelyandimmovably“there”.Itwould never come“here”,never (tobeblunt) makeanuisanceofItself. Thisquasi-religionwasall aone-waystreet;all eros (asDr. Nygrenwouldsay) steamingup,butno agape dartingdown. Therewasnothingtofear;better still,nothingtoobey.

Yettherewasonereallywholesomeelementinit.TheAbsolute was“there”,andthat“there”containedthereconciliationofall contraries,thetranscendenceofall finitude,thehiddenglory whichwastheonlyperfectlyreal thingthereis.Infact,ithad muchofthequalityofHeaven.ButitwasaHeavennoneofus couldever getto.Forweareappearances.Tobe“there”is,by definition,nottobewe.All whoembracesuchaphilosophy live,likeDante’svirtuousPagans,“indesirewithouthope”.Or likeSpinozatheysolovetheirGodastobeunableeventowish thatHeshouldlovetheminreturn.Ishouldbeverysorrynotto havepassedthroughthatexperience.Ithinkitismorereligious thanmanyexperiencesthathavebeencalledChristian.WhatI learnedfromtheIdealists(andstill moststronglyhold) is thismaxim: itismoreimportantthatHeavenshouldexist thanthatanyofusshouldreachit.

AndsothegreatAngler playedHisfishandInever dreamed thatthehookwasinmytongue.Buttwogreatadvanceshad beenmade.Bergsonhadshowedmenecessaryexistence;and fromIdealismIhadcomeonestepnearer tounderstandingthe words,“Wegivethankstotheefor thygreatglory.”TheNorse godshadgivenmethefirsthintofit;butthenIdidn’tbelievein

them,andIdidbelieve(sofarasonecanbelievean Unding)

theAbsolute.

XIV.Checkmate

The one principle of hell is “I am my own. ”

GEORGEMACDONALD

Inthesummer of1922IfinishedGreats.Astherewereno philosophical postsgoing,ornonethatIcouldget,mylongsufferingfather offeredmeafourthyear atOxfordduringwhich IreadEnglishsoastogetasecondstringtomybow.TheGreat War withBarfieldhad,Ithink,begunatthistime.

NosoonerhadIenteredtheEnglishSchool thanIwentto GeorgeGordon’sdiscussionclass.AndthereImadeanew friend.Theveryfirstwordshespokemarkedhimoutfromthe tenor twelveotherswhowerepresent;amanafter myown heart,andthattooatanagewhentheinstantaneousfriendships ofearlier youthwerebecomingratherrareevents.Hisname wasNevill Coghill.Isoonhadtheshockofdiscoveringthathe clearlythemostintelligentandbest-informedmaninthat class wasaChristianandathoroughgoingsupernaturalist. Therewereother traitsthatIlikedbutfound(for Iwasstill very muchamodern) oddlyarchaic;chivalry,honour,courtesy, “freedom”,and“gentillesse”.Onecouldimaginehimfightinga duel.Hespokemuch“ribaldry”butnever “villeinye”.Barfield wasbeginningtooverthrow mychronological snobbery;Coghill gaveitanother blow.Hadsomethingreallydroppedoutofour lives?Wasthearchaicsimplythecivilised,andthemodern simplythebarbaric?Itwill seemstrangetomanyofmycritics whoregardmeasatypical laudator temporis acti thatthis questionshouldhavearisensocomparativelylateinmylife.

ButthenthekeytomybooksisDonne’smaxim,“The heresiesthatmenleavearehatedmost.”ThethingsI assertmostvigorouslyarethosethatIresistedlongand acceptedlate.

ThesedisturbingfactorsinCoghill rangedthemselveswitha wider disturbancewhichwasnow threateningmywholeearlier outlook.All thebookswerebeginningtoturnagainstme. Indeed,Imusthavebeenasblindasabatnottohaveseen,long before,theludicrouscontradictionbetweenmytheoryoflife andmyactual experiencesasareader.GeorgeMacDonaldhad donemoretomethananyother writer;ofcourseitwasapityhe hadthatbeeinhisbonnetaboutChristianity.Hewasgood in spite of it.Chestertonhadmoresensethanall theothermoderns puttogether;bating,ofcourse,hisChristianity.Johnsonwasone ofthefew authorswhomIfeltIcouldtrustutterly;curiously enough,hehadthesamekink.SpenserandMiltonbyastrange coincidencehadittoo.Evenamongancientauthorsthesame paradoxwastobefound.Themostreligious(Plato,Aeschylus, Virgil) wereclearlythoseonwhomIcouldreallyfeed.Onthe other hand,thosewriterswhodidnotsuffer fromreligionand withwhomintheorymysympathyoughttohavebeencomplete Shaw andWellsandMill andGibbonandVoltaire all seemedalittlethin;whatasboyswecalled“tinny”.Itwasn’t thatIdidn’tlikethem.Theywereall (especiallyGibbon) entertaining;buthardlymore.Thereseemedtobenodepthin them.Theyweretoosimple.Theroughnessanddensityoflife didnotappear intheir books.

Now thatIwasreadingmoreEnglish,theparadoxbegantobe aggravated.Iwasdeeplymovedbythe Dream of the Rood; moredeeplystill byLangland;intoxicated(foratime) by

203

Donne;deeplyandlastinglysatisfiedbyThomasBrowne.But themostalarmingofall wasGeorgeHerbert.Herewasaman whoseemedtometoexcel all theauthorsIhadever read inconveyingtheveryqualityoflifeasweactuallyliveit frommomenttomoment;butthewretchedfellow,insteadof doingitall directly,insistedonmeditatingitthoughwhatI wouldstill havecalled“theChristianmythology”.Ontheother handmostoftheauthorswhomightbeclaimedasprecursorsof modernenlightenmentseemedtomeverysmall beer andbored mecruelly.IthoughtBacon(tospeakfrankly)asolemn, pretentiousass,yawnedmywaythroughRestorationComedy, and,havingmanfullystruggledontothelastlineof Don Juan, wroteontheend-leaf“Never again”.Theonlynon-Christians whoseemedtomereallytoknow anythingweretheRomantics; andagoodmanyofthemweredangerouslytingedwith somethinglikereligion,evenattimeswithChristianity.The upshotofitall couldnearlybeexpressedinaperversionof Roland’sgreatlineinthe Chanson

Christians are wrong, but all the rest are bores.

Thenatural stepwouldhavebeentoinquirealittlemore closelywhether theChristianswere,after all,wrong.ButIdid nottakeit.IthoughtIcouldexplaintheir superioritywithoutthat hypothesis.Absurdly(yetmanyAbsoluteIdealistshaveshared thisabsurdity) Ithoughtthat“theChristianmyth”conveyedto unphilosophicmindsasmuchofthetruth,thatisofAbsolute Idealism,astheywerecapableofgrasping,andthateventhat muchputthemabovetheirreligious.Thosewhocouldnotrise tothenotionoftheAbsolutewouldcomenearer tothetruthby beliefin“aGod”thanbydisbelief.Thosewhocouldnot understandhow,asReasoners,weparticipatedinatimelessand

204 thereforedeathlessworld,wouldgetasymbolicshadow ofthe truthbybelievinginalifeafter death.Theimplication that somethingwhichIandmostother undergraduatescouldmaster withoutextraordinarypainswouldhavebeentoohardfor Plato, Dante,Hooker,andPascal didnotyetstrikemeas absurd.IhopethisisbecauseInever lookeditsquarely intheface.

Astheplotquickensandthickenstowardsitsend,Ileaveout moreandmoreofsuchmattersaswouldgointoafull autobiography.Myfather’sdeath,withall thefortitude(even playfulness) whichhedisplayedinhislastillness,doesnot reallycomeintothestoryIamtelling.Mybrother wasatthat timeinShanghai.Nor woulditberelevanttotell indetail how I becameatemporarylecturer atUniv.for ayear andwaselected afellow ofMagdalenin1925.TheworstisthatImustleave undescribedmanymenwhomIloveandtowhomIamdeeplyin debt;G.H.StevensonandE.F.Carritt,mytutors,theFark(but whocouldpainthimanyway?),andfivegreatMagdalenmen whoenlargedmyveryideaofwhatalearnedlifeshouldbe P. V.M.Benecke,C.C.J.Webb,J.A.Smith,F.E.Brightman,and C.T.Onions.Exceptfor Oldie,Ihavealwaysbeenblessedboth inmyofficial andmyunofficial teachers.Inmyearlieryearsat MagdalenIinhabitedaworldwherehardlyanythingIwantedto know neededtobefoundoutbymyownunaidedefforts.Oneor other ofthesecouldalwaysgiveyouaclue.(“You’ll find somethingaboutitinAlanus....” “Macrobiuswouldbethe mantotry....” “Doesn’tComparetti mentionit?”...“Have youlookedfor itinDuCange?”) Ifound,asalways,thatthe ripestarekindesttotheraw andthemoststudioushavemost timetospare.WhenIbeganteachingfor theEnglishFaculty,I madetwoother friends,bothChristians(thesequeer people

seemednow topopuponeveryside) whowerelatertogiveme muchhelpingettingover thelaststile.TheywereH.V.V. Dyson(thenofReading) andJ.R.R.Tolkien.Friendshipwith thelatter markedthebreakdownoftwooldprejudices.Atmy firstcomingintotheworldIhadbeen(implicitly) warnednever totrustaPapist,andatmyfirstcomingintotheEnglish Faculty(explicitly) nevertotrustaphilologist.Tolkien wasboth.

Realismhadbeenabandoned;theNew Lookwassomewhat damaged;andchronological snobberywasseriouslyshaken.All over theboardmypieceswereinthemostdisadvantageous positions.SoonIcouldnolonger cherisheventheillusionthat theinitiativelaywithme.MyAdversarybegantomakeHis final moves.

ThefirstMoveannihilatedthelastremainsoftheNew Look.I wassuddenlyimpelledtore-read(whichwascertainlyno businessofmineatthemoment) the Hippolytus ofEuripides.In onechorusall thatworld’sendimagerywhichIhadrejected whenIassumedmyNew Lookrosebeforeme.Iliked,butdid notyield;Itriedtopatroniseit.ButnextdayIwas overwhelmed.Therewasatransitional momentofdelicious uneasiness,andthen instantaneously thelonginhibitionwas over,thedrydesertlaybehind,Iwasoffoncemoreintotheland oflonging,myheartatoncebrokenandexaltedasithadnever beensincetheolddaysatBookham.Therewasnothing whatever todoaboutit;noquestionofreturningtothedesert.I hadsimplybeenordered or,rather,compelled to“takethat lookoffmyface”.Andnever toresumeiteither.

ThenextMovewasintellectual,andconsolidatedthefirst

206

Move.IreadinAlexander’s Space Time and Deity histheoryof “Enjoyment”and“Contemplation”.Thesearetechnical termsin Alexander’sphilosophy;“Enjoyment”hasnothingtodowith pleasure,nor “Contemplation”withthecontemplativelife. Whenyouseeatableyou“enjoy”theactofseeingand “contemplate”thetable.Later,ifyoutookupOpticsandthought aboutSeeingitself,youwouldbecontemplatingtheseeingand enjoyingthethought.Inbereavementyoucontemplatethe belovedandthebeloved’sdeathand,inAlexander’ssense, “enjoy”thelonelinessandgrief;butapsychologist,ifhe wereconsideringyouasacaseofmelancholia,wouldbe contemplatingyour griefandenjoyingpsychology.Wedonot “thinkathought”inthesamesenseinwhichwe“thinkthat Herodotusisunreliable”.Whenwethinkathought,“thought”is acognateaccusative(like“blow”in“strikeablow”).Weenjoy thethought(thatHerodotusisunreliable) and,insodoing, contemplatetheunreliabilityofHerodotus.

Iacceptedthisdistinctionatonceandhaveever sinceregarded itasanindispensabletool ofthought.Amomentlaterits consequences for mequitecatastrophic begantoappear.It seemedtomeself-evidentthatoneessential propertyoflove, hate,fear,hope,or desirewasattentiontotheir object.Tocease thinkingaboutorattendingtothewomanis,sofar,tocease loving;toceasethinkingaboutor attendingtothedreadedthing is,sofar,toceasebeingafraid.Buttoattendtoyourownlove or fearistoceaseattendingtothelovedordreadedobject.In other wordstheenjoymentandthecontemplationofour inner activitiesareincompatible.Youcannothopeandalsothink abouthopingatthesamemoment;for inhopewelooktohope’s objectandweinterruptthisby(sotospeak)turningroundto lookatthehopeitself.Ofcoursethetwoactivitiescananddo

alternatewithgreatrapidity;buttheyaredistinctand incompatible.Thiswasnotmerelyalogical resultof Alexander’sanalysis,butcouldbeverifiedindailyandhourly experience.Thesurestmeansofdisarminganangeror alust wastoturnyourattentionfromthegirl or theinsultandstart examiningthepassionitself.Thesurestwayofspoilinga pleasurewastostartexaminingyour satisfaction.Butifso,it followedthatall introspectionisinonerespectmisleading.In introspectionwetrytolook“insideourselves”andseewhatis goingon.Butnearlyeverythingthatwasgoingonamoment beforeisstoppedbytheveryactofour turningtolookat it.Unfortunatelythisdoesnotmeanthatintrospection findsnothing.Onthecontrary,itfindspreciselywhatisleft behindbythesuspensionofall our normal activities;andwhat isleftbehindismainlymental imagesandphysical sensations. Thegreaterroristomistakethismeresedimentor trackor byproductfor theactivitiesthemselves.Thatishow menmay cometobelievethatthoughtisonlyunspokenwords,or the appreciationofpoetryonlyacollectionofmental pictures, whentheseinrealityarewhatthethoughtor theappreciation, wheninterrupted,leavebehind liketheswell atsea,working after thewindhasdropped.Not,ofcourse,thattheseactivities, beforewestoppedthembyintrospection,wereunconscious.We donotlove,fear,or thinkwithoutknowingit.Insteadofthe twofolddivisionintoConsciousandUnconscious,weneeda three-folddivision: theUnconscious,theEnjoyed,andthe Contemplated.

Thisdiscoveryflashedanew lightbackonmywholelife.Isaw thatall mywaitingsandwatchingsfor Joy,all myvainhopesto findsomemental contentonwhichIcould,sotospeak,laymy fingerandsay,“Thisisit,”hadbeenafutileattemptto

208 contemplatetheenjoyed.All thatsuchwatchingandwaiting ever could findwouldbeeither animage(Asgard,theWestern Garden,or whatnot) oraquiverinthediaphragm.Ishould neverhavetobother againabouttheseimagesor sensations.I knew now thattheyweremerelythemental trackleftbythe passageofJoy notthewavebutthewave’simprintonthe sand.Theinherentdialecticofdesireitselfhadinawayalready shownmethis;for all imagesandsensations,ifidolatrously mistakenfor Joyitself,soonhonestlyconfessedthemselves inadequate.All said,inthelastresort,“ItisnotI.Iamonlya reminder.Look!Look!WhatdoIremindyouof?”

Sofar,sogood.Butitisatthenextstepthataweovertakesme. TherewasnodoubtthatJoywasadesire(and,insofar asitwasalsosimultaneouslyagood,itwasalsoakind oflove).Butadesireisturnednottoitselfbuttoitsobject.Not onlythat,butitowesall itscharacter toitsobject.Eroticloveis notlikedesirefor food,nay,alovefor onewomandiffersfrom alovefor another womanintheverysamewayandthevery samedegreeasthetwowomendiffer fromoneanother.Even our desirefor onewinediffersintonefromour desirefor another.Our intellectual desire(curiosity)toknow thetrue answer toaquestionisquitedifferentfromour desiretofind thatoneanswer,rather thananother,istrue.Theformofthe desiredisinthedesire.Itistheobjectwhichmakesthedesire harshor sweet,coarseor choice,“high”or “low”.Itisthe objectthatmakesthedesireitselfdesirableor hateful.I perceived(andthiswasawonder ofwonders) thatjustasIhad beenwronginsupposingthatIreallydesiredtheGardenofthe Hesperides,soalsoIhadbeenequallywronginsupposingthatI desiredJoyitself.Joyitself,consideredsimplyasaneventin myownmind,turnedouttobeofnovalueatall.All thevalue

209 layinthatofwhichJoywasthedesiring.Andthatobject,quite clearly,wasnostateofmyownmindor bodyatall.Inaway,I hadprovedthisbyelimination.Ihadtriedeverythinginmyown mindandbody;asitwere,askingmyself,“Isitthisyouwant?Is itthis?”Lastofall IhadaskedifJoyitselfwaswhatIwanted; and,labellingit“aestheticexperience”,hadpretendedIcould answer Yes.Butthatanswer toohadbrokendown.Inexorably Joyproclaimed,“Youwant Imyselfamyour wantof somethingother,outside,notyounor anystateofyou.”Ididnot yetask,Whoisthedesired?onlyWhatisit?Butthisbroughtme alreadyintotheregionofawe,for Ithusunderstoodthatin deepestsolitudethereisaroadrightoutoftheself,acommerce withsomethingwhich,byrefusingtoidentifyitselfwithany objectofthesenses,oranythingwhereofwehave biological or social need,or anythingimagined,orany stateofour ownminds,proclaimsitselfsheerlyobjective.Far moreobjectivethanbodies,foritisnot,likethem,clothedin our senses;thenakedOther,imageless(thoughourimagination salutesitwithahundredimages),unknown,undefined,desired.

ThatwasthesecondMove;equivalent,perhaps,tothelossof one’slastremainingbishop.ThethirdMovedidnotseemtome dangerousatthetime.Itconsistedmerelyinlinkingupthisnew éclaircissement aboutJoywithmyidealisticphilosophy.Isaw thatJoy,asInow understoodit,wouldfitin.Wemortals,seen asthesciencesseeusandaswecommonlyseeoneanother,are mere“appearances”.ButappearancesoftheAbsolute.Insofar aswereallyareatall (whichisn’tsayingmuch) wehave,soto speak,arootintheAbsolute,whichistheutter reality.Andthat iswhyweexperienceJoy: weyearn,rightly,for thatunity whichwecannever reachexceptbyceasingtobetheseparate phenomenal beingscalled“we”.Joywasnotadeception.Its

visitationswereratherthemomentsofclearestconsciousness wehad,whenwebecameawareofour fragmentaryand phantasmal natureandachedfor thatimpossiblereunionwhich wouldannihilateusorthatself-contradictorywakingwhich wouldreveal,notthatwehadhad,butthatwe were,adream. Thisseemedquitesatisfactoryintellectually.Evenemotionally too;for itmattersmorethatHeavenshouldexistthanthatwe shouldever getthere.WhatIdidnotnoticewasthatIhad passedanimportantmilestone.Uptill now mythoughtshad beencentrifugal;now thecentripetal movementhadbegun. Considerationsarisingfromquitedifferentpartsofmy experiencewerebeginningtocometogether withaclick.This new dovetailingofmydesire-lifewithmyphilosophy foreshadowedtheday,now fastapproaching,whenIshouldbe forcedtotakemy“philosophy”moreseriouslythanIever intended.Ididnotforeseethis.Iwaslikeamanwhohas lost“merelyapawn”andneverdreamsthatthis(inthat stateofthegame) meansmateinafew moves.

ThefourthMovewasmorealarming.Iwasnow teaching philosophy(Isuspectverybadly) aswell asEnglish.Andmy wateredHegelianismwouldn’tservefortutorial purposes.

A tutormustmakethingsclear.Now theAbsolutecannotbemade clear.DoyoumeanNobody-knows-what,or doyoumeana superhumanmindandtherefore(wemayaswell admit) a Person?Afterall,didHegel andBradleyandall therestofthem everdomorethanaddmystificationstothesimple,workable, theisticidealismofBerkeley?Ithoughtnot.Anddidn’t Berkeley’s“God”doall thesameworkastheAbsolute,with theaddedadvantagethatwehadatleastsomenotionofwhat wemeantbyHim?IthoughtHedid.SoIwasdrivenbackinto

somethinglikeBerkeleyanism;butBerkeleyanismwithafew top-dressingsofmyown.Idistinguishedthisphilosophical “God”verysharply(or soIsaid) from“theGodofpopular religion”.Therewas,Iexplained,nopossibilityofbeingina personal relationwithHim.For IthoughtHeprojectedusasa dramatistprojectshischaracters,andIcouldnomore“meet” Him,thanHamletcouldmeetShakespeare.Ididn’tcall Him “God”either;IcalledHim“Spirit”.Onefightsfor one’s remainingcomforts.

ThenIreadChesterton’s Everlasting Man andfor thefirsttime saw thewholeChristianoutlineofhistorysetoutinaformthat seemedtometomakesense.Somehow Icontrivednottobetoo badlyshaken.Youwill remember thatIalreadythought Chestertonthemostsensiblemanalive“apartfromhis Christianity”.Now,Iveritablybelieve,Ithought Ididn’tof course say;wordswouldhaverevealedthenonsense thatChristianityitselfwasverysensible“apartfromits Christianity”.ButIhardlyremember,for Ihadnotlongfinished The Everlasting Man whensomethingfar morealarming happenedtome.Earlyin1926thehardestboiledofall the atheistsIever knew satinmyroomontheother sideofthefire andremarkedthattheevidencefor thehistoricityoftheGospels wasreallysurprisinglygood.“Rumthing,”hewenton.“All that stuffofFrazer’sabouttheDyingGod.Rumthing.Italmostlooks asifithadreallyhappenedonce.”Tounderstandtheshattering impactofit,youwouldneedtoknow theman(whohas certainlynever sinceshownanyinterestinChristianity).Ifhe, thecynicofcynics,thetoughestofthetoughs,werenot asI wouldstill haveputit “safe”,wherecouldIturn?Wasthere thennoescape?

212

TheoddthingwasthatbeforeGodclosedinonme,Iwasin factofferedwhatnow appearsamomentofwhollyfreechoice. Inasense.IwasgoingupHeadingtonHill onthetopofabus. Withoutwordsand(Ithink) almostwithoutimages,afactabout myselfwassomehow presentedtome.IbecameawarethatI washoldingsomethingatbay,or shuttingsomethingout.Or,if youlike,thatIwaswearingsomestiffclothing,likecorsets,or evenasuitofarmour,asifIwerealobster.Ifeltmyselfbeing, thereandthen,givenafreechoice.Icouldopenthedooror keepitshut;Icouldunbucklethearmour or keepiton.Neither choicewaspresentedasaduty;nothreator promisewas attachedtoeither,thoughIknew thattoopenthedoor or totake offthecorsletmeanttheincalculable.Thechoiceappearedto bemomentousbutitwasalsostrangelyunemotional.Iwas movedbynodesiresor fears.InasenseIwasnotmovedby anything.Ichosetoopen,tounbuckle,toloosentherein.Isay, “Ichose,”yetitdidnotreallyseempossibletodotheopposite. Ontheotherhand,Iwasawareofnomotives.Youcould arguethatIwasnotafreeagent,butIammoreinclined tothinkthatthiscamenearer tobeingaperfectlyfreeactthan mostthatIhaveeverdone.Necessitymaynotbetheoppositeof freedom,andperhapsamanismostfreewhen,insteadof producingmotives,hecouldonlysay,“IamwhatIdo.”Then cametherepercussionontheimaginativelevel.IfeltasifI wereamanofsnow atlonglastbeginningtomelt.Themelting wasstartinginmyback drip-dripandpresentlytrickle-trickle. Irather dislikedthefeeling.

ThefoxhadbeendislodgedfromHegelianWoodandwasnow runningintheopen,“withall thewointheworld,”bedraggled andweary,houndsbarelyafieldbehind.Andnearlyeveryone wasnow (onewayor another) inthepack;Plato,Dante,

MacDonald,Herbert,Barfield,Tolkien,Dyson,Joyitself. Everyoneandeverythinghadjoinedtheother side.Evenmy ownpupil Griffiths now DomBedeGriffiths thoughnotyet himselfabeliever,didhisshare.Once,whenheandBarfield werelunchinginmyroom,Ihappenedtorefer tophilosophyas “asubject”.“Itwasn’ta subject toPlato,”saidBarfield,“it wasaway.”ThequietbutferventagreementofGriffiths,and thequickglanceofunderstandingbetweenthesetwo,revealed tomemyownfrivolity.Enoughhadbeenthought,andsaid,and felt,andimagined.Itwasabouttimethatsomethingshouldbe done.

For ofcoursetherehadlongbeenanethic(theoretically) attachedtomyIdealism.Ithoughtthebusinessofusfiniteand half-unreal soulswastomultiplytheconsciousnessofSpiritby seeingtheworldfromdifferentpositionswhileyetremaining qualitativelythesameasSpirit;tobetiedtoaparticulartime andplaceandsetofcircumstances,yettheretowill andthinkas Spirititselfdoes.Thiswashard;for theveryactwherebySpirit projectedsoulsandaworldgavethosesoulsdifferent andcompetitiveinterests,sothattherewasatemptation toselfishness.ButIthoughteachofushaditinhispower to discounttheemotional perspectiveproducedbyhisown particular selfhood,justaswediscounttheoptical perspective producedbyour positioninspace.Toprefer myownhappiness tomyneighbour’swaslikethinkingthatthenearesttelegraph postwasreallythelargest.Thewaytorecover,andactupon, thisuniversal andobjectivevisionwasdailyandhourlyto remember our truenature,toreascendor returnintothatSpirit which,insofar aswereallywereatall,westill were.Yes;but Inow feltIhadbetter trytodoit.Ifreedatlast(in MacDonald’swords) “somethingtobeneither morenorlessnor

other than done”.Anattemptatcompletevirtuemustbemade. Really,ayoungAtheistcannotguardhisfaithtoocarefully.

Dangerslieinwaitfor himoneveryside.Youmustnotdo,you mustnoteventrytodo,thewill oftheFather unlessyouare preparedto“know ofthedoctrine”.All myacts,desires,and thoughtsweretobebroughtintoharmonywithuniversal Spirit. For thefirsttimeIexaminedmyselfwithaseriouslypractical purpose.AndthereIfoundwhatappalledme;azoooflusts,a bedlamofambitions,anurseryoffears,ahareemoffondled hatreds.Mynamewaslegion.

OfcourseIcoulddonothing Icouldnotlastoutonehour withoutcontinual consciousrecoursetowhatIcalledSpirit.But thefine,philosophical distinctionbetweenthisandwhat ordinarypeoplecall “prayertoGod”breaksdownassoonas youstartdoingitinearnest.Idealismcanbetalked,andeven felt;itcannotbelived.Itbecamepatentlyabsurdtogoon thinkingof“Spirit”aseitherignorantof,or passiveto,my approaches.Evenifmyownphilosophyweretrue,how could theinitiativelieonmyside?Myownanalogy,asInow first perceived,suggestedtheopposite: ifShakespeareandHamlet couldevermeet,itmustbeShakespeare’sdoing. [8]

Hamletcouldinitiatenothing.Perhaps,evennow,myAbsolute Spiritstill differedinsomewayfromtheGodofreligion.The real issuewasnot,or notyet,there.Thereal terror wasthatif youseriouslybelievedinevensucha“God”or “Spirit”asI admitted,awhollynew situationdeveloped.Asthedrybones shookandcametogether inthatdreadful valleyofEzekiel’s,so now aphilosophical theorem,cerebrallyentertained,beganto stir andheaveandthrow offitsgravecloths,andstoodupright

andbecamealivingpresence.Iwastobeallowedtoplayat philosophynolonger.Itmight,asIsay,still betruethatmy “Spirit”differedinsomewayfrom“theGodofpopular religion”.MyAdversarywaivedthepoint.Itsankintoutter unimportance.Hewouldnotargueaboutit.Heonlysaid,“Iam theLord”;“IamthatIam”;“Iam”.

Peoplewhoarenaturallyreligiousfinddifficultyin understandingthehorror ofsucharevelation.Amiableagnostics will talkcheerfullyabout“man’ssearchfor God”.Tome,asI thenwas,theymightaswell havetalkedaboutthemouse’s searchforthecat.Thebestimageofmypredicamentisthe meetingofMimeandWotaninthefirstactof Siegfried; hier brauch’ ich nicht Spärer noch Späher, Einsam will ich ... (I’venousefor spiesandsnoopers.Iwouldbeprivate....)

Remember,Ihadalwayswanted,aboveall things,nottobe “interferedwith”.Ihadwanted(madwish) “tocall mysoul my own”.Ihadbeenfar moreanxioustoavoidsufferingthanto achievedelight.Ihadalwaysaimedatlimitedliabilities.The supernatural itselfhadbeentome,first,anillicitdram,and then,asbyadrunkard’sreaction,nauseous.Evenmyrecent attempttolivemyphilosophyhadsecretly(Inow knew) beenhedgedroundbyall sortsofreservations.Ihad prettywell knownthatmyideal ofvirtuewouldnever be allowedtoleadmeintoanythingintolerablypainful;Iwouldbe “reasonable”.Butnow whathadbeenanideal becamea command;andwhatmightnotbeexpectedofone?Doubtless,by definition,GodwasReasonitself.ButwouldHealsobe “reasonable”inthatother,morecomfortable,sense?Notthe slightestassuranceonthatscorewasofferedme.Total surrender,theabsoluteleapinthedark,weredemanded.The

realitywithwhichnotreatycanbemadewasuponme.The demandwasnoteven“All or nothing”.Ithinkthatstagehad beenpassed,onthebus-topwhenIunbuckledmyarmour and thesnow-manstartedtomelt.Now,thedemandwassimply “All”.

YoumustpicturemealoneinthatroominMagdalen,nightafter night,feeling,whenever mymindliftedevenfor asecondfrom mywork,thesteady,unrelentingapproachofHimwhomIso earnestlydesirednottomeet.ThatwhichIgreatlyfearedhadat lastcomeuponme.IntheTrinityTermof1929Igavein,and admittedthatGodwasGod,andkneltandprayed: perhaps,that night,themostdejectedandreluctantconvertinall England.I didnotthenseewhatisnow themostshiningandobviousthing; theDivinehumilitywhichwill acceptaconvertevenonsuch terms.TheProdigal Sonatleastwalkedhomeonhisownfeet. ButwhocandulyadorethatLovewhichwill openthehigh gatestoaprodigal whoisbroughtinkicking,struggling, resentful,anddartinghiseyesineverydirectionfor achanceof escape?Thewords compelle intrare,compel themtocomein, havebeensoabusedbywickedmenthatweshudder atthem; but,properlyunderstood,theyplumbthedepthoftheDivine mercy.ThehardnessofGodiskinder thanthesoftnessofmen, andHiscompulsionisourliberation.

XV.TheBeginning

Aliud est de silvestri cacumine videre patriam pads . . . et aliud tenere viam illuc ducetitem.

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.

Itmustbeunderstoodthattheconversionrecordedinthelast chapterwasonlytoTheism,pureandsimple,nottoChristianity. Iknew nothingyetabouttheIncarnation.TheGodtowhomI surrenderedwassheerlynon-human.

Itmaybeaskedwhether myterror wasatall relievedbythe thoughtthatIwasnow approachingthesourcefromwhichthose arrowsofJoyhadbeenshotatmeever sincechildhood.Notin theleast.Noslightesthintwasvouchsafedmethatthereever hadbeenor everwouldbeanyconnectionbetweenGodand Joy.Ifanything,itwasthereverse.Ihadhopedthattheheartof realitymightbeofsuchakindthatwecanbestsymboliseitasa place;instead,IfoundittobeaPerson.Forall Iknew,thetotal rejectionofwhatIcalledJoymightbeoneofthedemands, mightbetheveryfirstdemand,Hewouldmakeuponme.There wasnostrainofmusicfromwithin,nosmell ofeternal orchards atthethreshold,whenIwasdraggedthroughthedoorway.No kindofdesirewaspresentatall.

Myconversioninvolvedasyetnobeliefinafuturelife.Inow numberitamongmygreatestmerciesthatIwaspermittedfor

several months,perhapsfor ayear,toknow Godandtoattempt obediencewithoutevenraisingthatquestion.Mytraining waslikethatoftheJews,towhomHerevealedHimself centuriesbeforetherewasawhisper ofanythingbetter (or worse)beyondthegravethanshadowyandfeatureless Sheol. AndIdidnotdreamevenofthat.Therearemen,farbetter men thanI,whohavemadeimmortalityalmostthecentral doctrineof their religion;butfor myownpartIhavenever seenhow a preoccupationwiththatsubjectattheoutsetcouldfail tocorrupt thewholething.Ihadbeenbroughtuptobelievethatgoodness wasgoodnessonlyifitweredisinterested,andthatanyhopeof rewardor fear ofpunishmentcontaminatedthewill.IfIwas wronginthis(thequestionisreallymuchmorecomplicated thanIthenperceived) myerror wasmosttenderlyallowedfor.I wasafraidthatthreatsorpromiseswoulddemoraliseme;no threatsor promisesweremade.Thecommandswere inexorable,buttheywerebackedbyno“sanctions”.Godwasto beobeyedsimplybecausehewasGod.Longsince,throughthe godsofAsgard,andlaterthroughthenotionoftheAbsolute,He hadtaughtmehow athingcanbereverednotfor whatitcando tousbutfor whatitisinitself.Thatiswhy,thoughitwasa terror,itwasnosurprisetolearnthatGodistobeobeyed becauseofwhatHeisinHimself.Ifyouaskwhyweshould obeyGod,inthelastresorttheanswer is,“Iam.”Toknow God istoknow thatour obedienceisduetoHim.InHisnatureHis sovereignty de jure isrevealed. Ofcourse,asIhavesaid,thematter ismorecomplicatedthan that.Theprimal andnecessaryBeing,theCreator,has sovereignty de facto aswell as de jure.Hehasthepower as well asthekingdomandtheglory.Butthe de jure sovereignty wasmadeknowntomebeforethepower,therightbeforethe

might.Andfor thisIamthankful.Ithinkitiswell,evennow, sometimestosaytoourselves,“Godissuchthatif(per impossibile) hispower couldvanishandHisother attributes remain,sothatthesupremerightwereforever robbedof thesuprememight,weshouldstill oweHimpreciselythe samekindanddegreeofallegianceaswenow do.”Ontheother hand,whileitistruetosaythatGod’sownnatureisthereal sanctionofHiscommands,yettounderstandthismust,inthe end,leadustotheconclusionthatunionwiththatNatureisbliss andseparationfromithorror.ThusHeavenandHell comein. Butitmaywell bethattothinkmuchofeither exceptinthis contextofthought,tohypostatisethemasiftheyhada substantial meaningapartfromthepresenceor absenceofGod, corruptsthedoctrineofbothandcorruptsuswhilewesothink ofthem.

Thelaststageinmystory,thetransitionfrommereTheismto Christianity,istheoneonwhichIamnow leastinformed.Since itisalsothemostrecent,thisignorancemayseemstrange.I thinktherearetworeasons.Oneisthataswegrow older we remember themoredistantpastbetter thanwhatisnearer.But theother is,Ibelieve,thatoneofthefirstresultsofmyTheistic conversionwasamarkeddecrease(andhightime,asall readersofthisbookwill agree) inthefussyattentivenesswhich Ihadsolongpaidtotheprogressofmyownopinionsandthe statesofmyownmind.For manyhealthyextrovertsselfexaminationfirstbeginswithconversion.For meitwasalmost theother wayround.Self-examinationdidofcoursecontinue. Butitwas(Isuppose,for Icannotquiteremember)atstated intervals,andfor apractical purpose;aduty,adiscipline,an uncomfortablething,nolonger ahobbyor ahabit.Tobelieve andtopraywerethebeginningofextroversion.Ihadbeen,as

theysay,“takenoutofmyself”.IfTheismhaddonenothingelse for me,Ishouldstill bethankful thatitcuredmeofthetimewastingandfoolishpracticeofkeepingadiary.(Evenfor autobiographical purposesadiaryisnothinglikesouseful asI hadhoped.Youputdowneachdaywhatyouthinkimportant;but ofcourseyoucannoteachdayseewhatwill proveto havebeenimportantinthelongrun.

[9] )

AssoonasIbecameaTheistIstartedattendingmyparish churchonSundaysandmycollegechapel onweekdays;not becauseIbelievedinChristianity,nor becauseIthoughtthe differencebetweenitandsimpleTheismasmall one,but becauseIthoughtoneoughtto“flyone’sflag”bysome unmistakableovertsign.Iwasactinginobediencetoa(perhaps mistaken) senseofhonour.Theideaofchurchmanshipwasto mewhollyunattractive.Iwasnotintheleastanti-clerical,butI wasdeeplyanti-ecclesiastical.Thatcuratesandarchdeacons andchurchwardensshouldexist,wasadmirable.Theygratified myJenkinianloveofeverythingwhichhasitsownstrong flavour.And(apartfromOldie) Ihadbeenfortunateinmy clerical acquaintances;especiallyinAdamFox,theDeanof DivinityatMagdalen,andinArthur Barton(later Archbishopof Dublin) whohadbeenour Rector athomeinIreland.(He,bythe by,hadoncesufferedunder OldieatBelsen.Speakingof Oldie’sdeath,Ihadsaidtohim,“Well,weshan’tsee him again.”“Youmean,”heansweredwithagrimsmile,“we hope weshan’t.”) ButthoughIlikedclergymenasIlikedbears,Ihad aslittlewishtobeintheChurchasinthezoo.Itwas,tobegin with,akindofcollective;awearisome“get-together”affair.I couldn’tyetseehow aconcernofthatsortshouldhaveanything todowithone’sspiritual life.Tome,religionoughttohave

221 beenamatterofgoodmenprayingaloneandmeetingbytwos andthreestotalkofspiritual matters.Andthenthefussy,timewastingbotherationofitall!thebells,thecrowds,the umbrellas,thenotices,thebustle,theperpetual arranging andorganising.Hymnswere(andare) extremelydisagreeable tome.Ofall musical instrumentsIliked(andlike)theorgan least.Ihave,too,asortofspiritual gaucherie whichmakesme unapttoparticipateinanyrite.

Thusmychurchgoingwasamerelysymbolical andprovisional practice.IfitinfacthelpedtomovemeintheChristian direction,Iwasandamunawareofthis.Mychiefcompanionon thisstageoftheroadwasGriffiths,withwhomIkeptupa copiouscorrespondence.Bothnow believedinGod,andwere readytohearmoreofHimfromanysource,Paganor Christian. Inmymind(Icannotnow answer for his,andhehastoldhis ownstoryadmirablyin The Golden String) theperplexing multiplicityof“religions”begantosortitselfout.Thereal clue hadbeenputintomyhandbythathard-boiledAtheistwhenhe said,“Rumthing,all thatabouttheDyingGod.Seemstohave reallyhappenedonce”;byhimandbyBarfield’sencouragement ofamorerespectful,ifnotmoredelighted,attitudetoPagan myth.Thequestionwasnolonger tofindtheonesimplytrue religionamongathousandreligionssimplyfalse.Itwasrather, “Wherehasreligionreacheditstruematurity?Where,if anywhere,havethehintsofall Paganismbeenfulfilled?”With theirreligiousIwasnolonger concerned;their view oflifewas henceforthoutofcourt.Asagainstthem,thewholemassof thosewhohadworshipped all whohaddancedandsungand sacrificedandtrembledandadored wereclearlyright.Butthe intellectandtheconscience,aswell astheorgyandtheritual, mustbeour guide.Therecouldbenoquestionofgoingbackto

222 primitive,untheologisedandunmoralised,Paganism.TheGod whomIhadatlastacknowledgedwasone,andwasrighteous. Paganismhadbeenonlythechildhoodofreligion,or onlya propheticdream.Wherewasthethingfull grown?or wherewas theawaking?(The Everlasting Man washelpingme here.) Therewerereallyonlytwoanswerspossible: either inHinduismorinChristianity.Everythingelsewaseither apreparationfor,or else(intheFrenchsense) a vulgarisation of,these.Whatever youcouldfindelsewhereyoucouldfind better inoneofthese.ButHinduismseemedtohavetwo disqualifications.Foronething,itappearedtobenotsomucha moralisedandphilosophical maturityofPaganismasamere oil-and-water coexistenceofphilosophysidebysidewith Paganismunpurged;theBrahminmeditatingintheforest,and,in thevillageafew milesaway,temple-prostitution, sati,cruelty, monstrosity.Andsecondly,therewasnosuchhistorical claimas inChristianity.Iwasbynow tooexperiencedinliterary criticismtoregardtheGospelsasmyths.Theyhadnotthe mythical taste.Andyettheverymatter whichtheysetdownin theirartless,historical fashion thosenarrow,unattractive Jews,tooblindtothemythical wealthofthePaganworld aroundthem waspreciselythematter ofthegreatmyths.If everamythhadbecomefact,hadbeenincarnated,itwouldbe justlikethis.Andnothingelseinall literaturewasjustlikethis. Mythswerelikeitinoneway.Historieswerelikeitinanother. Butnothingwassimplylikeit.Andnopersonwaslikethe Personitdepicted;asreal,asrecognisable,throughall that depthoftime,asPlato’sSocratesor Boswell’sJohnson(ten timesmoresothanEckermann’sGoetheor Lockhart’sScott), yetalsonuminous,litbyalightfrombeyondtheworld,agod. Butifagod wearenolongerpolytheists thennotagod,but God.Hereandhereonlyinall timethemythmusthavebecome

223 fact;theWord,flesh;God,Man.Thisisnot“areligion”,nor “a philosophy”.Itisthesummingupandactualityofthemall.

AsIhavesaid,Ispeakofthislasttransitionlesscertainlythan ofanywhichwentbeforeit,anditmaybethatinthepreceding paragraphIhavemixedthoughtsthatcamelater.ButIcan hardlybewrongaboutthemainlines.OfonethingIam sure.AsIdrew near theconclusion,Ifeltaresistancealmostas strongasmypreviousresistancetoTheism.Asstrong,but shorter-lived,for Iunderstooditbetter.EverystepIhadtaken, fromtheAbsoluteto“Spirit”andfrom“Spirit”to“God”,had beenasteptowardsthemoreconcrete,themoreimminent,the morecompulsive.Ateachsteponehadlesschance“tocall one’ssoul one’sown”.ToaccepttheIncarnationwasafurther stepinthesamedirection.ItbringsGodnearer,or near inanew way.Andthis,Ifound,wassomethingIhadnotwanted.Butto recognisethegroundfor myevasionwasofcoursetorecognise bothitsshameanditsfutility.Iknow verywell when,buthardly how,thefinal stepwastaken.IwasdriventoWhipsnadeone sunnymorning.WhenwesetoutIdidnotbelievethatJesus ChrististheSonofGod,andwhenwereachedthezooIdid. YetIhadnotexactlyspentthejourneyinthought.Nor ingreat emotion.“Emotional”isperhapsthelastwordwecanapplyto someofthemostimportantevents.Itwasmorelikewhenaman, after longsleep,still lyingmotionlessinbed,becomesaware thatheisnow awake.Anditwas,likethatmomentontopofthe bus,ambiguous.Freedom,or necessity?Or dotheydifferat their maximum?Atthatmaximumamaniswhathedoes;thereis nothingofhimleftover or outsidetheact.Asforwhatwe commonlycall Will,andwhatwecommonlycall Emotion,I fancytheseusuallytalktooloud,protesttoomuch,tobequite believed,andwehaveasecretsuspicionthatthegreatpassion

ortheironresolutionispartlyaput-upjob.

TheyhavespoiledWhipsnadesincethen.WallabyWood,with thebirdssingingoverheadandthebluebellsunderfootandthe Wallabieshoppingall roundone,wasalmostEdencomeagain.

Butwhat,inconclusion,ofJoy?for that,after all,iswhat thestoryhasmainlybeenabout.Totell youthetruth,the subjecthaslostnearlyall interestfor mesinceIbecamea Christian.Icannot,indeed,complain,likeWordsworth,thatthe visionarygleamhaspassedaway.Ibelieve(ifthethingwereat all worthrecording)thattheoldstab,theoldbittersweet,has cometomeasoftenandassharplysincemyconversionasat anytimeofmylifewhatever.ButInow know thatthe experience,consideredasastateofmyownmind,hadnever hadthekindofimportanceIoncegaveit.Itwasvaluableonly asapointertosomethingother andouter.Whilethatotherwas indoubt,thepointernaturallyloomedlargeinmythoughts. Whenwearelostinthewoodsthesightofasignpostisagreat matter.Hewhofirstseesitcries,“Look!”Thewholeparty gathersroundandstares.Butwhenwehavefoundtheroadand arepassingsignpostseveryfew miles,weshall notstopand stare.Theywill encourageusandweshall begrateful tothe authoritythatsetthemup.Butweshall notstopandstare,or not much;notonthisroad,thoughtheir pillarsareofsilver andtheir letteringofgold.“WewouldbeatJerusalem.”

Not,ofcourse,thatIdon’toftencatchmyselfstoppingtostareat roadsideobjectsofevenlessimportance.

Footnotes

[1] For readersofmychildren’sbooks,thebestwayofputting thiswouldbetosaythatAnimal-Landhadnothingwhatever incommonwithNarniaexcepttheanthropomorphicbeasts. Animal-Land,byitswholequality,excludedtheleasthintof wonder.

[2] Oh,Idesiretoomuch.

[3] Thispunishmentwasfor amistakeinageometrical proof.

[4] Here,andthroughoutthisaccount,Isometimesusethe “historicpresent”.HeavenforfendIshouldbetakentomean thatWyvernisthesameto-day.

[5] i.e.notnecessarilyandbyitsownnature.Godcancauseitto besuchabeginning.

[6] TheironinMalory,thetragedyofcontrition,Ididnotyetat all perceive.

[7] Not,ofcourse,thatIthoughtitatutor’sbusinesstomake

convertstohisownphilosophy.ButIfoundIneededa positionofmyownasabasisfromwhichtocriticisemy pupils’essays.

[8]

i.e.Shakespearecould,inprinciple,makehimselfappear as Author withintheplay,andwriteadialoguebetween Hamletandhimself.The“Shakespeare”withintheplay wouldofcoursebeatonceShakespeareandoneof Shakespeare’screatures.Itwouldbear someanalogyto Incarnation.

[9]

Theonlyreal goodIgotfromkeepingadiarywasthatit taughtmeajustappreciationofBoswell’samazinggenius.I triedveryhardtoreproduceconversations,insomeof whichveryamusingandstrikingpeoplehadtakenpart.But noneofthesepeoplecametolifeinthediaryatall. Obviouslysomethingquitedifferentfrommereaccurate reportingwenttothepresentationofBoswell’sLangton, Beauclerk,Wilkes,andtherest.

A

LSO BY C. S. LEWIS

THEABOLITION OFMAN

BROADCASTTALKS

BEYOND PERSONALITY

CHRISTIAN BEHAVIOUR

For Children:

THELION,THEWITCH AND THEWARDROBE

PRINCECASPIAN

THEVOYAGEOFTHEDAWN TREADER THESILVERCHAIR

THEHORSEAND HISBOY

BYJOHN JOHNSON,PRINTERTO THEUNIVERSITY

Transcriber’sNotes

Copyrightnoticeprovidedasintheoriginal thise-textis publicdomaininthecountryofpublication. Silentlycorrectedpalpabletypos;leftnon-standard spellingsanddialectunchanged.

Providedanoriginal cover image,for freeandunrestricted usewiththisDistributedProofreaders-CanadaeBook.

Onlyinthetextversions,delimiteditalicizedtextin underscores (theHTMLversionreproducesthefont formoftheprintedbook.)

OnlyintheLatin-1version,includedGreekwords transliterated,inside{braces} (HTMLandUTFrepresent theactual Greekcharacters.)

[Theendof Surprised by Joy: The shape of my early life by C.S.Lewis]