However, the Great Axiom (as he called it) was the justification6 that he put forward in defence of the notes on which the previous section is based.
“Of course,” he would say, “the symbolism is inadequate7; but that is the defect of speech of any kind when you have once ventured beyond the multiplication8 table and the jargon9 of the Stock Exchange. Inadequacy10 of expression is merely a minor12 part of the great tragedy of humanity. Only an ass13 thinks that he has succeeded in uttering the perfect content of his thought without either excess or defect.”
“Then, again,” he might go on, “the symbolism would very likely be misleading to a great many people; but what is one to do? I believe many good people find Turner mad and Dickens tiresome14. And if the great sometimes fail, what hope is there for the little? We cannot all be — well — popular novelists of the day.”
Of course, the notes in question were made many years after the event they commemorate15; they were the man’s translation of all the wonderful and inexpressible emotions of the boy; and, as Meyrick puts it, many “words” (or symbols) are used in them which were unknown to the lad of fifteen.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “they are the best words that I can find.”
As has been said, the Old Grange was a large, roomy house; a space could easily have been found for half a dozen more boys if the High Usher16 had cared to be bothered with them. As it was, it was a favour to be at Horbury’s, and there was usually some personal reason for admission. Pelly, for example, was the son of an old friend; Bates was a distant cousin; and Rawson’s father was the master of a small Grammar School in the north with which certain ancestral Horburys were somehow connected. The Old Grange was a fine large Caroline house; it had a grave front of red brick, mellowed17 with age, tier upon tier of tall, narrow windows, flush with the walls, and a high-pitched, red-tiled roof. Above the front door was a rich and curious wooden pent-house, deeply carven; and within there was plenty of excellent panelling, and some good mantelpieces, added, it would seem, somewhere about the Adam period. Horbury had seen its solid and comfortable merits and had bought the freehold years before at a great bargain. The school was increasing rapidly even in those days, and he knew that before long more houses would be required. If he left Lupton he would be able to let the Old Grange easily — he might almost put it up for auction19 — and the rent would represent a return of fifty per cent on his investment. Many of the rooms were large; of a size out of all proportion to the boys’ needs, and at a very trifling20 expense partitions might be made and the nine or ten available rooms be subdivided21 into studies for twenty or even twenty-five boys. Nature had gifted the High Usher with a careful, provident22 mind in all things, both great and small; and it is but fair to add that on his leaving Lupton for Wareham he found his anticipations23 more than justified24. To this day Charles Horbury, his nephew, a high Government official, draws a comfortable income from his uncle’s most prudent25 investment, and the house easily holds its twenty-five boys. Rainy, who took the place from Horbury, was an ingenious fellow and hit upon a capital plan for avoiding the expense of making new windows for some of the subdivided studies. After thoughtful consideration he caused the wooden partitions which were put up to stop short of the ceiling by four inches, and by this device the study with a window lighted the study that had none; and, as Rainy explained to some of the parents, a diffused26 light was really better for the eyes than a direct one.
In the old days, when Ambrose Meyrick was being made a man of, the four boys “rattled,” as it were, in the big house. They were scattered27 about in odd corners, remote from each other, and it seemed from everybody else. Meyrick’s room was the most isolated28 of any, but it was also the most comfortable in winter, since it was over the kitchen, to the extreme left of the house. This part, which was hidden from the road by the boughs29 of a great cedar30, was an after-thought, a Georgian addition in grey brick, and rose only to two stories, and in the one furnished room out of the three or four over the kitchen and offices slept Ambrose. He wished his days could be as quiet and retired31 as his nights. He loved the shadows that were about his bed even on the brightest mornings in summer; for the cedar boughs were dense32, and ivy33 had been allowed to creep about the panes34 of the window; so the light entered dim and green, filtered through the dark boughs and the ivy tendrils.
Here, then, after the hour of ten each night, he dwelt secure. Now and again Mr. Horbury would pay nocturnal surprise visits to see that all lights were out; but, happily, the stairs at the end of the passage, being old and badly fitted, gave out a succession of cracks like pistol shots if the softest foot was set on them. It was simple, therefore, on hearing the first of these reports, to extinguish the candle in the small secret lantern (held warily36 so that no gleam of light should appear from under the door) and to conceal37 the lantern under the bed-clothes. One wetted one’s finger and pinched at the flame, so there was no smell of the expiring snuff, and the lantern slide was carefully drawn38 to guard against the possibility of suspicious grease-marks on the linen39. It was perfect; and old Horbury’s visits, which were rare enough, had no terrors for Ambrose.
So that night, while the venom40 of the cane41 still rankled42 in his body, though it had ceased to disturb his mind, instead of going to bed at once, according to the regulations, he sat for a while on his box seeking a clue in a maze43 of odd fancies and conceits44. He took off his clothes and wrapped his aching body in the rug from the bed, and presently, blowing out the official paraffin lamp, he lit his candle, ready at the first warning creak on the stairs to douse45 the glim and leap between the sheets.
Odd enough were his first cogitations. He was thinking how very sorry he was to have hit Pelly that savage46 blow and to have endangered Rawson’s eyesight by the hard boards of the dictionary! This was eccentric, for he had endured from those two young Apaches every extremity47 of unpleasantness for upwards48 of a couple of years. Pelly was not by any means an evil lad: he was stupid and beefy within and without, and the great Public School system was transmuting49 him, in the proper course and by the proper steps, into one of those Brave Average Boobies whom Meyrick used to rail against afterwards. Pelly, in all probability (his fortunes have not been traced), went into the Army and led the milder and more serious subalterns the devil’s own life. In India he “lay doggo” with great success against some hill tribe armed with seventeenth-century muskets50 and rather barbarous knives; he seems to have been present at that “Conference of the Powers” described so brightly by Mr. Kipling. Promoted to a captaincy, he fought with conspicuous51 bravery in South Africa, winning the Victoria Cross for his rescue of a wounded private at the instant risk of his own life, and he finally led his troop into a snare52 set by an old farmer; a rabbit of average intelligence would have smelt53 and evaded54 it.
For Rawson one is sorry, but one cannot, in conscience, say much that is good, though he has been praised for his tact55. He became domestic chaplain to the Bishop56 of Dorchester, whose daughter Emily he married.
But in those old days there was very little to choose between them, from Meyrick’s point of view. Each had displayed a quite devilish ingenuity57 in the art of annoyance58, in the whole cycle of jeers59 and sneers60 and “scores,” as known to the schoolboy, and they were just proceeding61 to more active measures. Meyrick had borne it all meekly62; he had returned kindly63 and sometimes quaint64 answers to the unceasing stream of remarks that were meant to wound his feelings, to make him look a fool before any boys that happened to be about. He had only countered with a mild: “What do you do that for, Pelly?” when the brave one smacked65 his head. “Because I hate sneaks66 and funks,” Pelly had replied and Meyrick said no more. Rawson took a smaller size in victims when it was a question of physical torments67; but he had invented a most offensive tale about Meyrick and had told it all over the school, where it was universally believed. In a word, the two had done their utmost to reduce him to a state of utter misery68; and now he was sorry that he had punched the nose of one and bombarded the other with a dictionary!
The fact was that his forebearance had not been all cowardice69; it is, indeed, doubtful whether he was in the real sense a coward at all. He went in fear, it is true, all his days, but what he feared was not the insult, but the intention, the malignancy of which the insult, or the blow, was the outward sign. The fear of a mad bull is quite distinct from the horror with which most people look upon a viper70; it was the latter feeling which made Meyrick’s life a burden to him. And again there was a more curious shade of feeling; and that was the intense hatred71 that he felt to the mere11 thought of “scoring” off an antagonist72, of beating down the enemy. He was a much sharper lad than either Rawson or Pelly; he could have retorted again and again with crushing effect, but he held his tongue, for all such victories were detestable to him. And this odd sentiment governed all his actions and feelings; he disliked “going up” in form, he disliked winning a game, not through any acquired virtue73, but by inherent nature. Poe would have understood Meyrick’s feelings; but then the author of The Imp35 of the Perverse74 penetrated75 so deeply into the inmost secrets of humanity that Anglo–Saxon criticism has agreed in denouncing him as a wholly “inhuman” writer.
With Meyrick this mode of feeling had grown stronger by provocation76; the more he was injured, the more he shrank from the thought of returning the injury. In a great measure the sentiment remained with him in later life. He would sally forth77 from his den18 in quest of fresh air on top of an omnibus and stroll peacefully back again rather than struggle for victory with the furious crowd. It was not so much that he disliked the physical contest: he was afraid of getting a seat! Quite naturally, he said that people who “pushed,” in the metaphorical78 sense, always reminded him of the hungry little pigs fighting for the largest share of the wash; but he seemed to think that, whereas this course of action was natural in the little pigs, it was profoundly unnatural79 in the little men. But in his early boyhood he had carried this secret doctrine80 of his to its utmost limits; he had assumed, as it were, the r?le of the coward and the funk; he had, without any conscious religious motive81 certainly, but in obedience82 to an inward command, endeavoured to play the part of a Primitive83 Christian84, of a religious, in a great Public School! Ama nesciri et pro3 nihilo ?stimari. The maxim85 was certainly in his heart, though he had never heard it; but perhaps if he had searched the whole world over he could not have found a more impossible field for its exercise than this seminary, where the broad, liberal principles of Christianity were taught in a way that satisfied the Press, the public and the parents.
And he sat in his room and grieved over the fashion in which he had broken this discipline. Still, something had to be done: he was compelled to stay in this place, and he did not wish to be reduced to the imbecility of wretched little Phipps who had become at last more like a whimpering kitten with the mange than a human being. One had not the right to allow oneself to be made an idiot, so the principle had to be infringed86 — but externally only, never internally! Of that he was firmly resolved; and he felt secure in his recollection that there had been no anger in his heart. He resented the presence of Pelly and Rawson, certainly, but in the manner with which some people resent the presence of a cat, a mouse, or a black-beetle, as disagreeable objects which can’t help being disagreeable objects. But his bashing of Pelly and his smashing of Rawson, his remarks (gathered from careful observation by the banks of the Lupton and Birmingham Canal); all this had been but the means to an end, the securing of peace and quiet for the future. He would not be murdered by this infernal Public School system either, after the fashion of Phipps — which was melancholy87, or after the fashion of the rest — which was more melancholy still, since it is easier to recover from nervous breakdown88 than from suffusion89 of cant90 through the entire system, mental and spiritual. Utterly91 from his heart he abjured92 and renounced93 all the horrible shibboleths94 of the school, its sham95 enthusiasm, its “ethos,” its “tone,” its “loyal co-operation — masters and boys working together for the good of the whole school”— all its ridiculous fetish conventions and absurd observances, the joint96 contrivances of young fools and old knaves97. But his resistance should be secret and not open, for a while; there should be no more “bashing” than was absolutely necessary.
And one thing he resolved upon — he would make all he could out of the place; he would work like a tiger and get all the Latin and Greek and French obtainable, in spite of the teaching and its imbecile pedantry98. The school work must be done, so that trouble might be avoided, but here at night in his room he would really learn the languages they pottered over in form, wasting half their time in writing sham Ciceronian prose which would have made Cicero sick, and verse evil enough to cause Virgil to vomit99. Then there was French, taught chiefly out of pompous100 eighteenth-century fooleries, with lists of irregular verbs to learn and Babylonish nonsense about the past participle, and many other rotten formulas and rules, giving to the whole tongue the air of a tiresome puzzle which had been dug up out of a prehistoric101 grave. This was not the French that he wanted; still, he could write out irregular verbs by day and learn the language at night. He wondered whether unhappy French boys had to learn English out of the Rambler, Blair’s Sermons and Young’s Night Thoughts. For he had some sort of smattering of English literature which a Public School boy has no business to possess. So he went on with this mental tirade102 of his: one is not over-wise at fifteen. It is true enough, perhaps, that the French of the average English schoolboy is something fit to move only pity and terror; it may be true also that nobody except Deans and schoolmasters seems to bring away even the formulas and sacred teachings (such as the Optative mystery and the Doctrine of Dum) of the two great literatures. There is, doubtless, a good deal to be said on the subject of the Public Schoolman’s knowledge of the history and literature of his own country; an infinite deal of comic stuff might be got out of his views and acquirements in the great science of theology — still let us say, Floreat!
Meyrick turned from his review of the wisdom of his elders and instructors103 to more intimate concerns. There were a few cuts of that vigorous cane which still stung and hurt most abominably104, for skill or fortune had guided Mr. Horbury’s hand so that he had been enabled here and there to get home twice in the same place, and there was one particular weal on the left arm where the flesh, purple and discoloured, had swelled105 up and seemed on the point of bursting. It was no longer with rage, but with a kind of rapture106, that he felt the pain and smarting; he looked upon the ugly marks of the High Usher’s evil humours as though they had been a robe of splendour. For he knew nothing of that bad sherry, nothing of the Head’s conversation; he knew that when Pelly had come in quite as late it had only been a question of a hundred lines, and so he persisted in regarding himself as a martyr107 in the cause of those famous “Norman arches,” which was the cause of that dear dead enthusiast108, his father, who loved Gothic architecture and all other beautiful “unpractical” things with an undying passion. As soon as Ambrose could walk he had begun his pilgrimages to hidden mystic shrines109; his father had led him over the wild lands to places known perhaps only to himself, and there, by the ruined stones, by the smooth hillock, had told the tale of the old vanished time, the time of the “old saints.”
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1
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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6
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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13
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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17
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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18
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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subdivided
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| 再分，细分( subdivide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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23
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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30
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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40
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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41
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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42
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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44
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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45
douse
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| v.把…浸入水中，用水泼；n.泼洒 | |
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46
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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47
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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48
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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49
transmuting
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的现在分词 ) | |
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50
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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51
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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52
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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53
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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54
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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55
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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56
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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57
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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58
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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59
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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60
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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61
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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63
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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65
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
sneaks
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| abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋（网球鞋）v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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67
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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68
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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69
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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70
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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71
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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72
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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73
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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74
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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75
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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76
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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77
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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78
metaphorical
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| a.隐喻的，比喻的 | |
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79
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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80
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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81
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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82
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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83
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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84
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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85
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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86
infringed
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| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的过去式和过去分词 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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87
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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88
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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89
suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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90
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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91
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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92
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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93
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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94
shibboleths
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| n.（党派、集团等的）准则( shibboleth的名词复数 )；教条；用语；行话 | |
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95
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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96
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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97
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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98
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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99
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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100
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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101
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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102
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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103
instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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104
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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105
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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106
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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107
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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108
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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109
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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