A few years ago a little book called Half-holidays attracted some attention in semi-scholastic, semi-clerical circles. It was anonymous1, and bore the modest motto Crambe bis cocta; but those behind the scenes recognised it as the work of Charles Palmer, who was for many years a master at Lupton. His acknowledged books include a useful little work on the Accents and an excellent summary of Roman History from the Fall of the Republic to Romulus Augustulus. The Half-holidays contains the following amusing passage; there is not much difficulty in identifying the N. mentioned in it with Ambrose Meyrick.
“The cleverest dominie sometimes discovers”— the passage begins —“that he has been living in a fool’s paradise, that he has been tricked by a quiet and persistent3 subtlety4 that really strikes one as almost devilish when one finds it exhibited in the person of an English schoolboy. A good deal of nonsense, I think, has been written about boys by people who in reality know very little about them; they have been credited with complexities5 of character, with feelings and aspirations6 and delicacies7 of sentiment which are quite foreign to their nature. I can quite believe in the dead cat trick of Stalky and his friends, but I confess that the incident of the British Flag leaves me cold and sceptical. Such refinement8 of perception is not the way of the boy — certainly not of the boy as I have known him. He is radically9 a simple soul, whose feelings are on the surface; and his deepest laid schemes and manoeuvres hardly call for the talents of a Sherlock Holmes if they are to be detected and brought to naught10. Of course, a good deal of rubbish has been talked about the wonderful success of our English plan of leaving the boys to themselves without the everlasting11 supervision12 which is practised in French schools. As a matter of fact, the English schoolboy is under constant supervision; where in a French school one wretched usher13 has to look after a whole horde14 of boys, in an English school each boy is perpetually under the observation of hundreds of his fellows. In reality, each boy is an unpaid15 pion, a watchdog whose vigilance never relaxes. He is not aware of this; one need scarcely say that such a notion is far from his wildest thoughts. He thinks, and very rightly, doubtless, that he is engaged in maintaining the honour of the school, in keeping up the observance of the school tradition, in dealing16 sharply with slackers and loafers who would bring discredit17 on the place he loves so well. He is, no doubt, absolutely right in all this; none the less, he is doing the master’s work unwittingly and admirably. When one thinks of this, and of the Compulsory18 System of Games, which ensures that every boy shall be in a certain place at a certain time, one sees, I think, that the phrase about our lack of supervision is a phrase and nothing more. There is no system of supervision known to human wit that approaches in thoroughness and minuteness the supervision under which every single boy is kept all through his life at an English Public School.
“Hence one is really rather surprised when, in spite of all these unpaid assistants, who are the whole school, one is thoroughly19 and completely taken in. I can only remember one such case, and I am still astonished at the really infernal ability with which the boy in question lived a double life under the very eyes of the masters and six hundred other boys. N., as I shall call him, was not in my House, and I can scarcely say how I came to watch his career with so much interest; but there was certainly something about him which did interest me a good deal. It may have been his appearance: he was an odd-looking boy — dark, almost swarthy, dreamy and absent in manner, and, for the first years of his school life, a quite typical loafer. Such boys, of course, are not common in a big school, but there are a few such everywhere. One never knows whether this kind will write a successful book, or paint a great picture, or go to the devil — from my observation I am sorry to say that the last career is the most usual. I need scarcely say that such boys meet with but little encouragement; it is not the type which the Public School exists to foster, and the boy who abandons himself to morbid20 introspection is soon made to feel pretty emphatically that he is matter in the wrong place. Of course, one may be crushing genius. If this ever happened it would be very unfortunate; still, in all communities the minority must suffer for the good of the majority, and, frankly21, I have always been willing to run the risk. As I have hinted, the particular sort of boy I have in my mind turns out in nine cases out of ten to be not a genius, but that much more common type — a blackguard.
“Well, as I say, I was curious about N. I was sorry for him, too; both his parents were dead, and he was rather in the position of the poor fellows who have no home life to look forward to when the holidays are getting near. And his obstinacy22 astonished me; in most cases the pressure of public opinion will bring the slackest loafer to a sense of the error of his ways before his first term is ended; but N. seemed to hold out against us all with a sort of dreamy resistance that was most exasperating23. I do not think he can have had a very pleasant time. His general demeanour suggested that of a sage2 who has been cast on an island inhabited by a peculiarly repulsive24 and degraded tribe of savages25, and I need scarcely say that the other boys did their best to make him realise the extreme absurdity26 of such behaviour. He was clever enough at his work, but it was difficult to make him play games, and impossible to make him play up. He seemed to be looking through us at something else; and neither the boys nor the masters liked being treated as unimportant illusions. And then, quite suddenly, N. altered completely. I believe his housemaster, worn out of all patience, gave him a severe thrashing; at any rate, the change was instant and marvellous.
“I remember that a few days before N.‘s transformation27 we had been discussing the question of the cane28 at the weekly masters’ meeting. I had confessed myself a very half-hearted believer in the efficacy of the treatment. I forget the arguments that I used, but I know that I was strongly inclined to favour the ‘Anti-baculist Party,’ as the Head jocosely29 named it. But a few months later when N.‘s housemaster pointed30 out N. playing up at football like a young demon31, and then with a twinkle in his eye reminded me of the position I had taken up at the masters’ meeting, there was nothing for it but to own that I had been in the wrong. The cane had certainly, in this case, proved itself a magic wand; the sometime loafer had been transformed by it into one of the healthiest and most energetic fellows in the whole school. It was a pleasure to watch him at the games, and I remember that his fast bowling32 was at once terrific in speed and peculiarly deadly in its accuracy.
“He kept up this deception33, for deception it was, for three or four years. He was just going up to Oxford34, and the whole school was looking forward to a career which we knew would be quite exceptional in its brilliance35. His scholarship papers astonished the Balliol authorities. I remember one of the Fellows writing to our Head about them in terms of the greatest enthusiasm, and we all knew that N.‘s bowling would get him into the University Eleven in his first term. Cricketers have not yet forgotten a certain performance of his at the Oval, when, as a poetic36 journalist observed, wickets fell before him as ripe corn falls before the sickle37. N. disappeared in the middle of term. The whole school was in a ferment38; masters and boys looked at one another with wild faces; search parties were sent out to scour39 the country; the police were communicated with; on every side one heard the strangest surmises40 as to what had happened. The affair got into the papers; most people thought it was a case of breakdown41 and loss of memory from overwork and mental strain. Nothing could be heard of N., till, at the end of a fortnight, his Housemaster came into our room looking, as I thought, puzzled and frightened.
“‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve had this by the second post. It’s in N.‘s handwriting. I can’t make head or tail of it. It’s some sort of French, I suppose.’
“He held out a paper closely written in N.‘s exquisite42, curious script, which always reminded me vaguely43 of some Oriental character. The masters shook their heads as the manuscript went from hand to hand, and one of them suggested sending for the French master. But, as it happened, I was something of a student of Old French myself, and I found I could make out the drift of the document that N. had sent his master.
“It was written in the manner and in the language of Rabelais. It was quite diabolically44 clever, and beyond all question the filthiest46 thing I have ever read. The writer had really exceeded his master in obscenity, impossible as that might seem: the purport47 of it all was a kind of nightmare vision of the school, the masters and the boys. Everybody and everything were distorted in the most horrible manner, seen, we might say, through an abominable48 glass, and yet every feature was easily recognisable; it reminded me of Swift’s disgusting description of the Yahoos, over which one may shudder49 and grow sick, but which one cannot affect to misunderstand. There was a fantastic episode which I remember especially. One of us, an ambitious man, who for some reason or other had become unpopular with a few of his colleagues, was described as endeavouring to climb the school clock-tower, on the top of which a certain object was said to be placed. The object was defended, so the writer affirmed, by ‘the Dark Birds of Night,’ who resisted the master’s approach in all possible and impossible manners. Even to indicate the way in which this extraordinary theme was treated would be utterly50 out of the question; but I shall never forget the description of the master’s face, turned up towards the object of his quest, as he painfully climbed the wall. I have never read even in the most filthy51 pages of Rabelais, or in the savagest passages of Swift, anything which approached the revolting cruelty of those few lines. They were compounded of hell-fire and the Cloaca Maxima.
“I read out and translated a few of the least abominable sentences. I can hardly say whether the feeling of disgust or that of bewilderment predominated amongst us. One of my colleagues stopped me and said they had heard enough; we stared at one another in silence. The astounding52 ability, ferocity and obscenity of the whole thing left us quite dumbfounded, and I remember saying that if a volcano were suddenly to belch53 forth54 volumes of flame and filth45 in the middle of the playing fields I should scarcely be more astonished. And all this was the work of N., whose brilliant abilities in games and in the schools were to have been worth many thousands a year to X., as one of us put it! This was the boy that for the last four years we had considered as a great example of the formative influences of the school! This was the N. who we thought would have died for the honour of the school, who spoke55 as if he could never do enough to repay what X. had done for him! As I say, we looked at one another with faces of blank amazement56 and horror. At last somebody said that N. must have gone mad, and we tried to believe that it was so, for madness, awful calamity57 as it is, would be more endurable than sanity58 under such circumstances as these. I need scarcely say that this charitable hypothesis turned out to be quite unfounded: N. was perfectly59 sane60; he was simply revenging himself for the suppression of his true feelings for the four last years of his school life. The ‘conversion’ on which we prided ourselves had been an utter sham61; the whole of his life had been an elaborately organised hypocrisy62 maintained with unfailing and unflinching skill term after term and year after year. One cannot help wondering when one considers the inner life of this unhappy fellow. Every morning, I suppose, he woke up with curses in his soul; he smiled at us all and joined in the games with black rage devouring63 him. So far as one can say, he was quite sincere in his concealed64 opinions at all events. The hatred65, loathing66 and contempt of the whole system of the place displayed in that extraordinary and terrible document struck me as quite genuine; and while I was reading it I could not help thinking of his eager, enthusiastic face as he joined with a will in the school songs; he seemed to inspire all the boys about him with something of his own energy and devotion. The apparition67 was a shocking one; I felt that for a moment I had caught a glimpse of a region that was very like hell itself.
“I remember that the French master contributed a characteristic touch of his own. Of course, the Headmaster had to be told of the matter, and it was arranged that M. and myself should collaborate68 in the unpleasant task of making a translation. M. read the horrible stuff through with an expression on his face that, to my astonishment69, bordered on admiration70, and when he laid down the paper he said:
“‘Eh bien: Ma?tre Fran?ois est encore en vie, évidemment. C’est le vrai renouveau de la Renaissance71; de la Renaissance en très mauvaise humeur, si vous voulez, mais de la Renaissance tout-de-même. Si, si; c’est de la cr? véritable, je vous assure. Mais, notre bon N. est un Rabelais qui a habité une terre affreusement sèche.’
“I really think that to the Frenchman the terrible moral aspect of the case was either entirely72 negligible or absolutely non-existent; he simply looked on N.‘s detestable and filthy performance as a little masterpiece in a particular literary genre73. Heaven knows! One does not want to be a Pharisee; but as I saw M. grinning appreciatively over this dung-heap I could not help feeling that the collapse74 of France before Germany offered no insoluble problem to the historian.
“There is little more to be said as to this extraordinary and most unpleasant affair. It was all hushed up as much as possible. No further attempts to discover N.‘s whereabouts were made. It was some months before we heard by indirect means that the wretched fellow had abandoned the Balliol Scholarship and the most brilliant prospects75 in life to attach himself to a company of greasy76 barnstormers — or ‘Dramatic Artists,’ as I suppose they would be called nowadays. I believe that his subsequent career has been of a piece with these beginnings; but of that I desire to say nothing.”
The passage has been quoted merely in evidence of the great success with which Ambrose Meyrick adapted himself to his environment at Lupton. Palmer, the writer, who was a very well-meaning though intensely stupid person, has told the bare facts as he saw them accurately77 enough; it need not be said that his inferences and deductions78 from the facts are invariably ridiculous. He was a well-educated man; but in his heart of hearts he thought that Rabelais, Maria Monk79, Gay Life in Paris and La Terre all came to much the same thing.
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1
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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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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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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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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jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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diabolically
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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filthiest
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| filthy（肮脏的，污秽的）的最高级形式 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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52
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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53
belch
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| v.打嗝，喷出 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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collaborate
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| vi.协作，合作；协调 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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71
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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72
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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78
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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79
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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