Chương Chương 10 · The Complete Letter-Writer

. The Complete Letter-Writer

"Accelerated by ignominious shovings--nay, as it is written, by

smitings, twitchings, spurnings _a posteriori_ not to be

named." --_French Revolution._

"This letter being so excellently ignorant will breed no terror in

the youth."--_Twelfth Night._

Mr. Bultitude had meant to achieve a double stroke of diplomacy--to

undeceive Dulcie and conciliate the lovesick Tipping. But whatever his

success may have been in the former respect, the latter object failed

conspicuously.

"You shan't get off by a shabby trick like that," said Tipping,

exasperated by the sight of Dulcie's emotion; "you've made her cry now,

and you shall smart for it. So, now, are you going to stand up to me

like a man, or will you take a licking?"

"I'm not going to help you to commit a breach of the peace," said Paul

with great dignity. "Go away, you quarrelsome young ruffian! Get one of

your schoolfellows to fight you, if you must fight. I don't want to be

mixed up with you in any way."

But at this Tipping, whose blood was evidently at boiling point, came

prancing down on him in a Zulu-like fashion, swinging his long arms like

a windmill, and finding that his enemy made no attempt at receiving him,

but only moved away apprehensively, he seized him by the collar as a

prelude to dealing him a series of kicks behind.

Although Mr. Bultitude, as we have seen, was opposed to fighting as a

system he could not submit to this sort of thing without at least some

attempt to defend himself; and judging it of the highest importance to

disable his adversary in the most effectual manner before the latter had

time to carry out his offensive designs, he turned sharply round and hit

him a very severe blow in the lower part of his waistcoat.

The result fulfilled his highest expectations. Tipping collapsed like a

pocket-rule, and staggered away speechless, and purple with pain, while

Paul stood calm and triumphant. He had shown these fellows that he

wasn't going to stand any nonsense. They would leave him alone after

this, perhaps.

But once more there were cries and murmurs of "Shame!" "No hitting below

the belt!" "Cad--coward!"

It appeared that, somehow, he had managed to offend their prejudices

even in this. "It's very odd," he thought; "when I didn't fight they

called me a coward, and now, when I do, I don't seem to have pleased

them much. I don't care, though. I've settled _him_."

But after a season of protracted writhing by the parallel bars, Tipping

came out, still gasping and deadly pale, leaning on Biddlecomb's

shoulder, and was met with universal sympathy and condolence.

"Thanks!" he said with considerable effort. "Of course--I'm not

going--to fight him after a low trick like that; but perhaps you fellows

will see that he doesn't escape quite as easily as he fancies?"

There was a general shout. "No; he shall pay for it! We'll teach him to

fight fair! We'll see if he tries that on again!"

Paul heard it with much uneasiness. What new devilry were they about to

practise upon him? He was not left long in doubt.

"I vote," suggested Biddlecomb, as if he were proposing a testimonial,

"we make him run the gauntlet. Grim won't come out and catch us. I saw

him go out for a drive an hour ago." And the idea was very favourably

entertained.

Paul had heard of "running the gauntlet," and dimly suspected that it

was not an experience he was likely to enjoy, particularly when he saw

everyone busying himself with tying the end of his pocket-handkerchief

into a hard knot. He tried in vain to excuse himself, declaring again

and again that he had never meant to injure the boy. He had only

defended himself, and was under the impression that he was at perfect

liberty to hit him wherever he could, and so on. But they were in no

mood for excuses.

With a stern magisterial formality worthy of a Vehm-Gericht, they formed

in two long lines down the centre of the playground; and while Paul was

still staring in wonder at what this strange manoeuvre might mean,

somebody pounced upon him and carried him up to one end of the ranks,

where Tipping had by this time sufficiently recovered to be able to "set

him going," as he chose to call it, with a fairly effective kick.

After that he had a confused sense of flying madly along the double line

of avengers under a hail of blows which caught him on every part of his

head, shoulders, and back till he reached the end, where he was

dexterously turned and sent spinning up to Tipping again, who in his

turn headed him back on his arrival, and forced him to brave the

terrible lane once more.

Never before had Mr. Bultitude felt so sore and insulted. But they kept

it up long after the thing had lost its first freshness--until at last

exhaustion made them lean to mercy, and they cuffed him ignominiously

into a corner, and left him to lament his ill-treatment there till the

bell rang for dinner, for which, contrary to precedent, his recent

violent exercise had excited little appetite.

"I shall be killed soon if I stay here," he moaned; "I know I shall.

These young brigands would murder me cheerfully, if they were not

afraid of being caned for it. I'm a miserable man, and I wish I was

dead!"

Although that afternoon, being Saturday, was a half-holiday, Mr.

Bultitude was spared the ordeal of another game at football; for a smart

storm of rain and sleet coming on about three o'clock kept the

school--not altogether unwilling prisoners--within doors for the day.

The boys sat in their places in their schoolroom, amusing themselves

after their several fashions--some reading, some making libellous copies

of drawings that took their fancy in the illustrated papers, some

playing games; others, too listless to play and too dull to find

pleasure in the simplest books, filled up the time as well as they could

by quarrelling and getting into various depths of hot water. Paul sat in

a corner pretending to read a story relating the experiences of certain

infants of phenomenal courage and coolness in the Arctic regions. They

killed bears and tamed walruses all through the book; but for the first

time, perhaps, since their appearance in print their exploits fell flat.

Not, however, that this reflected any discredit upon the author's

powers, which are justly admired by all healthy-minded boys; but it was

beyond the power of literature just then to charm Mr. Bultitude's

thoughts from the recollection of his misfortunes.

As he took in all the details of his surroundings--the warm close room;

the raw-toned desks and tables at which a rabble of unsympathetic boys

were noisily whispering and chattering, with occasional glances in his

direction, from which, taught by experience, he augured no good; the

high uncurtained windows, blurred with little stars of half-frozen rain,

and the bare, bleak branches of the trees outside tossing drearily

against a low leaden sky--he tried in vain to cheat himself into a

dreamy persuasion that all this misery could not be real, but would fade

away as suddenly and mysteriously as it had stolen upon him.

Towards the close of the afternoon the Doctor came in and took his

place at the writing-table, where he was apparently very busy with the

composition of some sort of document, which he finished at last with

evident satisfaction at the result of his labour. Then he observed that,

according to their custom of a Saturday afternoon, the hour before

tea-time should be devoted to "writing home."

So the books, chess-boards, and dominoes were all put away, and a new

steel pen and a sheet of notepaper, neatly embossed with the heading

"Crichton House School" in old English letters, having been served out

to everyone, each boy prepared himself to write down such things as

filial affection, strict truthfulness, and the desire of imparting

information might inspire between them.

Paul felt, as he clutched his writing materials, much as a shipwrecked

mariner might be expected to do at finding on his desolate island a

good-sized flag and a case of rockets. His hopes revived once more; he

forgot the smarts left by the knots in the handkerchiefs, he had a whole

hour before him--it was possible to set several wires in motion for his

release in an hour.

Yes, he must write several letters. First, one to his solicitor

detailing, as calmly and concisely as his feelings would allow, the

shameful way in which he had been treated, and imploring him to take

measures of some sort for getting him out of his false and awkward

position; one to his head clerk, to press upon him the necessity of

prudence and caution in dealing with the impostor; notes to Bangle and

Fishwick putting them off--they should not be outraged by an

introduction to a vulgar pantomime clown under his roof; and lastly

(this was an outburst he could not deny himself), a solemn impressive

appeal to the common humanity, if not to the ordinary filial instincts,

of his undutiful son.

His fingers tingled to begin. Sentences of burning, indignant eloquence

crowded confusedly into his head--he would write such letters as would

carry instant conviction to the most practical and matter-of-fact

minds. The pathos and dignity of his remonstrances should melt even

Dick's selfish, callous heart.

Perhaps he overrated the power of his pen--perhaps it would have

required more than mere ink to persuade his friends to disbelieve their

own senses, and see a portly citizen of over fifty packed into the frame

of a chubby urchin of fourteen. But, at all events, no one's faith was

put to so hard a test--those letters were never written.

"Don't begin to write yet, any of you," said the Doctor; "I have a few

words to say to you first. In most cases, and as a general rule, I think

it wisest to let every boy commit to paper whatever his feelings may

dictate to him. I wish to claim no censorship over the style and diction

of your letters. But there have been so many complaints lately from the

parents of some of the less advanced of you, that I find myself obliged

to make a change. Your father particularly, Richard Bultitude," he

added, turning suddenly upon the unlucky Paul, "has complained bitterly

of the slovenly tone and phrasing of your correspondence; he said very

justly that they would disgrace a stable-boy, and unless I could induce

you to improve them, he begged he might not be annoyed by them in

future."

It was by no means the least galling part of Mr. Bultitude's trials,

that former forgotten words and deeds of his in his original condition

were constantly turning up at critical seasons, and plunging him deeper

into the morass just when he saw some prospect of gaining firm ground.

So, on this occasion, he did remember that, being in a more than usually

bad temper one day last year, he had, on receiving a sprawling,

ill-spelt application from Dick for more pocket-money, to buy fireworks

for the 5th of November, written to make some such complaint to the

schoolmaster. He waited anxiously for the Doctor's next words; he might

want to read the letters before they were sent off, in which case Paul

would not be displeased, for it would be an easier and less dangerous

way of putting the Doctor in possession of the facts.

But his complaints were to be honoured by a much more effectual remedy,

for it naturally piqued the Doctor to be told that boys instructed under

his auspices wrote like stable-boys. "However," he went on, "I wish your

people at home to be assured from time to time of your welfare, and to

prevent them from being shocked and distressed in future by the crudity

of your communications, I have drawn up a short form of letter for the

use of the lower boys in the second form--which I shall now proceed to

dictate. Of course all boys in the first form, and all in the second

above Bultitude and Jolland, will write as they please, as usual.

Richard, I expect you to take particular pains to write this out neatly.

Are you all ready? Very well then, ... now;" and he read out the

following letter, slowly--

"My dear Parents (or parent according to circumstances) comma" (all of

which several took down most industriously)--"You will be rejoiced to

hear that, having arrived with safety at our destination, we have by

this time fully resumed our customary regular round of earnest work

relieved and sweetened by hearty play. ('Have you all got "hearty play"

down?'" inquired the Doctor rather suspiciously, while Jolland observed

in an undertone that it would take some time to get _that_ down.) "I

hope, I trust I may say without undue conceit, to have made considerable

progress in my school-tasks before I rejoin the family circle for the

Easter vacation, as I think you will admit when I inform you of the

programme we intend" ('D.V. in brackets and capital letters'--as before,

this was taken down verbatim by Jolland, who probably knew very much

better), "intend to work out during the term.

"In Latin, the class of which I am a member propose to thoroughly master

the first book of Virgil's magnificent Epic, need I say I refer to the

soul-moving story of the Pious AEneas?" (Jolland was understood by his

near neighbours to remark that he thought the explanation distinctly

advisable), "whilst, in Greek, we have already commenced the thrilling

account of the 'Anabasis' of Xenophon, that master of strategy! nor

shall we, of course, neglect in either branch of study the syntax and

construction of those two noble languages"--("noble languages," echoed

the writers mechanically, contriving to insinuate a touch of irony into

the words).

"In German under the able tutelage of Herr Stohwasser, who, as I may

possibly have mentioned to you in casual conversation, is a graduate of

the University of Heidelberg" ("and a silly old hass," added Jolland

parenthetically), "we have resigned ourselves to the spell of the

Teutonian Shakespeare" (there was much difference of opinion as to the

manner of spelling the "Teutonian Shakespeare"), "as, in my opinion,

Schiller may be not inaptly termed, and our French studies comprise such

exercises, and short poems and tales, as are best calculated to afford

an insight into the intricacies of the Gallic tongue.

"But I would not have you imagine, my dear parents (or parent, as

before), that, because the claims of the intellect have been thus amply

provided for, the requirements of the body are necessarily overlooked!

"I have no intention of becoming a mere bookworm, and, on the contrary,

we have had one excessively brisk and pleasant game at football already

this season, and should, but for the unfortunate inclemency of the

weather, have engaged again this afternoon in the mimic warfare.

"In the playground our favourite diversion is the game of 'chevy,' so

called from the engagement famed in ballad and history (I allude to the

battle of Chevy Chase), and indeed, my dear parents, in the rapid

alternations of its fortunes and the diversity of its incident, the game

(to my mind) bears a striking resemblance to the accounts of that

ever-memorable contest.

"I fear I must now relinquish my pen, as the time allotted for

correspondence is fast waning to its close, and tea-time is approaching.

Pray give my kindest remembrance to all my numerous friends and

relatives, and accept my fondest love and affection for yourselves, and

the various other members of the family circle.

"I am, I am rejoiced to say, in the enjoyment of excellent health, and

surrounded as I am by congenial companions, and employed in interesting

and agreeable pursuits, it is superfluous to add that I am happy.

"And now, my dear parents, believe me, your dutiful and affectionate

son, so and so."

The Doctor finished his dictation with a roll in his voice, as much as

to say, "I think that will strike your respective parents as a chaste

and classical composition; I think so!"

But unexceptionable as its tone and sentiments undoubtedly were, it was

far from expressing the feelings of Mr. Bultitude. The rest accepted it

not unwillingly as an escape from the fatigue of original composition,

but to him the neat, well-balanced sentences seemed a hollow mockery. As

he wrote down each successive phrase, he wondered what Dick would think

of it, and when at last it was finished, the precious hour had gone for

another week!

In speechless disgust but without protest, for his spirit was too broken

by this last cruel disappointment, he had to fold, put into an envelope

and direct this most misleading letter under the Doctor's superintending

eye, which of course allowed him no chance of introducing a line or even

a word to counteract the tone of self-satisfaction and contentment which

breathed in every sentence of it.

He saw it stamped, and put into the postbag, and then his last gleam of

hope flickered out; he must give up struggling against the Inevitable;

he must resign himself to be educated, and perhaps flogged here, while

Dick was filling his house with clowns and pantaloons, destroying his

reputation and damaging his credit at home. Perhaps, in course of time,

he would grow accustomed to it, and, meanwhile, he would be as careful

as possible to do and say nothing to make himself remarkable in any way,

by which means he trusted, at least, to avoid any fresh calamity.

And with this resolution he went to bed on Saturday night, feeling that

this was a dreary finish to a most unpleasant week.