My gaze wandered from the pair in front of me to the other students. There was not one, who did not wield his weapon like a musketeer. I made a few steps back and leaned against the wall. My heart sank.
Hanson pulled the watch from his pocket and announced the end of the lesson. His words could not have made me happier, and I readily took off my mask. However, my way towards freedom was cut off by a blade, that shot up in front of me.
'Do stay behind.'
As soon as the other boys had poured out of the hall, I was alone with the snake. I could see my fear in his eyes.
'Put on your mask, boy,' he said as he was already putting on his. Stiffly, I did as I was told. He raised his sword and waited for me to take my position. The web in front of my eyes limited my peripheral vision. My heart began beating faster.
Hanson saluted only moments before attacking. I was not prepared and clumsily tried to parry by throwing my weapon against his. Our blades clattered. An instant later he pierced my side with his foil, I stumbled from the impact and pain, and fell to my backside. Fortunately, the solid vest prevented any serious damage, yet still, the spot was throbbing. Suddenly, I was glad, I was wearing the mask, for it hid the tears of humility stinging in my eyes.
Hanson took off his mask and reached out his left hand to help me up. His hand was so much bigger than my own. I hoped he would not notice.
'You have no experience in fencing whatsoever,' he diagnosed cold-heartedly. I stared down on my feet but could feel him squint, again. 'Mr Ryde, it is in your own interest to be honest with me.'
Only then my eyes met his and I tried to evaluate whether I should understand this to be a threat. But his expression softened.
'Fencing is dangerous if you overestimate yourself. I do not want you to be injured during my class. Let us try again. Put your feet in a right angle, with your right foot facing me, then make one step forward, so that you stand firmly. Bend your knees. Point the tip of your blade on target, that is, at my chest.'
As I seemed to be doing it wrong, Hanson adjusted my hand with a swift movement of his own. He walked around me and tipped his sword on my knee, an indication for me to go lower. Stepping behind me, he pulled my left shoulder slightly towards him. His fingers touched my lower back making me straighten it.
'You hold the sword mostly with your thumb and forefinger, the grip rests on the inside of your wrist. This is the 'en guard' position or 'parry of six'.'
Once he took his stance in front of me, I exhaled, realising that I had been holding my breath. Being exposed to a man's gaze and scrutiny in such a way made me feel very uncomfortable. He did not seem to notice how rigid I was. Under the protection of the black net, I allowed myself to look more closely at his face. He was young, or at least, not extremely old. When his expression was not distorted by contemplation and wariness, he could almost be considered handsome, well maybe not handsome, but not hideously ugly, at least.
'Are you listening?' he demanded briskly and his eyes glistered accusingly.
I was forced to admit that, 'my thoughts were elsewhere, well, not really elsewhere they were still in this room but not... engaged in the topic of... fencing. Not exactly.'
This time he arched both eyebrows. And I did too. If stupidity were a crime I would be hanged without trial.
Patiently, he showed me again how to launch. Stretching his sword arm forth, he made a long step with his front foot while the back foot remained in its place. I tried my best to follow his example, but he informed me that my backside was sticking out and that I was out of balance. This was most discomforting because he had no business looking at my backside!
The torture continued for another half hour until Hanson, finally, dismissed me. In his frustration over my lack of skill he forgot to tell me about my punishment. Needless to say, I did not remind him of it.
It was very hard for me to come to terms with the fact that both Mr Hanson and fencing would now be part of my daily routine.
The curriculum, Monday to Friday, consisted of fencing from 6 to 8, followed by an interval during which students were expected to wash and have breakfast until 9.20 then French from 9.25 to 10.50, Latin and literature from 10.55 to 12.20, science and mathematics from 12.25 to 1.50, another interval during which an early dinner was served from 1.55 to 3, directly after law and politics from 3.05 to 4.30, geographical and nautical studies from 4.35 to 6, and finally philosophy and history from 6.05 to 7.30. At 8, supper was served. Lights out was at 9.30. If a student was found outside their own room after lights out it might lead to expulsion. On Saturdays three exam papers were written, each for one hour. Sunday was, surprisingly, free, but students were advised to reinforce their knowledge by casual reading.
Over the roof of the Academic Building, which was opposite the fencing hall, across the green, was a church tower with a clock. It was 9 a.m. Mr Hanson had left me with less than half an hour to find a way to wash and have breakfast. The last meal I had eaten was a cucumber sandwich, which Elizabeth had lovingly packed for my journey. Approximately 17 hours had passed since I had eaten it.
I smelled like a train full of fencing students but I was too tired and much, much too hungry to plot my way through to a bath or even just a bowl of water. All the obstacles and risks had to wait until later. At least, I had something to look forward to.
As soon as I entered the main building, I was devoured by a crowd of boys, that was charging at the dining hall like Achilles charged at the Trojans for stealing his Helen. Judging by the extensive physical contact I was subjected to, no one seemed to mind the reeking cloud I was surrounded by.
Poked by elbows, left and right, and half-smothered by shoulders I drifted along, to the rhythm of the dishes, that were handed out to the hungry mob that attacked the food serving area. The density of bodies per square centimetre grew unscrupulously, and just as I thought my bones would break, I was handed a plate with two slices of bread, a small square of butter, and cold ham. With my mouth watering I was released into freedom. I had no memory of my own birth but it must have been a great deal similar to this experience. Only the sight I had encountered then could hardly be anything like what was before me now.
The dining hall was spacious with tall and colourful mosaic windows. Single rays of sunlight shone through them, making rainbows dance over the floor and walls. Large, long tables of thick and solid wood were aligned in three rows with benches positioned on each side. The noise of chatting and shouting boys echoed from the walls like the cries of wild animals. They were accompanied by an orchestra of clattering porcelain. Hands reached over the tables fighting over the milk carafes. Not a single seat remained unoccupied.
Intimidated by such barbaric customs but full of hope to find at least some tiny slot, that would accommodate me, I walked down the aisle. The lucky boys with seats swung their arms carelessly and I had to stay alert to dodge them. Otherwise, I would have to scoop up my breakfast from the floor.
As I reached the end of the tables my hopes slimmed. My hunger was overwhelming. Looking around once more, I sat down on the floor, with my back against the wall, and began eating. The bread was still warm and melted on my tongue, the ham was rosy and delicious. I looked longingly at the almost empty milk carafes at the tables but did not have the courage to ask for them. When the last bread crumb was in my mouth I stood up and left the dining hall, before another crowd could gather.
The classrooms were in the Academic Building, on the second floor, above the library. This was, by far, the prettiest among the four buildings. Not for the architecture, though, but because of the reddening ivy that climbed the grey façade. The big leaves rustled with the wind, some came loose, and sailed to the ground. I picked one up by the stem and let it dance like a whirlwind in my fingers.
Three boys passed me on their way to the entrance. One of them whispered something into the ears of his companions, three pairs of eyes looked at me, followed by laughter.
I let the leaf fall to the ground and walked in beh
ind them staring at my feet.
The classroom was big and airy with 43 desks in it, one of which was the teacher's. Behind it was a black board with French vocabulary written in chalk. I looked at the words and recognised them! A man in a light blue suit with a violet belt-bind and too much frill on his white shirt stood by the window leaning against it, with a broad smile of flashing white teeth he welcomed each student. His face was framed by thick, untamed locks of copper, that were combed back into a short ponytail. A hairstyle that looked like it had been inspired by a painting of the French Revolution.
Stepping from one foot onto the other, I stood by the door while the entering boys determinedly took their seats. When I realised that no one would pull aside a chair for me and I would be left without one, I inhaled sharply and ventured towards an empty desk. Before I could sit down, however, a boy shoved me and claimed it for himself. Chuckles surrounded me. Helplessly, I remained in the aisle.
The clock on the church tower visible through the window chimed to ten o'clock and the man with the copper locks closed the door to the classroom.
'Am I correct in the assumption, that you are the new student?' he asked me.
I nodded and felt all eyes on me. The chuckles died off. The heat came to my face.
'Capital,' his smile broadened, almost touching his ears. 'I am Mr Ferring. Do give us an introduction of yourself.'
'My name is-'
'Non, Monsieur,' Mr Ferring held up his palm, 'en Francais, s'il-vous-plais.'
My blush faded as the blood left my face completely. Here was another opportunity for my peers to ridicule me. It was highly unlikely, that my French was as good as theirs. After all, I was only home-tutored.
'Je m'appelle Jonathan Ryde,' I paused, waiting for the laughter. The classroom remained silent.
'Continues,' Mr Ferring prompted.
'Je suis le deuxième enfant de mes parents. J'arrive d'une petite île qui se trouve au sud de l'Angleterre...' I told them all the irrelevant detail that I could think of, in a voice, that held hardly any sound, until Mr Ferring said: 'Capital, Mr Ryde, capital. The others can learn a great deal from you.'
Surprised I looked at the teacher to see if he was mocking me. Then, suddenly, an appreciative murmur went about and I felt the tension in my chest relieve.
Since my early childhood, Elizabeth had tutored me in French. I would never have thought her teaching to be en par with that of Oliver Keenwood Boarding, but then that language was her passion. For as long as I could remember, it had been Elizabeth's dream to go to Paris. The first thing I would do, once I became a lawyer, or engineer, or doctor, would be to take her there.
Mr Ferring motioned for me to sit down behind one of two remaining empty desks. I chose the one by the window. Shortly after, the boy who had shoved me, was called to sum up the previous lesson and stuttered his way through the task unable to form a coherent sentence. I hid my terribly immodest grin behind a hand, scratching my chin as if I was thinking intently.
The Latin and literature teacher, Mr Walsh, was as short in size as he was long in lifetime. This seemed to be a combination of traits, that encouraged my fellow students to purposefully ignore the older gentleman's efforts to commence the lesson. The conversations among the students were louder than the small man's voice and so it took him thirteen subtle throat clearances - I counted - before he could, finally, make an introduction to Macbeth. It was not my favourite Shakespearian play, yet what else was one to do on cold winter days on an island but read the same literature over and over again. Therefore, I could not deny my distinct familiarity with it.
When the teacher called me to read Macbeth's soliloquy in Act I, Scene III, I did not even need to look into the book as I knew it by heart.
''Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme.
I thank you gentleman.
This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor.
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature?
Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.
My thought whose murder is yet but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man, that function
Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is,
But was is not.''
Unlike previously in French, there was no appreciation but silence when I finished reciting and sat back down. I looked over my shoulder and saw some mean glares. For the rest of the lesson I said nothing.
When the church tower clock stroke 12.20 we changed rooms. I followed the other students through the cold hallway of grey stone walls. A few heads away, I saw Rajesh Greenfield and other boys that he talked to lively. My first impulse was to catch up with him and express my gratitude for his help and patience during fencing. But then I wondered, whether he might have been one of the boys who had glared at me. While I hesitated, he and his friends disappeared through the door of the next classroom. When I entered it, the personification of all my nightmares leaned against the teacher's desk, making me forget everything else.
My feet came to an abrupt halt and some boys walked into me, complaining about the obstacle I caused. I tried to duck behind them. But they failed as a shield. The poisonous green eyes detected me as soon as I them. A half-smile formed. All that was missing was a sizzling tongue.
'Mr Ryde, do sit down,' he clapped his hand on the desk closest to him leaving me no other option but to oblige.
I had thought Mr Hanson to be only the fencing instructor. He was too young to be a teacher – especially, a teacher of science and mathematics. Even his classroom did not look like that of the other two teachers. The black board did not display the usual chalk scribblings, that had been poorly wiped off, leaving a white layer. His was perfectly clean. There were no messy, but important looking, piles of paper, that had turned yellow from old age, on his desk. It was tidy with only a small ink jar on it. There was no dusty globe in the front corner, or rolled up maps on the walls, that had nothing to do with the subject taught. Instead, the walls were lined with shelves full of books, all around, that made room only for the door, windows, and black board. The last time I had seen such an impressive amount of literature was back at the old man's house.
Mr Hanson held up a book. The attention of the classroom was instantly his. He did not have to clear his throat once, bet then he was young and tall.
ON
THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES
BY MEANS OF NATURAL SELECTION,
OR THE
PRESERVATION OF FAVOURED SPECIES IN THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.
BY CHARLES DARWIN, M.A.,
It read on the title page.
'Who has looked this publication up in the library as I had instructed?' he asked letting his gaze wander carefully.
I turned in my seat to see how my peers looked busily at their notes in order to avoid direct eye contact with Mr Hanson. I thought he would get angry and ducked my head preventively, but he laughed. It was not arrogant or accusing, but earnest. As if he had expected such a reaction and thought the predictability of it funny. I wondered why he had not been this forgiving, when I had made a mistake – or twenty – in fencing.
'The title sounds daunting,' he admitted, pacing slowly between the tables. 'It does require your attention, but if you tried, I am sure, you would find it comprehensible and informative. After all, you boys are clever', after a pause he turned to me and added, 'even though it might be difficult at first.'
I turned away from him and faced the empty black board. My pulse pumped faster. I would not say a word during his class. I would ignore him.
He returned to his desk and put his palms on it, hunching forward. His g
aze intensified as he looked every student, one after the other, directly in the eye: 'What do you think, gentlemen, what does 'natural selection' mean?'
A pause followed but Mr Hanson did not fill it. He waited patiently until somebody raised his arm.
'The survival of the strongest, sir,' a boy from further back said.
Mr Hanson nodded, seemingly thinking about the answer.
'A big and healthy man, for instance, is more likely to survive in nature, than a small and weak one, who, therefore, dies sooner, sir,' the boy continued, gaining in confidence as Mr Hanson did not seem to contradict.
'By 'nature' you mean any given environment, I suppose, Chester?' Mr Hanson resumed the habit he had made of pacing about the room. My theory was, that he only did it to seem important. Most certainly, it did not impress me. The boys, on the other hand, followed his every move admiringly.
'Yes, Dr Hanson,' Chester said with eyes hungry for appreciation.
Him? A doctor? Unbelievable!
'Nature sorts out the weak and only leaves the strong,' another boy added.
'Following your logic, natural selection means that Ryde is to die sooner than, let us say, Redford?' concluded that so-called doctor.
Whoever Redford was, it seemed I had better avoid him. Unlike everyone else in the room, I did not find any humour in it. Knowing that it was a provocation, but unable to resist, I looked up at the teacher while the other boys laughed. All my anger was in the glare I gave that doctor. It amused him into a broad grin.
'Would you agree with Mr William Chester's theory, Mr Jonathan Ryde?'
'Not in the context of Darwin's findings, Dr Chalres Hanson,' I emphasised 'Dr' letting him know how little impressed I was by his title and then bit my lip, I had not wanted to speak, but the gleam in Hanson's eye made me continue; made me want to prove to him, that contradictory to his first impression of me, I was not stupid.
'Natural selection is not about the traits of one individual as such, but about the fertility and reproduction of that individual and the heritable traits thus given to the next generations. Survival is only one part of Darwin's theory, as it is possible, that a poor and weak man, who dies at the age of 20 has five children and therefore a bigger influence on future generations than a wealthy and healthy 100-year-old man with only one child. However, it is true, that whoever is better adapted to the environment, is more likely to survive and therefore more likely to reproduce,' I could not stop the downpour of words, particularly when I watched Hanson's encouraging smile turn shortly into surprise and back again.
The Girl who was a Gentleman (Victorian Romance, History) Page 5