by George Moore
He never seems free from business, I muttered. Just as the conversation was beginning to get interesting. Oscott had every chance of turning out a well-educated boy in him, for he was willing to learn; but with me it was different. Oscott didn’t get a fair chance. And I sat perplexed, unable to decide whether I could or would not learn, thinking it probable that my brain developed slowly, remembering that my mother had told me that father used to say, George is a chrysalis out of which a moth or butterfly may come. Now, which am I? Would father have been able to tell if he had lived? Can anybody tell me? But why should I want anybody to tell me? I am a reasonable being, and should know whether I am moth or butterfly. But I don’t. Every man has asked himself if he is moth or butterfly, and, receiving no answer, he begins to wonder at the silence that has so suddenly gathered round him. Out of the void memories arise, and he wonders if they have arisen to answer his question. There was a round table in grandfather’s library and it was filled with books — illustrated editions of Gulliver’s Travels and the Arabian Nights; and on the page facing the picture of Gulliver astride on the nipple of a young Brobdingnagian’s breast, I used to read how she undressed Gulliver for the amusement of her girl-friends, setting him astride on the nipple of one of her breasts. As she was forty-three feet high, Gulliver used to lean forward, clasping with both his arms the prodigious breast, very frightened lest he should fall; and I used to think that if she held out her apron I should not mind. But Swift speaks of the smells that these hides exhaled, and disgusted I would close the book and open the Arabian Nights and read again and again the story of the two travellers who saw a huge wreath of smoke rise out of the sea; it quickly shaped itself into a Genie, and, terribly frightened, the travellers climbed into a high tree and watched him come ashore and unlock a crystal casket, out of which a beautiful lady stepped to be enjoyed by the Genie, who fell asleep after his enjoyment. As soon as the lady saw she was released from his vigilance, she wandered a little way looking round as if to find somebody, seeking behind the rocks, looking up into the trees. On perceiving the travellers, she called to them to come down, and on their refusal to descend from fear of the Genie, she threatened to awake him and deliver them over to him. Branch by branch they descended tremblingly, and when they were by her she invited one to follow her into a dark part of the wood, telling the other to wait till she returned. After a little while she returned and retired with the second, and when she came back she said: I see rings upon your fingers; each must give me a ring, and your rings added to the ninety-eight in this handkerchief will make a hundred. I have sworn to deceive the Genie who keeps me locked in that casket a hundred times. Even more than the tale of the two travellers, that of the two men who went by night to a tomb appealed to my imagination, for it was related that they descended a staircase, spread with the rarest carpets, through burning perfumes, to a great tapestried saloon, where lamps were burning as if for a festival. A table was spread with delicate meats and wines. But the feasters were only two — a young man and woman, now lying side by side on a couch, dead. As soon as the elder man catches sight of them he draws off his slipper and slaps the faces of the dead and spits upon them, to the great horror of his companion, who seizes him by the arms, asking why he insults the dead. The dead whom you see lying before you are my son and daughter; whereupon he begins to tell how his son conceived a fatal passion for his sister. His passion was unfortunately returned, and, to escape from the world which holds such love in abhorrence, they retired to this dwelling. But even here, you see, the vengeance of God has overtaken them.
It had seemed to me that the brother and sister had probably lighted a pan of charcoal, choosing to die rather than that their love might die before them; and their love, so reprobate that it could only be enjoyed in a tomb, appealed to my perverse mind, prone to sympathise with every revolt against the common law. Each age selects a special sin to protest against, and in the beginning of the nineteenth century it was incest that excited the poetical imagination. Byron loved his half-sister, and Genesis sheltered his Cain. Shelley’s poem Laon and Cythna was not in print when I was a child, but a note in the edition of Shelley’s works that I discovered in my grandfather’s library and took to Oscott College with me informed me that The Revolt of Islam was a revised version of it — revised by Shelley himself at the instigation of his publisher, who thought that England was not yet ripe for a poem on the subject of the love of brother and sister. The title The Revolt of Islam appealed to my imagination more than the first title, and connected the story in my mind with the story that I had read in the Arabian Nights; and, delighted by the beautiful names of the lovers, I often allowed my thoughts to wander away during class-time, wondering if they loved each other as deeply as the brother and sister that had perished in the tomb, and Marlow — where the poem was written in the ideal company of his mistress, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin — was for ever sanctified in my eyes.
I was as much given to dreaming as to games, and determined to indulge myself to the top of my bent, I would lean over my desk, a Latin grammar in front of me, my head clasped between my hands, and abandon myself to my imagination. However cold the morning might be, I could kick the world of rule away and pass into one in which all I knew of love was accomplished amid pale yellow, slowly moving tapestries, within fumes of burning perfume: dim forms of lovers, speaking with hushed voices, floated before me, and their stories followed them, woven without effort. I looked forward to the time apportioned out for the learning of our lessons, for it was only then that I could be sure of being able to leave Oscott without fear of interruption. It was in my mind that I found reality — Oscott and its masters were but a detestable dream. One priest and only one suspected my practice, and he would walk behind me and lay his hand on my shoulder, or rap my skull with his knuckles, rousing me so suddenly that I could not suppress a cry. And then, what agony to look round and find myself in the cold study with an unlearnt lesson before me, and the certainty in my heart that when I was called to repeat it I should be sent to the Prefect for a flogging for my stupidity or for my idleness, or for both!
One day coming out of the refectory I said to the Prefect, I brought a volume of Shelley’s poems from home with me. I have been reading it ever since, and have begun to wonder if it is wrong to read his poems, for he denies the existence of God.
He just asked me to give him the book. The days went by without hearing any more of the volume. It had been sacrificed for nothing, and as soon as the Colonel returned I told him how I had sacrificed my volume of Shelley in the hope of being expelled for introducing an atheistical work into school.
You see you were in the big division and only rumours of your trouble used to reach me. I remember, however, the row you got into about betting; you used to lay the odds.
And once overlaid myself against one horse that had come along in the betting, and had to send ten shillings to London to back him. The Prefect gave me the bookmaker’s letter and asked me to open it in his presence.
The prize fight created some little stir.
I remember it came off in the band-room, a sovereign a side, but before either was beaten the watch came running up the stairs to announce that the Prefect was going his rounds.
You were always in a row of some kind, always in that study place learning Latin lines.
Oscott was a vile hole, a den of priests. Every kind of priest. I remember one, a tall bald-headed fellow about five-and-thirty who kept me one whole summer afternoon learning and relearning lines that I knew quite well. Every time I went up to the desk to say them his arm used to droop about my shoulders, and with some endearing phrase he would send me back. We were alone and I could hear my fellows playing cricket outside. I must send you back once more, and when I came up again with the lines quite perfect his hand nearly slipped into my trouser pocket. At last the five o’clock bell rang and I was still there with the lines unlearnt. To be revenged on him for keeping me in the whole afternoon, I went to confession and mentione
d the circumstance; I was curious to test the secrecy of the confessional. I was quite innocent as to his intentions, and the result of my confession was that a few days afterwards we heard he was leaving Oscott, and a rumour went round the school that he used to ask the boys to his room and give them cake and wine.
It doesn’t follow that —
I know that a Catholic believes that a priest may murder, steal, fornicate, but he will never betray a secret revealed in the confessional. But we won’t argue it. Do you remember the little housemaid?
I remember hearing that you had discovered a pretty maid-servant among the hideous lot that collected in the back benches, and I wondered how you managed to distinguish her looks, for you could only get sight of her by glancing over your shoulder.
You were nearly three years young than I was at the time, and had not reached the age of puberty; myself and a chosen few used to walk together round the playground, telling each other the adventures that had befallen us during the vacations. Do you remember Frank —— ? He was one of my pals and liked telling of his adventures among maid-servants when he went home for the holidays. We could not stand his introductory chapters, long as Sir Walter Scott’s, and used to cry, Begin with the bubbles.
But what has this story got to do with the pretty housemaid that you spotted at the back of the chapel?
Only this. An innocent question revealed my ignorance of woman, and, fearful lest Frank should tell on me, I spoke of Agnes.
Was that her name?
I don’t know. The name started up in my mind and it seems to me in keeping with my memory of her, a low-sized girl, the shoulders slightly too high, a pointed oval face and demure overshadowed eyes. No one at Oscott had ever looked at a maid-servant before, and in a sudden inspiration I said that I would present Agnes with a bouquet. The project astonished and delighted my companions, and every evening I waited for her at the foot of the stairs leading to the organ-loft. It wouldn’t be possible to offer her my bouquet till she came alone, and every day I answered my companions, No; I didn’t get a chance last night. At last my chance came, and, descending the stairs, I offered the girl my flowers, mentioning that they would look well in the bosom of her dress. On another occasion I met her in the dormitories, but she begged me not to speak to her, for if I did she would be sent away.
Is that all?
It was the only thing I could think of to break the monotony of the Oscott day; and if I suggest that one of my boon companions may have yielded to scruples of conscience and betrayed me in confession —
A Catholic is only obliged to tell the sins he commits himself.
By acquiescing in my poor gallantries he may have thought he made himself responsible for them.
You very likely talked openly yourself, and —
Anything rather than admit that the confessional is used as a means of government. For what else do you think the sacrament was substituted?
I was many years at Oscott and never had any reason to suspect that an improper use was made of the confessional.
The secret leaked out; all secrets do in Catholic communities and some great trouble must have arisen, or I should not have written to father.
I knew nothing about that.
I wrote the miserable little story to him, adding that if the girl were sent away my conscience would leave me no peace, and that I should marry her as soon as I got the opportunity.
I had no idea it was so serious.
It was mother who told me years after that, on receiving my letter, father ordered one of the grey ponies to be saddled and galloped away to Claremorris to catch the train. I did not think for a minute that my letter would bring him all that way, and when one of the priests, or deacons, or sub-deacons, or bunkers — do you remember the fellows we used to call the bunkers?
Of course I do; the sons of English tradesmen who were educated at Oscott, at our expense, for the priesthood.
When one of those cads came up to me in the playground and told me I was wanted in the visitor’s room, my heart sank, and I could hardly crawl up the Gothic staircase. I was in an awful funk, for I could not think of father as being anything else but dreadfully angry with me; whereas he was surprisingly gentle, and listened to my foolish story without reproving me. I don’t know if you remember father’s eyes — clear, blue eyes — they embarrassed me all the while, making me feel a little hypocrite, for I didn’t intend to carry out my threat. Even in those times I was just as I have ever been, very provident about my own life, and determined to make the most of it. I was a little hypocrite, for all the time I was cajoling him, I was thinking what my chances were of being taken out to Birmingham and given a dinner at the Queen’s Hotel, a meal which I sadly needed. I wish I could remember his words; the sensation of the scene is present in my mind, but as soon as I seek his words they elude me. Northcote came into the room, and I think it became plain to me at once that he had already been speaking to father, and that the girl was not going to be dismissed. You remember Northcote — a great-bellied, big, ugly fellow, whom we used to call the Gorilla. He was almost as hairy, great tufts starting out of his ears and out of his nostrils; the backs of his hands were covered, and hair grew thickly between the knuckles. I was thinking how cleverly I had escaped a thrashing and of the pleasure in store for me — a long drive with my father in a hansom, and of the dinner in the coffee-room of the Queen’s Hotel, when the Gorilla startled me out of my reverie. George, he said, has refused to go to confession. At once I felt my father’s eyes grow sterner, and my dream at that moment seemed a mirage. George, he said, is this true? The Prefect told me the other day to go to confession, but I had nothing to confess. He insisted, and when I answered that I’d go to the confessor but I could tell him nothing, he ordered me to his room for a flogging. I said I’d like to see the President about that, and I told Dr Northcote that I had written to you about the housemaid. Our father agreed with the Gorilla that there are always sins to confess for him who chooses to look for them, and I remember the Gorilla reminding me that, probably, I had not examined my conscience closely. The authorities are all old coaxers when parents are present.
I always liked the Gorilla.
Did you? He asked me if my attention had never wandered at Mass? If I had never lost my temper? or been disobedient to my master? or lazy? It was impossible for me to deny that some of these things had happened, and, feeling that I must be truthful if I were to win my father over to my side, I said — and the words slipped out quite easily — But, Dr Northcote, I’m not sure that I believe in confession, so why should I be obliged to go to confession? The President raised his shaggy eyebrows. It isn’t my fault, and to communicate when in doubt would be — A very grave look must have come into his face, and a certain gravity stole into my father’s, and then, in answer to another question, posed with awful deliberation, I remember saying, and in these very words, But, Dr Northcote, you didn’t always believe in confession yourself. Dr Northcote was a convert to Catholicism; he had become a priest at his wife’s death, and his son was in my class. Our father turned away from the table and walked towards the window, and I can still see his plump back in shadow and one side whisker showing against the light. The Gorilla hesitated, unable to think of an appropriate answer, and father, as if he divined the priest’s embarrassment, returned from the window. But I could see he had been laughing.
And did he take you out to Birmingham on that occasion?
I think he did, for I remember a conversation about Shelley’s poems with him. But he couldn’t have taken me out to Birmingham and left you behind.
I don’t ever remember driving out to Birmingham with father.
Not on any occasion?
No.
How very odd. If the Queen’s Hotel still exists I could find the table in the coffee-room at which we used to sit. I remember listening in admiration to father talking to Judge Fitzgerald. All the Fitzgeralds were there.
The Fitzgeralds left Oscott together, just before I went th
ere. One of them wrote a book of verses about the bunkers, and there was a law-suit. I only remember our father once at Oscott, and forget the occasion; but I can still see him giving an exhibition of billiards and showing off some strokes.
I don’t recollect a billiard-table at Oscott — not in my time. Where was it?
A top room where I never was before. You say you remember a conversation with father about Shelley. Did he admire Shelley?
Not much, I think. He didn’t like The Pine Forest by the Sea, for I remember his very words, Why do you waste time learning bad verses? He liked the opening lines of Queen Mab, How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep, and spoke of Byron and quoted some verses from Sardanapalus which I thought very fine. I remember him saying to me at the end of a religious argument that out of the many religious reformers Christ was the only one that had declared himself to be God and had been accepted as such by his disciples. A very flimsy proof this seemed to me to be of Christ’s divinity, and my admiration of father’s intelligence declined from that moment. My admiration for him as a kindly human being increased. Our parting was most affectionate; I don’t think that he told me; it must have been the Prefect that told me I was not returning to Oscott after the long vacation. I was not to speak, he said, to any of my schoolmates during the remainder of the term. But rumour was soon busy that I had successfully defied the whole College, and many were the attempts made to speak to me, but I shook my head always, smiled and passed on. The outcast is never as unhappy as the herd imagines him to be, and these last six weeks of my Oscott life were not disagreeable to me, and the pleasantest moment of all was when I asked the Prefect on the last day of the term for his permission to say goodbye to my school-fellows. So I left Oscott, I said to the Colonel, in flying colours, at least flying the colours which I wished to fly. A detestable place it was to me, mentally and physically. You only suffered physical cold, hunger, and canings, but I suffered in my mind. I couldn’t breathe in Catholicism.