The Retreat

by Forrest Reid

  It was a curious, and probably to Mr. Holbrook quaint, example of unconscious mimicry, for every shade and accent, every rise and fall, every lingering glissando, even the plaintive twang on the “ahimè—ahimè!” before the repetition of the tune, was a faithful echo of the Caruso record. The emotion, the tone, the expression, were in fact to Tom simply a part of the tune, as were the words, of whose meaning he had only a loose and general impression derived from Mr. Holbrook’s free paraphrase. It was not Donizetti’s “Spirto gentil” he sang, but Caruso’s interpretation of it, and he would have found it more difficult to alter that interpretation than to learn an entirely new air.

  Nevertheless, the emotion remained, etherealized, rarefied, translated out of actuality into terms of pure music. “Bravo!” cried Mr. Holbrook, smiling, and then repressing the smile. He played a few more notes, softly and low down in the bass, before he added to himself: “It’s a pity.”

  But Tom had heard him, and Mr. Holbrook, divining that he had heard, wheeled round on the music-stool. “I only mean that it’s a pity there isn’t more of you,” he said: a remark to which Tom made no reply.

  Mr. Holbrook smiled at him again, and the smile seemed to come mostly from his round horn-rimmed and very expressive spectacles. He continued to gaze at Tom, and then with a kind of impatient gesture he ran his hands through a thick shock of reddish hair, making it stick straight up till it resembled a field of corn at sunset. “I see you don’t understand me,” he went on. “It’s not your height I’m referring to: it’s your shape, your build, the skeleton inside you. That won’t alter, and it’s what is so important. Do you know what you ought to look like? A small prize-fighter. And you don’t, do you?”

  “No,” Tom replied.

  “Well then,” returned Mr. Holbrook half-petulantly, “we needn’t talk about it.”

  But it was he who had begun the talking, and he oughtn’t to leave it just like that. “Why?” Tom ventured after a pause. “I mean, why do you want me to look like a prize-fighter?” He tried not to show it, nevertheless he couldn’t help feeling discouraged and disappointed. He supposed Brown would have been more to Mr. Holbrook’s taste.

  Mr. Holbrook said: “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m only thinking of your voice—the voice that is going to come when your present voice breaks. There should be lots of room for it—the more room the better.”

  “Perhaps I’ll get bigger,” Tom suggested more hopefully.

  “Of course you’ll get bigger,” Mr. Holbrook declared. “You’re quite big enough,” he added inconsequently.

  “I’m not,” said Tom. “I’ve only grown an inch in the last year.”

  “An inch is plenty,” said Mr. Holbrook, “though two might be better—particularly if they were in the right direction.” He described a circle in the air, indicating the direction he meant. Then he laughed. “I don’t believe you do understand me. This is what I mean. You’ve got a voice, and a sense of rhythm, and what is very much rarer, a sense of pitch. That’s why you don’t sing your notes on either the upper or the lower edge of them, but bang in the middle. And certainly you’ve got the temperament. All that’s lacking is the chest measurement, lungs of leather and vocal chords of I don’t know what, but apparently something only to be found in Italy. It doesn’t matter now, but unfortunately a boy’s voice is only at its best for a year or eighteen months, and yours was at its best six months ago. With any luck you’ll be all right for the concert next Christmas, but I’m afraid that must be your last appearance. I’m not going to let you force your voice and ruin it. At the first sign of strain you stop singing. . . . And now——”

  The lesson continued: certainly there was no sign of strain at present. In the midst of it, and unexpectedly as usual, the bell clanged out its tiresome summons. Mr. Holbrook took no notice of it except to twitch his nose. Tom, for his part, was quite willing to stay on: Pemby might grumble, as had often happened before, but he couldn’t do anything. Still, when they came to a pause, he thought he’d better mention that the bell had gone.

  “I know—I know,” said Mr. Holbrook impatiently. “You don’t imagine I’m deaf! We ought really to change our hour, only I suppose you like to be free in the afternoons. We can’t discuss it now at any rate. Run along, and if Mr. Pemberton says anything unreasonable tell him that I kept you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHEN HE entered the classroom, Pemby, who was Mr. Pemberton the headmaster, had finished calling the roll. He glanced up, said “Barber—music-lesson,” and put a tick opposite Tom’s name. Tom sat down beside Pascoe, in the back row, near the door.

  It was an English lesson: they were doing Elizabeth’s reign; and Mr. Pemberton, embarking on a favourite subject, proceeded to give an account of the Elizabethan theatre. He spoke of Marlowe and of Shakespeare; of the strange fashion dramatists had in those days of working on a play anonymously and in collaboration; of Stratford-on-Avon, and of boy-actors. He seemed quite keen about it all, and though his enthusiasm was not nearly so personal and catching as was Mr. Holbrook’s about operas, Tom was interested.

  But presently there came a push from Pascoe’s knee, accompanied by a whispered: “Did you bring him?”

  Pascoe was a sturdily built, intelligent-looking boy, with tow-coloured hair, an unusually wide space between his blue eyes, a small prim mouth, and an expression of innocent severity. Tom, still listening to Mr. Pemberton, merely shook his head.

  “Why?” Pascoe whispered. At the same time he drew from his pocket a small cardboard box with a perforated lid, and opened it under the desk.

  Tom took no notice. Anyway he knew what was in the box without looking.

  Next moment he got a much more violent nudge, this time in the ribs and from Pascoe’s elbow. “Shut up,” he muttered, moving farther off.

  But he couldn’t help giving just one glance through the tail of his eye. On the desk in front of Pascoe was a large smooth green caterpillar, obviously an athlete, and in the pink of condition. Tom felt the sting of temptation. The caterpillar raised his head to have a look round, and Pascoe hissed: “I bet he beats your champion.”

  The caterpillar stared Tom straight in the face, as much as to say: “There now!” but still he would not yield. Only he watched, which was perhaps much the same thing.

  The caterpillar, with undulating back, proceeded to explore his new surroundings, and Tom couldn’t deny that he was a very fine specimen. Secretly, too, he had begun to feel doubts about the champion, who yesterday had seemed distinctly out of form. Maybe it was only that he was overtrained, though Pascoe had hinted that he was approaching his chrysalis days. Tom’s hand stole to his pocket.

  The opportunity was golden—at any rate as golden as you could expect in the middle of class. For Mr. Pemberton, blind as a bat always, was at present gazing out of the window, lost in the tragic fate of Kit Marlowe. His pupils, respecting his reverie, had begun to busy themselves with such soundless occupations as noughts-and-crosses and the folding of paper darts. Tom opened his cardboard box and tumbled the champion, a black “Hairy Willie” of the name of Charles, out on to the desk.

  Immediately Charles curled himself into a tight ring and pretended to be dead. Pascoe sniffed contemptuously. “He’s a funk,” he whispered. “Anyway, he’s done: I knew he couldn’t last.”

  “He’s not done,” Tom whispered back. “He’s resting. It’s because it’s so hot, and he’s handicapped with all that fur. Yours is naked.”

  The green caterpillar, having now reached a sunken china inkpot at the top of the desk, was bending down over its dark and mysterious well. Tom was instantly reminded of the story of Narcissus, but Pascoe said. “Gracious, he’s drinking the ink!” and hurriedly removed him to a place of safety. He drew a chalk line on the desk opposite Tom, and another one opposite himself. This was the racecourse, and the distance between the lines was about two feet.

  “What’s your’s name?” Tom whispered.

  “James,” whispered Pascoe.


  Tom was impressed. “That’s queer,” he said, but Pascoe, who was sometimes rather slow at seeing things, did not grasp the significance.

  “It means that They’re both of royal blood,” Tom whispered. “Stuarts.” He lifted Charles Stuart and set him on his chalk mark. Pascoe’s James was already on the other chalk mark, held back, straining on the leash as it were. For the races were always now cross races: that is to say, Charles’s starting point was James’s winning post and vice versa. This had been found to be the best plan, and the competitors might be guided on a straight path by their owners. Pencils were used for the purpose, though pushing was strictly barred. Otherwise, as experience had proved, the race in moments of excitement was apt to degenerate into a kind of table-hockey particularly towards the finish.

  “You’re not to push,” Tom warned.

  “You’re not to push,” Pascoe retorted sharply.

  Then both breathed a simultaneous “Go!” and their eyes grew round with suppressed eagerness.

  Charles and James, probably filled with despair, started off at top speed. After proceeding for some inches, however, in this reckless fashion, it apparently dawned on them that their lives were not in danger. Their pace slackened; they sniffed the air; presently they paused to consider what all the fuss was about. Where were they? Charles and James raised questing heads—James, no doubt, seeking the green cold smoothness of cabbage leaves; Charles the darker aromatic shade of nasturtiums. But there were no cabbages, no nasturtiums, only a deeply scored and ink-splashed wooden desk. Charles and James were temporarily discouraged. Still, beyond this there must be cabbages and nasturtiums—soft damp brown earth and a green twilight where one could rest and eat and sleep in peace. Meanwhile there was an arid desert to be crossed—yellow, dry, unknown—possibly dangerous, and certainly unpleasant. Nor could they proceed with their customary freedom. Ever and anon, when they attempted to strike out a more promising trail, a bar of wood descended out of the sky and pushed them back. To Charles the experience was not new, though he had never been able to explain it. Still, he had traversed this desert before—whether in reality or in a nightmare was uncertain. To James the adventure was entirely novel, and the first time the pole barred his progress he attempted to climb it. But only to be shaken off, while Tom whispered indignantly: “You jerked him four inches at least,” and hastily drew a new winning post for James.

  “I didn’t,” Pascoe glared, but there was no time to argue, for just then James and Charles met.

  This was bad management perhaps, though who could have thought it would have mattered! And James indeed would have passed by had not Charles prevented him. Charles hesitated, reared up, blocked the path, and finally, yielding to a delirious and unsportsmanlike impulse, embraced James. So, at least, Tom said: Pascoe said he attacked him. Whatever the motive, the effect was disastrous, for James immediately turned round and hurried back as fast as he could to his starting place. A fierce altercation ensued—recriminations, denials, threats—in the midst of which Mr. Pemberton awoke out of historical reverie to the fact that something illicit was going on at the back of the room. So did everybody else, and craned round to have a look; but Mr. Pemberton breathed “S-sh!” and raised a hand for silence. In the hush that followed he advanced a few steps on tip-toe, peering shortsightedly at the offenders, who instantly, by some mysterious telepathic warning, became aware of what was happening. They were far too cunning, however, to make a movement, for they knew much better than Pemby did the range of his vision, and that from his present distance he couldn’t possibly see James and Charles. But they looked up in innocent surprise when, after continuing to peer vainly, he suddenly stretched out a long forefinger of accusation. “Pascoe and Barber; Barber and Pascoe. Always the same pair: gabbling away like two old market-women—distracting the attention of the other boys—turning the hours of fruitful study into hours of unprofitable gossip. Pascoe and Barber will each bring me tomorrow morning the first part of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner written out neatly in ink.”

  So that was that—eighty-two lines, as Tom despondently noted after a stealthy reference to his poetry book.

  * * *

  And the morning dragged on, growing ever more close and sultry, till by twelve o’clock it had become positively breathless. Everybody felt it: all the windows were opened wide; but the air that drifted in might have been coming from a furnace. Three more classes to go; then two; then at last only one. . . .

  It was in this final session that Tom—that shining light of scholarship—was obliged to make an ignominious descent from the first form to the third. He hated this—hated being shoved among a lot of kids—and wished he could leave out maths altogether. What was the use of wasting time over subjects in which he never made the least progress!

  Over the the third form Miss Jimpson presided, and with the exception of Brown it consisted of boys younger than Tom—several of them two years younger. But Brown was a permanent adornment, and he never would have been promoted even as high as the third if it hadn’t been that at the age of thirteen he couldn’t very well be left among infants of eight or nine. Tom knew that Miss Jimpson longed to get rid of Brown, and looked forward to next term, when he would have to leave because he would then be fourteen. His placidity, his imperviousness to either reproaches or sarcasm, and more particularly his habit of lounging back in his seat with his hands in his pockets, got on her nerves and had an effect upon the whole class. More than once she had lost her temper and referred openly to the shamefulness of Brown’s position. But Brown had only smiled pleasantly, and now she ignored him as much as possible. Brown indeed was perfectly content with his position, which he knew would be reversed the moment the bell rang. He was neither ashamed, nor did he bear malice when Miss Jimpson ticked him off: but then, even when he was bullying smaller boys or fighting bigger ones, Tom had never seen Brown looking anything but good-natured. His mouth curled naturally into smiles, and he actually had dimples.

  To-day Tom saw at once that Miss Jimpson was in no mood for nonsense. Both her appearance and her voice suggested that she. found the temperature trying. She went straight to the black-board, chalked up a geometrical figure, and instead of legitimate A’s and B’s and C’s, proceeded to decorate it with K’s and L’s and M’s, always a bad sign. To Tom, whose one hope was in his memory, the substitution of these different letters would, he knew, be fatal. Fortunately Miss Jimpson, instead of calling anybody up to the platform to do the proposition, gave it to the whole class to write out in their scribblers. So Tom put the A’s and B’s and C’s back in their proper places and set to work.

  But he had begun to feel very tired and drowsy. Perhaps it was the result of getting up so early after a pretty restless night, or perhaps it was just the effect of the day—not so much the heat really as the lack of air. Anyhow, he could hardly keep awake, let alone concentrate on geometry. Sleepy far-off sounds reached him through the open windows, and he couldn’t help trying to disentangle them. The motionless shadow of a tree, silhouetted on the pale lemon-coloured wall beside him, made him think of trees. Slowly and unresistingly, as if drawn by an invisible thread, his spirit floated out through the window and over the tops of elms and beeches. Only the avenue did not come to an end at the school gates as it ought to have done, but stretched on and on till at last it reached the river. And from the river it reached the garden, where William was pottering about in his shirt-sleeves, and Henry was blinking in the sun. Tom saw Henry quite distinctly. He was sitting on the path, and presently he stretched out his right paw. Idly Tom drew with his pencil on the white sheet of paper before him what Henry was drawing on the black cinder path. Then his pencil seemed to stop of itself, and he saw that he had completed a figure. This was strange. It was very like the figure Henry himself had scratched that morning on the gravel, and not in the least like the figure on the blackboard. Yet he supposed it too could be made to prove something by the addition of A’s and B’s and C’s.

  Sudden
ly he jerked himself straight: he must actually have dozed off, for Miss Jimpson had her eyes fixed on him, and he knew that next moment she would call him up and discover that he had written only the first line of the proposition, and even that with the wrong letters. And how dark it had grown! Through a yellowish twilight he gazed at Miss Jimpson as some fascinated thrush might have gazed into the green eyes of an approaching Henry. Not that Miss Jimpson usually was alarming: indeed, Tom had always liked her—in spite of the fact that she taught mathematics. Yet now for some reason he had an acute feeling of suspense. It was as if Miss Jimpson had suddenly acquired talons and a ravening hunger, with a power to leap the whole length of the room and strike surely. Tom felt a kind of squeal rising in his throat, though he made no sound. And then—without remembering, without knowing, without thinking—he spoke the word. . . .

  Instantly it happened. There was a sudden rushing noise, a blinding glare, and an explosion that shook the whole building. In the brief pandemonium that followed it was somebody else who screamed, not Tom. The wind whirled through the room, scattering papers, circling in a kind of vortex, as if trying madly to force an outlet through the ceiling. Crash! That was the black-board—either the wind or Miss Jimpson had knocked it over. Tom sprang to his feet in an ecstasy of excitement. It seemed to him that the darkness was thickening at the centre, concentrating in a spiral twirling column, through which there blazed down two white eyes of fire. He called out something—or a voice called out near to him. Everybody had jumped up: the room was in a tumult. And next minute the whole thing was over, passing as abruptly as it had begun. But the behaviour of Brown was most astonishing of all. He was actually standing on the form, clapping his arms, like wings, against his sides, and making the most extraordinary bird cries.