Now, to be a smug is, in Oxford undergraduate circles, the unpardonable sin. It means, to stop in your own rooms and moil and toil, or to lurk and do nothing, while other men in shoals are out and enjoying themselves. It means to avoid the river and the boats; to shun the bump-supper; to decline the wine-party. Sometimes, it is true, the smug is a curmudgeon; but sometimes he is merely a poor and hard-working fellow, the sort of person whom at forty we call a man of ability.
‘Well, I won’t go quite so far as that,’ one of the other lads observed, smacking his lips with an ostentatious air of judicial candour, about equally divided between Dick and the claret. ‘I won’t quite condemn him as a smug, unheard. But it’s certainly odd he shouldn’t join the wine-club.’
He was a second-year man, the speaker, one Westall by name, who had rowed in the Torpids; and as the rest were mostly freshmen of that term, his opinion naturally carried weight with all except Gillingham. He, indeed, as a Born Poet, was of course allowed a little more license in such matters than his even Christians.
‘Up till now,’ Faussett put in, with a candid air of historical inquiry, ‘you see every Durham man has always as a matter of course subscribed to the wine-club. Senior men tell me they never knew an exception.’
Gillingham looked up from his easy-chair with a superior smile. ‘I don’t object to his not joining it,’ he said, with a curl of the cultured lip, for the Born Poet of course represented culture in this scratch collection of ardent young Philistines; ‘but why, in the name of goodness, didn’t he say outright like a man he couldn’t afford it? It’s the base hypocrisy of his putting his refusal upon moral grounds, and calling himself a total abstainer, that sets my back up. If a man’s poor in this world’s goods, and can’t afford to drink a decent wine, in heaven’s name let him say so; but don’t let him go snuffling about, pretending he doesn’t care for it, or he doesn’t want it, or he doesn’t like it, or he wouldn’t take it if he could get it. I call that foolish and degrading, as well as unmanly. Even Shakespeare himself used to frequent the Mermaid tavern. Why, where would all our poetry be, I should like to know, if it weren’t for Bacchus? Bacchus, ever fair and ever young? “War, he sang, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning; Fighting still, and still destroying; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, oh, think it worth enjoying.”’
And Gillingham closed his eyes ecstatically as he spoke, and took another sip at the thirty-six Amontillado, in a rapture of divine poesy.
‘Hear, hear!’ Faussett cried, clapping his hands with delight. ‘The Born Poet for a song! The Born Poet for a recitation! You men should just hear him spout “Alexander’s Feast.” It’s a thing to remember! He’s famous as a spouter, don’t you know, at Rugby. Why, he’s got half the British poets or more by heart, and a quarter of the prose authors. He can speak whole pages. But “Alexander’s Feast” is the thing he does the very best of all. Whenever he recites it he brings the house down.’
‘Respect for an ancient and picturesque seat of learning prevents me from bringing down the roof of Durham College, then,’ Gillingham answered lightly, with a slight sneer for his friend’s boyish enthusiasm. ‘Besides, my dear boy, you wander from the subject. When the French farmer asked his barn-door fowls to decide with what sauce they would wish to be eaten, they held a meeting of their own in the barton-yard, and sent their spokesman to say, “If you please, M. le Propriétaire, we very much prefer not to be eaten.”
“Mes amis,” said the farmer, “vous vous écartez de la question.” And that’s your case, Faussett. The business before the house is the moral turpitude and mental obliquity of the man Plantagenet, who refuses – as he says, on conscientious grounds – to join the college wine-club. Now, I take that as an insult to a society of gentlemen.’
‘What a lark it would be,’ Faussett cried, ‘if we were to get him up here just now, offer him some wine, to which he pretends he has a conscientious objection – unless somebody else pays for it – make him drink success to the cause of total abstinence, keep filling up his glass till we make him dead drunk, and then set him at the window in a paper cap to sing “John Barleycorn.”’
Gillingham’s thin lip curled visibly. ‘Your humour, my dear boy,’ he said, patting Faussett on the back, ‘is English – English – essentially English. It reminds me of Gilray. It lacks point and fineness. Your fun is like your neckties – loud, too loud! You must cultivate your mind (if any) by a diligent study of the best French models. I would recommend, for my part, as an efficient antidote, a chapter of De Maupassant and an ode of François Coppée’s every night and morning.’
‘But if Plantagenet’s poor,’ one more tolerant lad put in apologetically, ‘it’s natural enough, after all, he shouldn’t want to join the club. It’s precious expensive, you know, Gillingham. It runs into money.’
The Born Poet was all sweet reasonableness.
‘To be poor, my dear Matthews,’ he said, with a charming smile, turning round to the objector, ‘as Beau Brummell remarked about a rent in one’s coat, is an accident that may happen to any gentleman any day; but a patch, you must recognise, is premeditated poverty. The man Plan-tagenet may be as poor as he chooses, so far as I’m concerned; I approve of his being poor. What so picturesque, so affecting, so poetical, indeed, as honest poverty? But to pretend he doesn’t care for wine – that’s quite another matter. There the atrocity comes in – the vulgarian atrocity. For I call such a statement nothing short of vulgar.’ He raised his glass once more, and eyed the light of the lamp through the amethystine claret with poetic appreciation. ‘Now give the hautboys breath,’ he cried, breaking out once more in a fit of fine dithyrambic inspiration; ‘he comes! he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and ever young, Drinking joys did first ordain. Bacchus’ blessings are a treasure; Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure. Rich the tr-r-reasure. Sweet the pleasure. Sweet is pleasure after pain.’
And when Gillingham said that, with his studiously unstudied air of profound afflatus, everybody in the company felt convinced at once that Plantagenet’s teetotalism, real or hypocritical, simply hadn’t got a leg left to stand upon. They turned for consolation to the Carlsbad plums and the candied cherries.
But at the very same moment, in those more modest rooms, up two pair of stairs in the Back Quad, which Dick had selected for himself as being the cheapest then vacant, the Prince of the Blood himself sat in an old stuffed chair, in a striped college boating coat, engaged in discussing his critic Gillingham in a more friendly spirit with a second-year man, who, though not a smug, was a reader and a worker, by name Gillespie, a solid Glasgow Scotchman. They had rowed together that afternoon in a canvas pair to Sandford, and now they were working in unison on a chapter or two of Aristotle.
‘For my own part,’ Dick said, ‘when I hear Gillingham talk, I’m so overwhelmed with his knowledge of life and his knowledge of history, and his extraordinary reading, that I feel quite ashamed to have carried off the Scholarship against him. I feel the examiners must surely have made a mistake, and some day they’ll find it out, and be sorry they elected me.’
‘You needn’t be afraid of that,’ Gillespie answered, smiling, and filling his pipe. ‘You lack the fine quality of a “guid conceit o’ yoursel,” Plantagenet. I’ve talked a bit with Gillingham now and again, and I don’t think very much of him. He’s not troubled that way. He’s got an extraordinary memory, and a still more extraordinary opinion of his own high merits; but I don’t see, bar those two, that there’s anything particularly brilliant or original about him. He’s a poet, of course, and he writes good verses. Every fellow can write good verses nowadays. The trick’s been published. All can raise the flower now, as Tennyson puts it, for all have got the seed. But, as far as I can judge Gillingham, his memory’s just about the best thing about him. He has a fine confused lot of undigested historical knowledge packed away in his head loose; but he hasn’t any judgment; and judgment is ability. The examiners were quite right, my dear fellow; you know less than Gillingham in a way; but you know it more surely, and you can make better use of it. His work’s showy and flashy; yours is solid and serviceable.’
And Gillespie spoke the truth. Gradually, as Dick got to see more of the Born Poet’s method, he found Gillingham out; he discovered that the great genius was essentially a poseur. He posed about everything. His rôle in life, he said himself, was to be the typical poet; and he never forgot it. He dressed the part; he acted it; he ate and drank poetically. He looked at everything from the point of view of a budding Shakespeare, with just a dash of Shelley thrown in, and a suspicion of Matthew Arnold to give modern flavour. Add a tinge of Baudelaire, Victor Hugo, Ibsen, for cosmopolitan interest, and you have your bard complete. He was a spectator of the drama of human action, he loved to remark; he watched the poor creatures and the pretty creatures at their changeful game – doing, loving, and suffering. He saw in it all good material for his art, the raw stuff for future plays to astonish humanity. Meanwhile, he lay low at Durham College, Oxford, and let the undergraduate world deploy itself before him in simple Bacchic guise or Heraclean feats of strength and skill.
Dick saw more of Gillespie those first few terms than of anyone else in college. He was a thorough good fellow, Archibald Gillespie, and he had just enough of that ballast of common-sense and knowledge of the world which was a trifle lacking to the romantic country-bred lad fresh up from Chiddingwick. He helped Dick much with his work, and went much with him on the river. And Dick worked with a will at his history all that year, and pulled an oar with the best of them; though he found time, too, to coach a fellow-undergraduate going in for ‘Smalls,’ which increased his income by ten whole pounds – an incredible sum to him. When he thought of how hard it used to be to earn ten pounds at Mr. Wells’s in the High Street at Chiddingwick, no wonder Oxford seemed to him a veritable Eldorado.
In spite of hard work, however, and frequent tight places, that first term at Oxford was a genuine delight to him. Who that has known it does not look back upon his freshman year, even in middle life, with regretful enjoyment? Those long mornings in great lecture-rooms, lighted up with dim light from stained-glass windows; those golden afternoons on the gleaming river or among the fields towards Iffey; those strolls round the leafy avenues of Christ Church walks; those loitering moments in Magdalen cloisters! What lounging in a punt under the chestnuts by the Cherwell; what spurts against the stream on the river by Godstow! All, all is delightful to the merest full-blooded boy; to Richard Plantagenet’s romantic mind, stored with images of the past, ‘twas a perpetual feast of fantastic pleasure.
He wrote to Mary twice a week. He would have written every day, indeed, if Mary had allowed him; but the lady of his love more prudently remarked that Mrs. Tradescant would be tempted to inquire in that case as to the name and business of her constant correspondent: He wrote her frankly all his joys and griefs, and she in return quite as frankly sympathized with him. Boy and girl as they were, it was all very pleasant. To be sure, it was understood and arranged on both sides beforehand by the high contracting parties that these letters were to be taken as written on purely friendly grounds, and, as the lawyers say, ‘without prejudice’; still, as time went on, they grew more and more friendly, until at last it would have required the critical eye of an expert in breach-of-promise cases to distinguish them at first sight from ordinary love-letters. Indeed, just once, towards the end of term, Dick went so far as to begin one short note, ‘Dearest Mary,’ which was precisely what he always called her to himself in his own pleasant day-dreams; and then he had the temerity to justify his action in so many words by pleading the precedent of this purely mental usage. But Mary promptly put a stop to such advances by severely beginning her reply, ‘Dear Mr. Plantagenet’; though, to be sure, she somewhat spoilt the moral effect of so stern a commencement by confessing at once in the sequel that she had headed her first draught with a frank ‘Dear Dick,’ and then torn it up, after all, being ashamed to send it.
When Dick read that deliciously feminine confession, consigned in blushing ink to fair white maiden notepaper, his heart gave a jump that might have been heard in Tom Quad, and his face grew as red as Mary’s own when she penned it.
CHAPTER IX. A SUDDEN RESOLVE
Now, then, young gentlemen, choose your partners!’ Mr. Plantagenet murmured with a bland and inane smile. (‘Strike up the violin, Maud!’ aside.) ‘Bow, and fall into places. Eight bars before beginning. No, not yet, Miss Tradescant. Explain to this young lady, if you please, Miss Tudor, that she must always wait eight bars – eight bars exactly – before she begins to chasser. That’s right. Just so! Advance in couples – right, left – right, left – right, left – down the middle. Very nicely done, indeed: very nicely, very nicely. Now! – yes – that’s it. Change hands, and over again!’
A year and more had passed, and Mr. Plantagenet’s face bore distincter signs than ever of his ruling passion. It was coarse and red under the bland exterior. Maud watched him intently now on the morning of lesson days to see he didn’t slink away unobserved into the bar of the White Horse before the appointed hour for the meeting in the Assembly Rooms. Once let him cross the threshold of the inn, except to enter the big hall where he received his pupils, and all was up with him. On such occasions Maud was compelled with grief and shame to stick a notice on the door: ‘Mr. Plantagenet is indisposed to-day, and will be unable to meet his usual classes.’ Nobody else ever knew what agony those notices cost the poor shrinking girl; but on the next appointed afternoon Mr. Plantagenet would be at his place again as if nothing had happened, and would murmur plaintively, with one hand on his left breast and the other on the bow of his faithful violin:
‘My old complaint, ladies and gentlemen – my old complaint! I suffer so much from my heart. I regret I was unable to receive you on Wednesday.’ Everybody in Chiddingwick knew quite well the real nature of Mr. Plantagenet’s ‘old complaint,’ but he was an institution of the place, and everybody pretended to believe in it and to sympathize with him.
On this particular day, however, in the middle of November, Mr. Plantagenet seemed even more consequential and more dignified than usual, if such a thing were possible. He received Lady Agatha’s little girls with princely condescension. Maud, who stood by trembling, and watching him with dismay, as he fiddled with a will on his well-tried violin, wondered to herself, with a mute feeling of terror in her heart, what on earth could have put her father into such visible good humour. She didn’t discover the secret till the end of the lesson. Then Mr. Plantagenet, rising with great importance and a conscious smirk, observed in his suavest and most professional tone:
‘I am sorry to say, young ladies and gentlemen – and you, Miss Tudor – I won’t be able to give the usual lessons next Tuesday and Wednesday. The fact of the matter is, I shall be away from Chiddingwick. It doesn’t often happen that I take a holiday; but on this occasion I shall be away from Chiddingwick. Long and close attention to the duties of a harassing and wearisome task has undermined my constitution; you can sympathize with my feelings, and next week I propose to give myself a well-earned repose in order to visit my dear son at the University of Oxford.’
It was a perfect bombshell. To Maud, sitting by wearily, with her small violin clasped in her bloodless hands, the announcement came like a thunderbolt. He was going to Oxford! She turned deadly pale at once, and clutched the bow of her instrument with a spasmodic action. Mary Tudor, sitting near, noticed the pallor on her cheek, and guessed the cause of it instantly. The two girls looked up; for a second their eyes met, then Maud let hers drop suddenly. Though on that one dearest point Dick had never taken her into his confidence, Maud had guessed the whole truth during last Christmas vacation, and if anything could make the cup of her bitterness even bitterer than it was, ‘twas the thought that Dick’s friend, Dick’s future wife, perhaps, should see and understand the full depths of her misery.
Mary had tact enough and feeling enough, however, not to press her sympathy upon the poor wounded creature. With a hasty side-glance she hurried her charges out of the room as quick as she could, and motioned to the other governesses to do the same for theirs with all possible expedition. Two minutes later the big hall was fairly cleared, and father and daughter stood face to face in silence.
If Maud had followed only the prompting of her own personal feelings, she would have sat down where she was, covered her face with her hands, and cried long and bitterly.
But her sense of duty towards her father prevented her from so giving way. She couldn’t bear to let him see how deeply, for Dick’s sake, she dreaded the idea of his going to Oxford. All she could do was to look up at him with a scared white face, and murmur in a terrified, half-articulate tone: ‘Oh, father, father, you never told me of this! What on earth do you mean by it?’
Mr. Plantagenet eyed his daughter askance out of the corner of his eyes. He was more afraid of Maud than of anyone else on earth; in point of fact, she was his domestic keeper. But he tried to assume his jaunty, happy-go-lucky air, for all that.
‘Well, my dear,’ he said, examining the strings of his fiddle with profound attention, ‘I haven’t had a holiday for a very long time, away from Chiddingwick, and I’m tired with the duties – the duties of my very exacting profession – and I felt I needed a change, and I haven’t been up to Oxford since your brother Richard entered into residence as a member of the University. Now, I naturally feel a desire to see my son in that position in life which a Plantagenet ought to occupy. And so, the long and the short of it is,’ Mr. Plantagenet went on, shuffling about, and glancing up at her anxiously, ‘the long and the short of it is, as you heard me inform my class just now, I think next week of allowing myself the luxury of a trip to Oxford.’
Maud rose and seized his arm. His grandeur and indefiniteness positively alarmed her. Did he think she would be taken in by such grandiose words?
‘Now, father,’ she said boldly, ‘that sort of talk won’t do between us two, you know, at a serious crisis. This is important, very. You must tell me quite plainly what you mean by it all. Does Dick know you’re coming, and why do you want to go to him?’
Mr. Plantagenet, thus attacked, produced from his pocket a rather dirty silk handkerchief, and began to whimper. ‘Has it come to this, then?’ he cried with theatrical pathos; ‘has it come to this, I ask you, that I, the head of all the Plantagenets, have to beg leave and make explanations to my own eldest daughter before I can go to visit my own son at Oxford?’ and he hid his face in the pocket-handkerchief with a studied burst of emotion.
But Maud was inexorable. Dick’s happiness was at stake. Not for worlds, if she could help it, would she have him shamed by the appearance before all the world of Oxford of that shabby, degraded, disreputable old man in the guise of his father.
‘We must be practical,’ she said coldly, taking no notice of his hysterics. ‘You must explain what this means. I want to know all about it. How have you got money to go up to Oxford with – and all those bills unpaid – and Mrs. Waite still dunning us for the rent from last quarter? And where are you going to stop? And does Richard know you’re coming? And have you proper things to go in? Why, I should think the very pride of a Plantagenet ought to prevent you from going to a place where your son lives like a gentleman, as he is, unless you can afford to go in such clothes as won’t disgrace him!’
Thus put upon his mettle, Mr. Plantagenet, deeply moved, at first admitted by slow degrees that he had taken proper steps to replenish his wardrobe for this important occasion. He had ordered a suit of good clothes – very good clothes – at Wilkins’s. And they would be paid for, too, the Head of the House added proudly. Oh, he wasn’t quite so devoid of friends and resources in his old age as his undutiful daughter appeared to imagine. He could sometimes do a thing or two on his own account without asking her assistance. He had money in hand – loads – plenty of money for the journey!
‘The more high-flown and enigmatical Mr. Plantagenet grew, the more terribly was poor Maud distressed and frightened. At last she could stand it no longer. Plantagenet though she was, and as proud as Heaven makes them, she couldn’t prevent the tears from stealing through and betraying her. She flung herself into a chair and took her face in her hands.
‘Now, father,’ she said simply, giving way at last, ‘you must tell me what you mean by it. You must explain the whole thing. Where did you get this money?’
Then, bit by bit, hard pressed, Mr. Plantagenet admitted, with many magnificent disclaimers and curious salves to his offended dignity, how he had become seized of a sum of unexpected magnitude. When he took the last rent of the Assembly Rooms, for the afternoon dancing-lessons, to the landlord of the White Horse, a fortnight earlier, the landlord had given him a receipt in full, and then, to his great surprise, had handed him back the money.
‘You’ve been an old customer to me, Mr. Plantagenet,’ Barnes had said – ‘with real feeling, my dear – I assure you, with very real feeling’ – ‘and a good customer, too, and a customer one could reckon upon, both for the Rooms and the parlour; and I feel, sir, now your son’s gone up to Oxford College, and you a gentleman born, and so brought up, in the manner of speaking, it ‘ud be a comfort to you, and a comfort to him, if you was to go up and see him. This ‘ere little matter of the quarter’s rent ain’t nothing to me: you’ve brought me in as much and more in your time, as I says to my missus, with your conversational faculties. It draws people to the house, that it do, when they know there’s a gent there of your conversational faculties.’
So, in the end, Mr. Plantagenet, after some decent parley, had accepted the gift, ‘in the spirit in which it was offered, my dear – in the spirit in which it was offered,’ and had resolved to apply it to the purpose which the donor indicated, as a means of paying a visit to Bichard at Oxford.
Poor Maud! she sat there heart-broken. She didn’t know what to do. Pure filial feeling made her shrink from acknowledging, even to her own wounded soul, how ashamed she was of her father; far more did it prevent her from letting the poor broken old drunkard himself too plainly perceive it. All she could do was to sit there in blank despair, her hands folded before her, and reflect how all the care and pains she had taken to keep the rent-money sacred from his itching hands had only resulted at last in this supreme discomfiture. It was terrible – terrible! And Dick, she knew, had had social difficulties to contend with at Oxford at first, and was now just overcoming them, and beginning to be recognised as odd, very odd, but a decent sort of fellow. Mr. Plantagenet’s visit would put an end to all that. He couldn’t be kept sober for three days at a stretch; and he would disgrace dear Dick before the whole University.
However, Maud saw at once remonstrance was impossible. All she could conceivably do was to warn Dick beforehand. Forewarned is forearmed. She must warn Dick beforehand. Sorrowfully she went off by herself towards the post-office in the High Street. She would send a telegram. And then, even as she thought it, the idea came over her, how could she ever allow that fuzzy-headed Miss Janson at the Chiddingwick office to suspect the depth of the family disgrace? and another plan suggested itself. The third-class fare to Broughton, the next town of any size, was eightpence-ha’penny return: telegram would be sixpence; one and twopence-ha’penny in all: that was a lot of money! But still, for Dick’s sake, she must venture upon the extravagance. With a beating heart in her breast, she hurried down to the station and took a ticket for Broughton. All the way there she was occupied in making up a telegram that should not compromise Richard; for she imagined to herself that a scholar of Durham would be a public personage of such distinction at Oxford that the telegraph clerks would be sure to note and retail whatever was said to him. At last, after infinite trials, she succeeded in satisfying herself.
