bullying and senseless cruelty of the older boys who for the most part, still siding with Jones, left me severely alone, the restraints of school life began to irk me. «If I were free,» I said to myself, «I'd go after E… or some other girl and have a great time; as it is, I can do nothing, hope for nothing.» Life was stale, flat and unprofitable to me. Besides, I had read nearly all the books I thought worth reading in the school library, and time hung heavy on my hands; I began to long for liberty as a caged bird.
What was the quickest way out? I knew that my father as a captain in the navy could give me or get me a nomination so that I might become a midshipman. Of course I'd have to be examined before I was fourteen; but I knew I could win a high place in any test. The summer vacation, after I was thirteen on the fourteenth of February, I spent at home in Ireland, as I have told, and from time to time bothered my father to get me the nomination. He promised he would, and I took his promise seriously. All the autumn I studied carefully the subjects I was to be examined in, and from time to time wrote to my father, reminding him of his promise. But he seemed unwilling to touch on the matter in his letters, which were mostly filled with Biblical exhortations that sickened me with contempt for his brainless credulity. My unbelief made me feel immeasurably superior to him.
Christmas came and I wrote him a serious letter. I flattered him, saying that I knew his word was sacred: but the time-limit was at hand and I was getting nervous, lest some official delay might make me pass the prescribed limit of age. I got no reply: I wrote to Vernon, who said he would do his best with the governor. The days went on, the fourteenth of February came and went: I was fourteen. That way of escape into the wide world was closed to me by my father. I raged in hatred of him. How was I to get free? Where should I go? What should I do? One day in an illustrated paper in '68 I read of the discovery of diamonds in the Cape, and then of the opening of the diamond fields. That prospect tempted me and I read all I could about South Africa, but one day I found that the cheapest passage to the Cape cost fifteen pounds and I despaired. Shortly afterwards I read that a steerage passage to New York could be had for five pounds; that amount seemed to me possible to get; for there was a prize of ten pounds for books to be given to the second in the mathematical scholarship exam that would take place in the summer. I thought I could win that, and I set myself to study mathematics harder than ever. The result was-but I shall tell the result in its proper place. Meanwhile I began reading about America and soon learned of the buffalo and Indians on the Great Plains, and a myriad entrancing romantic pictures opened to my boyish imagining. I wanted to see the world and I had grown to dislike England; its snobbery, though I had caught the disease, was loathsome, and worse still, its spirit of sordid self-interest. The rich boys were favored by all the masters, even by Stackpole; I was disgusted with English life as I saw it. Yet there were good elements in it which I could not but see, which I shall try to indicate later. Towards the middle of this winter term it was announced that at midsummer, besides a scene from a play of Plautus to be given in Latin, the trial scene of The Merchant of Venice would also be played-of course, by boys of the fifth and sixth form only, and rehearsals immediately began. Naturally I took out The Merchant of Venice from the school library and in one day knew it by heart. I could learn good poetry by a single careful reading; bad poetry or prose was much harder. Nothing in the play appealed to me except Shylock and the first time I heard Fawcett of the sixth recite the part, I couldn't help grinning. He repeated the most passionate speeches like a lesson, in a singsong, monotonous voice.
For days I went about spouting Shylock's defiance and one day, as luck would have it, Stackpole heard me. We had become great friends: I had done all algebra with him and was now devouring trigonometry, resolved to do conic sections afterwards, and then the calculus. Already there was only one boy who was my superior and he was captain of the sixth, Gordon, a big fellow of over seventeen, who intended to go to Cambridge with the eighty pound mathematical scholarship that summer.
Stackpole told the head that I would be a good Shylock; Fawcett to my amazement didn't want to play the Jew: he found it difficult even to learn the part, and finally it was given to me. I was particularly elated, for I felt that I could make a great hit.
One day my sympathy with the bullied got me a friend. The vicar's son, Edwards, was a nice boy of fourteen who had grown rapidly and was not strong. A brute of sixteen in the upper fifth was twisting his arm and hitting him on the writhen muscle and Edwards was trying hard not to cry. «Leave him alone, Johnson,» I said. «Why do you bully?» «You ought to have a taste of it,» he cried, letting Edwards go, however.
«Don't try it on me if you're wise,» I retorted. «Pat would like us to speak to him,» he sneered and turned away. I shrugged my shoulders. Edwards thanked me warmly for rescuing him and I asked him to come for a walk. He accepted and our friendship began, a friendship memorable for bringing me one novel and wonderful experience. The vicarage was a large house with a good deal of ground about it. Edwards had some sisters but they were too young to interest me; the French governess, on the other hand, Mile. Lucille, was very attractive with her black eyes and hair and quick, vivacious manner. She was of medium height and not more than eighteen. I made up to her at once and tried to talk French with her from the beginning.
She was very kind to me and we got on together at once. She was lonely, I suppose, and I began well by telling her she was the prettiest girl in the whole place and the finest. She translated finest, I remember, as la plus chic. The next half-holiday Edwards went into the house for something. I told her I wanted a kiss, and she said: «You're only a boy, mals gentil,» and she kissed me. When my lips dwelt on hers, she took my head in her hands, pushed it away and looked at me with surprise. «You are a strange boy,» she said musingly. The next holiday I spent at the vicarage. I gave her a little French love letter I had copied from a book in the school library, and I was delighted when she read it and nodded at me, smiling, and tucked it away in her bodice. «Near her heart,» I said to myself, but I had no chance even for a kiss, for Edwards always hung about. But late one afternoon he was called away by his mother for something and my opportunity came. We usually sat in a sort of rustic summerhouse in the garden. This afternoon Lucille was seated, leaning back in an armchair right in front of the door, for the day was sultry-close, and when Edwards went, I threw myself on the doorstep at her feet: her dress clung to her form, revealing the outlines of her thighs and breasts seductively. I was wild with excitement. Suddenly I noticed her legs were apart; I could see her slim ankles. Pulses awoke throbbing in my forehead and throat: I begged for a kiss and got on my knees to take it: she gave me one; but when I persisted, she repulsed me, saying: «Non, non! Sois sage!»
As I returned to my seat reluctantly, the thought came, «Put your hand up her clothes»; I felt sure I could reach her sex. She was seated on the edge of the chair and leaning back. The mere idea shook and scared me: but what can she do, I thought: she can only get angry.
I thought again of all possible consequences: the example with E… came to encourage and hearten me. I leaned round and knelt in front of her, smiling, begging for a kiss, and as she smiled in return, I put my hand boldly right up her clothes on her sex. I felt the soft hairs and the form of it in breathless ecstasy; but I scarcely held it when she sprang upright. «How dare you?» she cried, trying to push my hand away. My sensations were too overpowering for words or act; my life was in my fingers; I held her cunt. A moment later I tried to touch her gently with my middle finger as I had touched E…: 'twas a mistake: I no longer held her sex and at once Lucille whirled round and was free. «I have a good mind to strike you,» she cried.
«I'll tell Mrs. Edwards,» she snorted indignantly. «You're a bad, bad boy and I thought you nice. I'll never be kind to you again: I hate you!» She fairly stamped with anger. I went to her, my whole being one prayer. «Don't spoil it all,» I cried. «You hurt so when you are angry, dear.» She turned to me hotly. «I'm really angry, angry,» she panted, «and you're a hateful rude boy and I don't like you any more,» and she turned away again, shaking her dress straight.
«Oh, how could I help it?» I began. «You're so pretty, oh, you are wonderful, Lucille!» «Wonderful,» she repeated, sniffing disdainfully, but I saw she was mollified. «Kiss me,» I pleaded,
«and don't be cross.» «I'll never kiss you again,» she replied quickly; «you can be sure of that.» I went on begging, praising, pleading for ever so long, till at length she took my head in her hands, saying: «If you'll promise never to do that again, never, I'll give you a kiss and try to forgive you.» «I can't promise,»
I said, «it was too sweet; but kiss me and I'll try to be good.»
She kissed me a quick peck and pushed me away. «Didn't you like it?» I whispered, «I did awfully. I can't tell you how I thrilled: oh, thank you, Lucille, thank you, you are the sweetest girl in the world, and I shall always be grateful to you, you dear!»
She looked down at me musingly, thoughtfully; I felt I was gaining ground. «You are lovely there,» I ventured in a whisper.
«Please dear, what do you call it? I saw chat once: is that right, 'pussy?'» «Don't talk of it,» she cried impatiently. «I hate to think-» «Be kind, Lucille,» I pleaded. «You'll never be the same to me again: you were pretty before, chic and provoking, but now you're sacred. I don't love you, I adore you, reverence you, darling!
