Prologue

At the beginning of his last term but one, Berry was removed to the Lower Sixth. Throughout his five years at Harrow, his interest in a classical education had not been marked, and of his new form-master and himself, I do not know which was the more surprised at his promotion.

After three days—

“Pleydell,” said the former, “until recently this form-room was tenanted by the Lower Shell. You’re sure you’re not under the impression that that lease is still running?”

“No, sir,” said Berry, sadly. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.”

“About what?”

“That my dignity, sir, has been served at the expense of yours.”

From that moment, the two became friends.

His form-master was a man of the rarest wit, and, while Berry sat at his feet, the exchanges between the two were frequently worth hearing.

One morning Berry, who had been requested to translate a passage from Juvenal, stumbled through a line and a half and then stopped dead.

“Go on, Pleydell.”

Berry looked up apologetically.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the English equivalent of the next phrase has for the moment escaped me.”

“Can you construe?”

“I – I don’t believe I shall do the satirist justice this morning, sir. Tomorrow, perhaps…”

“The artistic temperament?”

“You’re very understanding, sir.”

“I am. You hoped for the best.”

“I still do, sir.”

“Optimist. Write it out twice.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And I know your cousin’s writing.”

Berry sighed.

“‘Put out the light,’” he murmured, “‘and then put out the light.’”

(The School had been addressed on Shakespeare the week before.)

“For that rejoinder, your punishment is – halved.”

“You’re very good, sir.”

“No. Only just. ‘And other fell on good ground.’”

On another occasion—

“You force me to the conclusion, Pleydell, that Plautus is not among your favourites.”

“I feel, sir, that he loses by, er, translation.”

“I see. Endeavour to subdue that emotion by writing out, instead of memorizing, the construe for tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. A, er, free translation?”

“I must be able to recognize the passage. And you may add a short comparison of the audiences for which Plautus wrote and – What theatres do you patronize?”

“I’ve heard of the Gaiety, sir.”

“—and the audiences for which you have reason to believe that Mr George Edwardes caters.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And don’t underrate the intelligence of the former.”

“Nor its taste, sir?”

“No. But this is not a licence to submit an obscene libel.”

“Certainly not, sir. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Were débutantes admitted to Plautus’ plays, sir? I mean, I believe they go to the Gaiety.”

There was a little silence. Then—

“I feel,” said the form-master, “that this comparison had better not be drawn. The possibilities are too grave. Let’s play for safety and have a hundred lines of Virgil, instead.”

Once, when Berry’s written translation of the death of Patroclus proved disappointing—

“There is a saying, Pleydell, that Homer sometimes nods.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have yet to hear it suggested that some of his work was done when he was in his cups. Yet, that is the inference to be drawn from your handiwork.”

“I must admit, sir, that I found this particular passage a little less straightforward than usual.”

“Don’t spare him. Say incoherent, and have done with it.”

“I hesitate to presume, sir. I mean…”

“Go on.”

“I’ve always understood that he was a great master, sir.”

“Well, you’ve shown him up today, haven’t you?”

“Not him, sir. Myself.”

“That’s better. When you perceive a mote in Homer’s eye, look immediately for the beam in your own. It’ll save time – and labour.”

An agonized look leapt into Berry’s eyes.

“I won’t fail to remember that, sir.”

“You’ll make a mental note of it?”

“I have, sir.”

“Good. But I feel that such a note should be reinforced.”

“With respect, sir, I believe that to be unnecessary.”

“Do you, indeed? Well, I’ll back your belief: but I warn you that, should it prove to be ill founded, the belated reinforcement will be a work of some magnitude.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all. I’ve made my bet safe.”

One day we were desired to draw from memory a map of the Mediterranean. When our efforts had been examined—

“Pleydell.”

“Sir?”

“I said ‘A map of the Mediterranean.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you of the impressionist school?”

“Er – yes, sir.”

“Then it’s my fault. I should have made it clear that I wanted an old-fashioned map. Do me one this afternoon – in colour.”

“Very good, sir. Any colours I like?”

“Except scarlet. And you might show the voyages of St Paul. That will remind you of the existence of an island called Malta.”

“Of course, sir. That was where the snake did it on him.”

“That’s right. And he did it on the snake. As a matter of fact, The Authorized Version puts it rather better. You might make two copies of the verses in question and add them to the map. Any more reminiscences?”

“No, sir.”

And once again—

“It would be idle to pretend, Pleydell, that the memorizing of Greek verse was your strong point.”

“I respectfully agree, sir.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“May I suggest, sir, that I should be permitted to perform some other labour, instead?”

“Such as?”

“Anything, sir. I’d cheerfully pick oakum.”

“That would be premature. Besides, we must stick more or less to the curriculum.”

“A series of articles, sir, on the less obvious advantages of a classical education?”

“So be it. But be careful. Scurrility will meet with a very short shrift. You must render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”

“It shall be done, sir.”

After a week—

“I find this article a little equivocal, Pleydell. You must beat down Satan under your feet.”

“Believe me, I’m scourging myself, sir.”

“You don’t believe all you say?”

“Not all, sir.”

“Lay on more heartily. Help thou thine unbelief. Hang it, man. A classical education has been commended by my betters for hundreds of years. We can’t all be wrong.”

Berry looked at his form-master.

“That’s very true, sir.”

After another week—

“This rings more true, Pleydell.”

“I, er, hoped it would, sir.”

“Good. You’re beginning to focus the picture?”

“By standing back, sir. I – oughtn’t to come too close.”

“A respectful distance?”

“Very respectful, sir.”

“That’s all I ask.”

To this day, Berry will commend a grounding in polite letters with all his might.