The Meaning of Night (16 page)

But I fear that Daunt, K.S., was somewhat girlishly vocal in his complaints, in

consequence of which he attracted even more unwelcome attention from that class of boy

who is ever ready and eager to make the lives of his compatriots thoroughly miserable. I

myself was never subjected to such troubles after I shut the head of one of the chief

tormentors, a grinning oaf by the name of Shillito, in the door to Long Chamber, refusing

to release him until his face had near turned blue. I had declined to take part in some

piece of horseplay and he had tipped a jug of cold water over me. He did not do it again.

Mine is not a forgiving nature.

Daunt calls it ‘thralldom’, this friendship of ours; but it was a strange kind of

slavery in which no submission was asked of the enslaved. He was free to do what he

wished, make friends with whom he chose; but he did not. He seemed willingly to

embrace his dependent state, despite all I could do to encourage him to find wings of his

own.

But if he was weak in this, he was strong in other ways. I found him an able and

lively debater on topics of which I was surprised he had any knowledge all, and soon I

began to discover an elasticity of mind and comprehension, and also a sort of energetic

cunning, that sat strangely with the strain of moping dullness that so often characterized

his company.

I saw, too, the solid academic grounding he had received under his father; but

with this went a fatal inability to fix the mental eye steadily on its object. He would

garner quickly and move on. I, too, was hungry to learn whatever I could of man and the

world, but my haste was not self-defeating speed. He assembled bright impressive

surfaces of knowledge admirably, but the inner structures that would keep the building in

place were flimsy, and constantly shifting. He was adaptable, fluid, accommodating;

always absorbent, never certain or definitive. I sought to know and to comprehend; he

sought only to acquire. His genius – for such I account it – consisted in an ability to shine

back the brilliance of others, but in a way that, by some alchemical transmutation, served

to illuminate and enlarge himself. These qualities did not hold him back in his work: he

was generally accounted one of the School’s best scholars; but they showed me – gifted,

as I like to think, with finer instincts, like his own father – his true measure.

And so we proceeded together through the School, and began to attain a measure

of seniority. He had thrown off his former timidities, and now often distinguished himself

on the Playing-fields and on the River. I did not actively dislike him, but his constant

presence became tiresome. He simply would not leave me be, and his insistent clinging to

my company, to the detriment of my other friendships, began at last to arouse real

annoyance in me. I tried several times to extricate myself from him, without much

success, until at last I was forced to tell him to his face that I found his company

wearisome, and that I had other friends I liked better. This, I suppose, partly accounts for

the accusation of ‘coldness’ from me, though I continued, against my better judgment, to

give freely of my time to him when I could, even when I was racking myself hard with a

view to gaining the Newcastle? on leaving the School.

But then came an event that showed me Phoebus Rainsford Daunt in his true

colours, and brought about my departure from the School. He mentions this crisis,

briefly, and with estimable tact, in the account quoted earlier. I laughed out loud when I

read it. Judge for yourself the trustworthiness of our hero as I now set matters before you

in their true light.

12:

Pulvis et umbra?

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One Wednesday afternoon, in the autumn of 1836, as I was returning from

Windsor with a small group of companions, to which Daunt had attached himself, I was

summoned to see the Head Master, Dr Hawtrey, in Upper School.?

‘I believe you have been given exceptional permission to use the Fellows’

Library?’ he asked.

The Library was strictly out of bounds to all boys; but I confirmed that I had been

given the key by one of the Fellows, the Reverend Thomas Carter, whose pupil I had

been when he was Lower Master. Mr Carter, having read several papers I had written,

was sympathetic to my enthusiastic interest in bibliographical matters, and so had

allowed me the temporary freedom of the Library to gather material for a new paper I

was writing on the history and character of the collection.

‘And you have made use of this privilege recently?’

I began to feel uncomfortable at the questioning, but as I knew I had committed

no misdemeanour, and because I knew that Dr Hawtrey was also a distinguished

bibliophile, I unhesitatingly said that I had been there the previous afternoon, making

notes on Gesner’s Bibliotheca Universalis (Zurich, 1545).

‘And you were alone?’

‘Quite alone.’

‘And when did you return the key?’

I replied that normally I would have taken the key straight back to Mr Carter, but

that yesterday I had gone out on the river with Le Grice, leaving the key in his boarding

house – in which I also had use of a room– until we returned.

‘So when you came off the river, you took the key back to Mr Carter?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Mr Glyver, I have to tell you that I have received a serious allegation against

you. According to information I have been given, I have reason to believe that you have

taken a most valuable item from the Library without permission, with the intention of

keeping it.’

I could hardly believe my ears, and my utter surprise must have been only too

evident to the Head Master, for he signalled me to sit down and waited until I had

composed myself before speaking again.

‘The item in question is the Udall. You know it, perhaps?’

Naturally I knew it: the unique copy, circa 1566, of Ralph Roister Doister, one of

the earliest of English comedies, by Nicholas Udall, a former Head Master of the School.

I had examined it only recently, in the course of my researches. A volume of exceptional

rarity and value.

‘We know it was in the library on Tuesday morning, because it was seen by one

of the Fellows. It is not there now.’

‘I assure you, sir, I know nothing of this. I cannot understand –– ’

‘Then you will have no objection if we examine your belongings?’

I replied without hesitation, and was soon following Dr Hawtrey’s gowned figure

down the stairs and out into School Yard. A few minutes later we were in the room in Le

Grice’s boarding house, where I kept my personal effects and took my breakfast. On

opening my trunk, I immediately saw that it was not as I had left it. Beneath a jumble of

clothes could plainly be seen the brown calf binding of the missing book.

‘Do you still deny ignorance of this matter, Mr Glyver?’

Before I could reply, Dr Hawtrey had retrieved the book and ordered me to follow

him back to Upper School, where I found Mr Carter and the Vice-Provost – the Provost

being absent on business in London – awaiting us.

I was questioned at some length for over half an hour, during which I felt my

anger rising. It was clear that I had been the victim of some mean conspiracy to destroy

my reputation and bring shame and worse – the loss of my scholarship and consequent

expulsion – upon my head. Was it possible? They had called me ‘the learned boy’ when I

had first come to the School, whilst my prowess at the Wall had been the object of

general acclaim. Was I not liked and admired by everyone, boys and masters alike? Yet

someone had set out to bring me down – jealous, no doubt, of my abilities and my

standing.

I could hear the blood banging louder and louder in my ears as rage welled up,

like some scalding volcanic plume, from the depths of my being. At last I could stand it

no longer. ‘Sir,’ I cried out, breaking in on the questioning. ‘I have not deserved this,

indeed I have not! Can you not see how ridiculous, how risible, this charge is, how

worthy of your contempt? I beg you to consider: what possible reason could I have for

perpetrating such an act? It would have been the height of folly. Do you suppose I am

such a fool as to attempt to steal such a celebrated item? Only an ignoramus would

believe that a book of this rarity could be easily disposed of – and by a mere schoolboy –

without suspicion being aroused. Or perhaps you think I intended to keep the book for

myself, which is equally absurd. Discovery would have been inevitable. No, you have

been gravely deceived, gentlemen, and I have been the object of a vicious calumny.’

I must have made an alarming, even intimidating, figure as I fumed and ranted,

heedless of the consequences. But the genuineness of my passion was only too evident,

and I thought I could see in Dr Hawtrey’s face that the tide might be turning in my

favour.

For some minutes more, I continued to protest my innocence most vehemently, as

well as deriding the ludicrous nature of the charge. At last, Dr Hawtrey signed for me to

resume my seat and held a whispered consultation with his two colleagues.

‘If you are innocent, as you claim,’ he said, ‘then it follows that someone else was

responsible for removing the Udall quarto from the Library, and for attempting to

implicate you as the thief. You say the key was in your room. How long were you on the

river for?’

‘No more than an hour. The wind was exceptionally keen.’

There was a further consultation.

‘We shall make further enquiries,’ said Dr Hawtrey, gravely. ‘For the moment,

you are free to go. You will not, however, be allowed to use the Library, and you are

forbidden to go up town until further notice. Is that clear?’

It was clear enough, but I was not finished with them. I wanted to know by what

means they had been lead to suspect me, and how they knew where to look for the

missing book.

‘A note was passed under my door last night,’ replied Dr Hawtrey.

‘A note? Then it will be a simple thing to identity the writer, whom you must of

course see is the person who stole the Udall quarto.’

‘I think not,’ returned the Head Master. ‘The note was written in Greek capitals of

such regularity that they had clearly been traced, which will make it virtually impossible

to identify the individual responsible. It took a little time to decipher, but it conveyed its

message most effectively.’

The next morning, I was again summoned to see Dr Hawtrey. He immediately

informed me that a witness had come forward, who swore that he had seen me placing

the book in my trunk.

There have been few times in my life when I have been lost for words; but on this

occasion, I was momentarily struck dumb, utterly unable to believe what was being said

to me. When I came back to myself, I angrily asked for the name of the witness.

‘You cannot expect me to give you that,’ said Dr Hawtrey.

‘Whoever this witness is, he is lying!’ I cried. ‘As I said before, I have been the

victim of some plot. It is obvious, surely, that your witness must also be the thief.’

Dr Hawtrey shook his head.

‘The witness is of impeccable character; and there is no doubt at all that he can

have had no motive for doing you harm, and no reason to lie. Furthermore, his testimony

has now been corroborated by another boy.’

Knowing the impossibility that any witness, let alone two, could exist to a crime I

did not commit, I continued to argue as fiercely as I could for my innocence, and for what

I considered to be the true state of the case: that I had been the object of a deliberate and

vicious conspiracy. But it was useless. Motive and opportunity were already against me;

and now came corroborated testimony, sealing my fate. My arguments were dismissed,

and the verdict pronounced. My scholarship was to be terminated and I was requested to

leave the School immediately, using any public pretence I wished. If I went without

protest, then no further action would be taken against me, and the matter would be closed.

If not, then I would face formal expulsion and public disgrace.

I thought of my poor mother, alone in the parlour at home, filling page after page

for Mr Colburn; and then of Miss Lamb, my presumed benefactress, whose generosity

had brought me here. For their sakes, I saw that I must go quietly, though I knew I was

innocent. And so I capitulated, with a heavy heart, and with rage boiling and bubbling

inside me. Dr Hawtrey was kind enough to say how sorry he was to see me leave under

such distressing circumstances, for I had been widely regarded as one of the School’s

leading scholars, and likely to gain a Fellowship at the University in due course. He also

tried to mitigate the immediate effects of my sentence by kindly suggesting that I should

stay with one of the Fellows, who had a house a few miles from Eton, until my mother

was informed, and arrangements could be made for me to be fetched. I said that I did not

wish him to write to my mother, requesting that I be allowed to give her my own account

of why I would not be returning to Eton. After some thought, Dr Hawtrey agreed. We