CHAPTER XXVI
THE MADNESS OF W.E. GRIM
Grim and Wilson had come back to St. Amory's firmly convinced thatBiffen's was the most glorious house that had ever existed, and that itwould do--thanks to Acton, Worcester, and the dervishes--great thingswhen the cricket housers came round.
"Grimmy," said Wilson, "you'll have to try to get into the team thisyear. You would last, if your batting hadn't been so rotten."
"All right, old man; don't rub that in too often."
"You put in a lot of extra practice at one of those bottom nets, Grimmy,and you'll find Worcester'll shove you in first choice, almost, thisgo."
"Serene. Shall we try to raise a bottle of cherries now," said Grim,lazily, lounging from net to net. "It's heaps too soon to think ofhousers yet."
"You conceited ass, Grimmy! Not for you. Your batting is too awful."
"Don't worry now. Oceans of time, I tell you. We'll try some cherries,eh?"
The pair strolled lazily off the field, and made several purchases inthe preserved fruit line, and then adjourned to their common room forrefreshment.
But, as time went on, Grim did not fall in with Wilson's arrangementsquite as enthusiastically as that single-hearted Biffenite would haveliked him to. A fortnight passed, and Grim had only put in theregulation practice at the nets to Wilson's intense disgust, and thetime that should have been devoted to extra cricket was "wasted,"according to that ardent Biffenite, in doing, of all things, needlesslyelaborate translations for Merishall.
"Whatever is the good of getting the very word the beak wants, Grimmy. Ialways translate _Carmen_--a song. Does it matter a cherry-stone that itsometimes means a charm? What good does it do you, you idiot? It onlymeans that Merishall is harder on us. Think of your friends, Grimmy, do.If I didn't know you were a bit cracked, I'd say your performance wasundiluted 'smugging.'"
"Cork that frivol, do," said Grim, who was stretched full length on thegrass and gazing skywards with a rapt expression in his eyes, "and lookover there. How beautiful it is!"
"How beautiful what is?" asked Wilson, astonished.
"The sunset, you ass!"
"I don't see anything special about it," said Wilson. "An ordinaryaffair!"
"Ordinary affair! Ugh, you idiot. Look at those lovely colours minglingone with another, those light fleecy clouds floating in a purple sea,that beautiful tint in the woods yonder, that--that--"
"Steady, Grim. Take time," said Wilson, squirming away from his chum.
"Wilson, you haven't any soul for beauty. A sunset is the loveliestsight on earth, you duffer."
"Didn't know a sunset ever was on earth," said Wilson, sarcastically.
"Is that funny?"
"All serene, Grimmy," said Wilson, elaborately agreeing with his friendas a mother might with a sick child. "Matter of fact, it is rather fine.Not unlike a Zingari blazer, eh?"
"Zingari blazer!"
"Exactly like. And that pink on the trees would do for the Westminstershirts."
"Blazers and shirts," cried Grim, in disgust. "Oh! get out."
"Let's get in, Grimmy, instead. You'd better see the doctor. 'Ponhonour, you aren't well."
"I can't help it," said W.E. Grim, resignedly, "if you haven't any soul.Yes, I'll come. I've got Merishall's work."
There was a coolness that night between the two friends as they sat atthe opposite sides of their common table doing their work for Merishall,and Wilson was determined to find out what was disturbing theiraccustomed peace. He had soon done his modicum of prose and forthwithbroached matters.
"Let's have this business out, Grim. It will do you a lot of harm if youkeep it in."
"The fact is----" began Grim, hesitating.
"Allez! houp-la!" said Wilson, encouragingly.
"I'm going in strong for poetry."
For reply Wilson laughed as though his life depended on the effort, andGrim turned a rich rosy hue. Wilson finally blurted out--
"Grim, you're an utter idiot."
"What do you think about it?"
"Nothing."
"I thought it would surprise you."
"It has, but nothing you do ever will again. Lord, Grimmy, was it forthis you chucked cricket and your chance of the house eleven?" Wilsonexploded again, uproariously. "I'll tell Rogers and Jack Bourne. You apoet!"
"Why shouldn't I be, you silly cuckoo?"
"Why, you haven't got the cut of a poet, for one thing, and for another,I believe, next to your mother, the thing you like best in the world isa good dinner." Wilson waxed eloquent on Grim's defects from a poet'sstandpoint. "Your hair is as stiff as any hair-brush; you can't denyyou're short and a trifle beefy; and was ever a poet made out of yourmaterial and fighting weight?"
"That isn't criticism," said Grim, angrily.
"No," said Wilson, bitterly. "I don't pretend to that. They are a fewsurface observations only. Just tell this to Rogers or even Cherry, andwatch 'em curl."
Wilson and Grim went to bed that night pretty cool towards each other,but in the morning Grim was obstinately bent on being the poet as hewas the next week and the week after that. He wrestled with poetrymorning, noon, and night, and he made himself a horrible nuisance to hisold cronies. Wilson complained bitterly about their study being "simplyfizzing with poetry." Grim sprang a poem or a sonnet, or a tribute orsome other forsaken variety of poetry, on pretty well everything aboutthe place. He "_did_" the dawn and worked round to the sunset. He had alittle shy at the church and the tombstones, and wrote about the horsepond's "placid wave." He did four sonnets on the school, looking fromnorth, south, east and west, and let himself go in fine style about theschool captain's batting. He sent this to Phil, and Phil passed thedisquisition on to me; it was very funny indeed. Not a single thing wassafe from his poetry, and he cut what he could of cricket to write"tributes."
He had a lively time from his own particular knot of friends andenemies, and they jollied him to an extent that, perhaps, reachedhigh-water mark, when Grim found one morning on his table a dozenthoughtful addresses of lunatic asylums, and specimens of the writing ofmad people, culled from a popular magazine. But Grim recked not, andpersevered. He turned out, as became a budding poet, weird screeds fromOvid, Virgil, and Horace--Bohn's cribs were simple to his tangledstuff--and Merishall beamed wreathed smiles upon him, and told him hewas "catching the spirit of the original." After this patent, distinctleg-up from Merishall, Grim took the bit between his teeth and wentcareering up and down the plains of poesy until the lights were cutoff.
Wilson bore with his chum for a month, and then finally delivered hisultimatum.
"If you're still a poet at midsummer, I'm going to cut, and dig withRogers or Cherry. This den isn't big enough for you, me, and the'original spirits' you wing every night. I'm off to the nets. Coming?No? Jove! Grimmy, what nightmares you must take to bed with you everynight."
But the kindly Fates had the keeping of the chums' friendship in theirsafe keeping, and I haven't observed yet, that Grim and Wilson are lessfriendly than they used to be. This consummation is owing to MissVarley. This young lady, _aetat_ XIV, or thereabouts, was responsible forthe reclamation of Grim. What the whole posse of his acquaintances withtheir blandishments and threats could not effect in the space of amonth, she did within four and twenty hours. I cannot account for this,except on the supposition that little girls with long yellow hair andpretty brown eyes, and a perambulating blush, create mighty earthquakesin the breasts of rowdy fags. Miss Hilda Elsie Varley, being Biffen'sniece, had taken the house under her protection, was more rabidlyBiffenite than even Rogers, adored Acton, reverenced Worcester, andappreciated Chalmers, but despised fags who weren't "training-on" forone of her houses' various elevens. Her sentiments on these matters weremysteriously but accurately known amongst Biffenite juniors.
Grim finally turned his poetical talents upon this young lady. I am notquite certain why he delayed so long. Perhaps he had waited until hisgift of song had matured so that the offering might be worthy of theshrin
e, or perhaps because he had exhausted all other exalted subjectsfor his muse, but anyhow, he sent Miss Varley an ode on her birthday.This day was pretty generally known amongst Biffen's fags.
When he had finished he read it to Wilson, who unbent from hisantagonistic attitude towards poetry when he heard the subject of theverse.
"After all, Grimmy, it doesn't sound more rotten than Virgil, and it_is_ rather swagger to say that Biffen's is to Hilda what Samnos was toJuno. It's a jolly lot more, though."
Grim had cheerfully compared Miss Hilda to the queenly Juno, and saidthat if she would give Biffen's her protection, the house would give theother houses "fits" when the housers came round again; then he put insomething about her hair, unconsciously cribbed from Ovid; and somethingabout her walk--this I tracked to Horace; and wound up the whole farragoby saying he was ready to be her door-mat and to shield her from thefuries, _etc_., which, I think, Grim genuinely evolved out of his owneffervescing breast. The ode was properly posted by the poet himself,and even Wilson felt genuinely interested in the result. As for Grim, hewas so jolly anxious that he could not tackle any more poems, butdivided his time between ices at Hooper's and loafing round theletter-rack for Hilda's answer.
A day or so later Wilson was busy translating for Merishall--carefullyputting "songs" whenever he spotted "_carmina_"--when he heard Grimflying upstairs, and when the poet had smashed into the room, he held upa letter.
"It's come," he gasped.
Wilson laid down his pen and said, "Wait till you're cool, and then readit out."
This is the letter _in extenso:_--
"Biffen's, Wednesday.
"DEAR GRIM, "I don't think you'll ever be a poet, at least not a great one. Ibelieve I could give you the Latin for most of the lines you havewritten: they are so dreadfully like the translations of myschool-books, and it isn't very flattering when one has to put up withsecond-hand compliments several thousand years old, is it? But I am veryglad that you think my good opinion of any value to Biffen's, for Ishould dearly like to see our house top of the school this year, and howcan it be when one, who ought to be in the House Eleven, gives up allhis time to writing 'poetry' instead of playing cricket? I hope you willnot be very vexed with me for writing this, but I know you would preferme to be "Yours very sincerely, "HILDA E. VARLEY.
"P.S.--If I see you admiring the sunsets or the rose-bushes when youought to be at the nets, I know I shall titter ... even if Miss Langtonbe with me. "H.E.V."
Grim struggled through this to the bitter end. Wilson made the very roofecho with his howls of unqualified delight, but Grim's face wasuncommonly like that sunset he admired so much.
"This is a sickener," he gasped.
"Jove! Grim, you've wanted one long enough," said Wilson, holding hisaching sides.
"Crumbs! One would think she was old enough to be my mother."
"That's a way they have, when they're not feeling quite the thing. Nowonder, poor girl."
"Look here, Wilson, keep this dark. I'm not going to write any morepoetry. I've been thinking that, ever since I sent Hilda the ode. Idon't think it's quite the real article."
"No," said Wilson, consolingly; "only original-spirit catching."
"A lot you know about it, old man," said Grim, hotly.
"Granted, Grimmy; but Hilda twigged the fraud, quick enough."
"Well, I'm going to burn it all, right off."
They did. I believe I am doing Grim no injustice when I say he looksless a poet, and acts up to his looks, than any junior in St. Amory's.
Two nights after the receipt of this fateful letter Grim wasindustriously practising Ranjitsinghi's famous glance at a snug, quietnet, when Miss Varley, accompanied by Miss Cornelia Langton, hergoverness, went past the nets. Miss Langton told Hilda afterwards thatshe ought not to speak to hard-working cricketers and distract them intheir game. Hilda, I don't think, minded this little wigging, and Grimnever went without a friendly nod as he turned from cutting Wilson intothe nets, if Miss Hilda Elsie Varley went by.