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Watersprings

A >> Arthur Christopher Benson >> Watersprings



Edited by Charles Aldarondo Aldarondo@yahoo.com
Don Lainson dlainson@sympatico.ca




WATERSPRINGS



BY

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON


"For in the wilderness shall waters
break out, and streams in the desert"


1913






I

THE SCENE





The bright pale February sunlight lay on the little court of
Beaufort College, Cambridge, on the old dull-red smoke-stained
brick, the stone mullions and mouldings, the Hall oriel, the ivied
buttresses and battlements, the turrets, the tiled roofs, the
quaint chimneys, and the lead-topped cupola over all. Half the
court was in shadow. It was incredibly picturesque, but it had
somehow the look of a fortress rather than of a house. It did not
exist only to be beautiful, but had a well-worn beauty of age and
use. There was no domestic adornment of flower-bed or garden-
border, merely four squares of grass, looking like faded carpets
laid on the rather uncompromising pebbles which floored the
pathways. The golden hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to
ten, and the chimes uttered their sharp, peremptory voices. Two or
three young men stood talking at the vaulted gateway, and one or
two figures in dilapidated gowns and caps, holding books, fled out
of the court.

A firm footstep came down one of the stairways; a man of about
forty passed out into the court--Howard Kennedy, Fellow and
Classical Lecturer of the College. His thick curly brown hair
showed a trace of grey, his short pointed beard was grizzled, his
complexion sanguine, his eyebrows thick. There were little vague
lines on his forehead, and his eyes were large and clear; an
interesting, expressive face, not technically handsome, but both
clever and good-natured. He was carelessly dressed in rather old
but well-cut clothes, and had an air of business-like decisiveness
which became him well, and made him seem comfortably at home in the
place; he nodded and smiled to the undergraduates at the gate, who
smiled back and saluted. He met a young man rushing down the court,
and said to him, "That's right, hurry up! You'll just be in time,"
a remark which was answered by a gesture of despair from the young
man. Then he went up the court towards the Hall, entered the
flagged passage, looked for a moment at the notices on the screen,
and went through into the back court, which was surrounded by a
tiny cloister.

Here he met an elderly man, clean-shaven, fresh-coloured, acute-
looking, who wore a little round bowler hat perched on a thick
shock of white hair. He was dressed in a black coat and waistcoat,
with a black tie, and wore rather light grey trousers. One would
have taken him for an old-fashioned country solicitor. He was, as a
matter of fact, the Vice-Master and Senior Fellow of the College--
Mr. Redmayne, who had spent his whole life there. He greeted the
younger man with a kindly, brisk, ironical manner, saying, "You
look very virtuous, Kennedy! What are you up to?"

"I am going for a turn in the garden," said Howard; "will you come
with me?"

"You are very good," said Mr. Redmayne; "it will be quite like a
dialogue of Plato!"

They went down the cloister to a low door in the corner, which
Howard unlocked, and turned into a small old-fashioned garden,
surrounded on three sides by high walls, and overlooking the river
on the fourth side; a gravel path ran all round; there were a few
trees, bare and leafless, and a big bed of shrubs in the centre of
the little lawn, just faintly pricked with points of green. A few
aconites showed their yellow heads above the soil.

"What are those wretched little flowers?" said Mr. Redmayne,
pointing at them contemptuously.

"Oh, don't say that," said Howard; "they are always the first to
struggle up, and they are the earliest signs of spring. Those are
aconites."

"Aconites? Deadly poison!" said Mr. Redmayne, in a tone of horror.
"Well, I don't object to them,--though I must say that I prefer the
works of man to the works of God at all times and in all places. I
don't like the spring--it's a languid and treacherous time; it
always makes me feel that I wish I were doing something else."

They paced for some minutes round the garden gossiping, Redmayne
making very trenchant criticisms, but evidently enjoying the
younger man's company. At something which he said, Howard uttered a
low laugh, which was pleasant to hear from the sense of contented
familiarity which it gave.

"Ah, you may laugh, my young friend," said Redmayne, "but when you
have reached my time of life and see everything going to pieces
round you, you have occasionally to protest against the general
want of backbone, and the sentimentality of the age."

"Yes, but you don't REALLY object," said Howard; "you know you
enjoy your grievances!"

"Well, I am a philosopher," said Mr. Redmayne, "but you are
overdoing your philanthropics. Luncheon in Hall for the boys,
dinner at seven-thirty for the boys, a new cricket-ground for the
boys; you pamper them! Now in my time, when the undergraduates
complained about the veal in Hall, old Grant sent for us third-year
men, and said that he understood there were complaints about the
veal, of which he fully recognised the justice, and so they would
go back to mutton and beef and stick to them, and then he bowed us
out. Now the Bursar would send for the cook, and they would mingle
their tears together."

Howard laughed again, but made no comment, and presently said he
must go back to work. As they went in, Mr. Redmayne put his hand in
Howard's arm, and said, "Don't mind me, my young friend! I like to
have my growl, but I am proud of the old place, and you do a great
deal for it."

Howard smiled, and tucked the old man's hand closer to his side
with a movement of his arm. "I shall come and fetch you out again
some morning," he said.

He got back to his rooms at ten o'clock, and a moment afterwards a
young man appeared in a gown. Howard sat down at his table, pulled
a chair up to his side, produced a corrected piece of Latin prose,
made some criticisms and suggestions, and ended up by saying,
"That's a good piece! You have improved a good deal lately, and
that would get you a solid mark." Then he sat for a minute or two
talking about the books his pupil was reading, and indicating the
points he was to look out for, till at half-past ten another youth
appeared to go through the same process. This went on until twelve
o'clock. Howard's manner was kindly and business-like, and the
undergraduates were very much at their ease. One of them objected
to one of his criticisms. Howard turned to a dictionary and showed
him a paragraph. "You will see I am right," he said, "but don't
hesitate to object to anything I say--these usages are tricky
things!" The undergraduate smiled and nodded.

Just before twelve o'clock he was left alone for five minutes, and
a servant brought in a note. Howard opened it, and taking a sheet
of paper, began to write. At the hour a youth appeared, of very
boyish aspect, curly-haired, fresh-looking, ingenuous. Howard
greeted him with a smile. "Half a minute, Jack!" he said. "There's
the paper--not the Sportsman, I'm afraid, but you can console
yourself while I just finish this note." The boy sat down by the
fire, but instead of taking the paper, drew a solemn-looking cat,
which was sitting regarding the hearth, on to his knee, and began
playing with it. Presently Howard threw his pen down. "Come along,"
he said. The boy, still carrying the cat, came and sat down beside
him. The lesson proceeded as before, but there was a slight
difference in Howard's manner of speech, as of an uncle with a
favourite nephew. At the end, he pushed the paper into the boy's
hand, and said, "No, that isn't good enough, you know; it's all too
casual--it isn't a bit like Latin: you don't do me credit!" He
spoke incisively enough, but shook his head with a smile. The boy
said nothing, but got up, vaguely smiling, and holding the cat
tucked under his arm--a charming picture of healthy and indifferent
youth. Then he said in a rich infantile voice, "Oh, it's all right.
I didn't do myself justice this time. You shall see!"

At this moment the old servant came in and asked Howard if he would
take lunch.

"Yes; I won't go into Hall," said Howard. "Lunch for two--you can
stay and lunch with me, Jack; and I will give you a lecture about
your sins."

The boy said, "Yes, thanks very much; I'd love to."

Jack Sandys was a pupil of Howard's in whom he had a special
interest. He was the son of Frank Sandys, the Vicar of the
Somersetshire parish where Mrs. Graves, Howard's aunt, lived at the
Manor-house. Frank Sandys was a cousin of Mrs. Graves' deceased
husband. She had advised the Vicar to send Jack to Beaufort, and
had written specially commending him to Howard's care. But the boy
had needed little commendation. From the first moment that Jack
Sandys had appeared, smiling and unembarrassed, in Howard's room, a
relation that was almost filial and paternal had sprung up between
them. He had treated Howard from the outset with an innocent
familiarity, and asked him the most direct questions. He was not a
particularly intellectual youth, though he had some vague literary
interests; but he was entirely healthy, good, and quite
irresistibly charming in his naivete and simplicity. Howard had a
dislike of all sentimentality, but the suppressed paternal instinct
which was strong in him had been awakened; and though he made no
emotional advances, he found himself strangely drawn to the boy,
with a feeling for which he could not wholly account. He did not
care for Jack's athletic interests; his tastes and mental processes
were obscure to him. Howard's own nature was at once intellectual
and imaginative, but he felt an extreme delight in the fearless and
direct confidence which the boy showed in him. He criticised his
work unsparingly, he rallied him on his tastes, he snubbed him, but
all with a sense of real and instinctive sympathy which made
everything easy. The boy never resented anything that he said,
asked his advice, looked to him to get him out of any small
difficulties that arose. They were not very much together, and
mostly met only on official occasions. Howard was a busy man, and
had little time, or indeed taste, for vague conversation. Jack was
a boy of natural tact, and he treated all the authorities with the
same unembarrassed directness. Undergraduates are quick to remark
on any sort of favouritism, but only if they think that the
favoured person gets any unfair advantage by his intimacy. But
Howard came down on Jack just as decisively as he came down on
anyone else whose work was unsatisfactory. It was known that they
were a sort of cousins; and, moreover, Jack Sandys was generally
popular, though only in his first year, because he was free from
any touch of uppishness, and of an imperturbable good-humour.

But his own feeling for the boy surprised Howard. He did not think
him very interesting, nor had they much in common except a perfect
goodwill. It was to Howard as if Jack represented something beyond
and further than himself, for which Howard cared--as one might love
a house for the sake of someone that had inhabited it, or because
of events that had happened there. He tried vaguely to interest
Jack in some of the things he cared about, but wholly in vain. That
cheerful youth went quietly on his own way--modest, handsome,
decided, knowing exactly what he liked, with very material tastes
and ambitions, not in the least emotional or imaginative, and yet
with a charm of which all were conscious. He was bored by any
violent attempts at friendship, and quite content in almost
anyone's company, naturally self-contained and temperate, making no
claims and giving no pledges; and yet Howard was deeply haunted by
the sense that Jack stood for something almost bewilderingly fine
which he himself could not comprehend or interpret, and of which
the boy himself was wholly and radiantly unconscious. It gave him,
indeed, a sudden warmth about the heart to see Jack in the court,
or even to think of him as living within the same walls; but there
was nothing jealous or exclusive about his interest, and when they
met, there was often nothing particular to say.

Presently lunch was announced, and Howard led the way to a little
panelled parlour which looked out on the river. They both ate with
healthy appetites; and presently Jack, looking about him, said,
"This room is rather nice! I don't know how you make your rooms so
nice?"

"Mostly by having very little in them except what I want," said
Howard. "These panelled rooms don't want any ornaments; people
spoil rooms by stuffing them, just as you spoil my cat,"--Jack was
feeding the cat with morsels from his plate.

"It's a nice cat," said Jack; "at least I like it in your rooms. I
wouldn't have one in my rooms, not if I were paid for it--it would
be what the Master calls a serious responsibility." Presently,
after a moment's silence, Jack said, "It's rather convenient to be
related to a don, I think. By the way, what sort of screw do they
give you--I mean your income--I suppose I oughtn't to ask?"

"It isn't usually done," said Howard, "but I don't mind your
asking, and I don't mind your knowing. I have about six hundred a
year here."

"Oh, then I was right," said Jack. "Symonds said that all the dons
had about fifteen hundred a year out of the fees; he said that it
wouldn't be worth their while to do it for less. But I said it was
much less. My father only gets about two hundred a year out of his
living, and it all goes to keep me at Cambridge. He says that when
he is vexed about things; but he must have plenty of his own. I
wish he would really tell me. Don't you think people ought to tell
their sons about their incomes?"

"I am afraid you are a very mercenary person," said Howard.

"No, I'm not," said Jack; "only I think one ought to know, and then
one could arrange. Father's awfully good about it, really; but if
ever I spend too much, he shakes his head and talks about the
workhouse. I used to be frightened, but I don't believe in the
workhouse now."

When luncheon was over, they went back to the other room. It was
true that, as Jack had said, Howard managed to make something
pleasant out of his rooms. The study was a big place looking into
the court; it was mostly lined with books, the bookcases going
round the room in a band about three feet from the floor and about
seven feet high. It was a theory of Howard's that you ought to be
able to see all your books without either stooping or climbing.
There was a big knee-hole table and half a dozen chairs. There was
an old portrait in oils over the mantelpiece, several arm-chairs,
one with a book-rest. Half a dozen photographs stood on the
mantelpiece, and there was practically nothing else in the room but
carpets and curtains. Jack lit a cigarette, sank into a chair, and
presently said, "You must get awfully sick of the undergraduates, I
should think, day after day?"

"No, I don't," said Howard; "in fact I must confess that I like
work and feel dull without it--but that shows that I am an elderly
man."

"Yes, I don't care about my work," said Jack, "and I think I shall
get rather tired of being up here before I have done with it. It's
rather pointless, I think. Of course it's quite amusing; but I want
to do something real, make some real money, and talk about
business. I shall go into the city, I think."

"I don't believe you care about anything but money," said Howard;
"you are a barbarian!"

"No, I don't care about money," said Jack; "only one must have
enough--what I like are REAL things. I couldn't go on just learning
things up till I was twenty-three, and then teaching them till I
was sixty-three. Of course I think it is awfully good of you to do
it, but I can't think why or how you do it."

"I suppose I don't care about real things," said Howard.

"No, I can't quite make you out," said Jack with a smiling air,
"because of course you are quite different from the other dons--
nobody would suppose you were a don--everyone says that."

"It's very kind of you to say so," said Howard, "but I am not sure
that it is a compliment--a tradesman ought to be a tradesman, and
not to be ashamed of it. I'm a sophist, of course."

"What's a sophist?" said Jack. "Oh, I know. You lectured about the
sophists last term. I don't remember what they were exactly, but I
thought the lecture awfully good--quite amusing! They were a sort
of parsons, weren't they?"

"You are a wonderful person, Jack!" said Howard, laughing. "I
declare I have never had such extraordinary things said to me as
you have said in the last half-hour."

"Well, I want to know about people," said Jack, "and I think it
pays to ask them. You don't mind, do you? That's the best thing
about you, that I can say what I think to you without putting my
foot in it. But you said you were going to lecture me about my
sins--come on!"

"No," said Howard, "I won't. You are not serious enough to-day, and
I am not vexed enough. You know quite well what I think. There
isn't any harm in you; but you are idle, and you are inquisitive. I
don't want you to be very different, on the whole, if only you
would work a little more and take more interest in things."

"Well," said Jack, "I do take interest--that's the mischief; there
isn't time to work--that's the truth! I shall scrape through the
Trip, and then I shall have done with all this nonsense about the
classics; it really is humbug, isn't it? Such a fuss about nothing.
The books I like are those in which people say what they might say,
not those in which they say what they have had days to invent. I
don't see the good of that. Why should I work, when I don't feel
interested?"

"Because whatever you do, you will have to do things in which you
are not interested," said Howard.

"Well, I think I will wait and see," said Jack. "And now I must be
off. I really have said some awful things to you to-day, and I must
apologise; but I can't help it when I am with you; I feel I must
say just what comes into my head; I must fly; thank you for lunch;
and I truly will do better, but mind only for YOU, and not because
I think it's any good." He put down the cat with a kiss. "Good-bye,
Mimi," he said; "remember me, I beseech you!" and he hurried away.

Howard sat still for a minute or two, looking at the fire; then he
gave a laugh, got up, stretched himself, and went out for a walk.

Even so quiet a thing as a walk was not unattended by a certain
amount of ceremonial. Howard passed some six or seven men of his
acquaintance, some of whom presented a stick or raised a stiff hand
without a smile or indeed any sign of recognition; one went so far
as to say, "Hullo, Kennedy!" and one eager conversationalist went
so far as to say, "Out for a walk?" Howard pushed on, walking
lightly and rapidly, and found himself at last at Barton, one of
those entirely delightful pastoral villages that push up so close
to Cambridge on every side; a vague collection of quaint irregular
cottages, whitewashed and thatched, with bits of green common
interspersed, an old manorial farm with its byres and ricks,
surrounded by a moat fringed with little pollarded elms. The plain
ancient tower of the church looked gravely out over all. In the
distance, over pastoral country, rose low wolds, pleasantly shaped,
skirted with little hamlets, surrounded by orchards; the old
untroubled necessary work of the world flows on in these fields and
villages, peopled with lives hardly conscious of themselves, with
no aims or theories, just toiling, multiplying, dying, existing, it
would seem, merely to feed and clothe the more active part of the
world. Howard loved such little interludes of silence, out in the
fresh country, when the calm life of tree and herb, the delicate
whisper of dry, evenly-blowing breezes, tranquillised and hushed
his restless thoughts. He lost himself in a formless reverie,
exercising no control over his trivial thoughts.

By four o'clock he was back, made himself some tea, put on a cap
and gown, and walked out to a meeting. In a high bare room in the
University offices the Committee sat. The Vice-Chancellor, a big,
grave, solid man, Master of St. Benedict's, sat in courteous state.
Half a dozen dons sat round the great tables, ranged in a square.
The business was mostly formal. The Vice-Chancellor read the points
from a paper in his resonant voice, comments and suggestions were
made, and the Secretary noted down conclusions. Howard was struck,
as he often had been before, to see how the larger questions of
principle passed almost unnoticed, while the smaller points, such
as the wording of a notice, were eagerly and humorously debated by
men of acute minds and easy speech. It was over in half an hour.
Howard strolled off with one of the members, and then, returning to
his rooms, wrote some letters, and looked up a lecture for the next
day, till the bell rang for Hall.

Beaufort was a hospitable and sociable College, and guests often
appeared at dinner. On this night Mr. Redmayne was in the chair, at
the end of a long table; eight or ten dons were present. A gong was
struck; an undergraduate came up and scrambled through a Latin
Grace from a board which he held in his hand. The tables filled
rapidly with lively young men full of talk and appetite. Howard
found himself sitting next one of his colleagues, on the other side
of him being an ancient crony of Mr. Redmayne's, the Dean of a
neighbouring College. The talk was mainly local and personal,
diverging at times into politics. It was brisk, sensible, good-
natured conversation, by no means unamusing. Mr. Redmayne was an
unashamed Tory, and growled denunciations at a democratic
Government, whom he credited with every political vice under the
sun, depicting the Cabinet as men fishing in troubled seas with
philanthropic baits to catch votes. One of the younger dons, an
ardent Liberal, made a mild protest. "Ah," said Mr. Redmayne, "you
are still the prey of idealistic illusions. Politics are all based,
not on principles or programmes, but on the instinctive hatred of
opponents." There was a laugh at this. "You may laugh," said Mr.
Redmayne, "but you will find it to be true. Peace and goodwill are
pretty words to play with, but it is combativeness which helps the
world along; not the desire to be at peace, but the wish to maul
your adversary!"

It was the talk of busy men who met together, not to discuss, but
to eat, and conversed only to pass the time. But it was all good-
humoured enough, and even the verbal sharpness which was employed
was evidence of much mutual confidence and esteem.

Howard thought, looking down the Hall, when the meal was in full
fling, what a picturesque, cheerful, lively affair it all was. The
Hall was lighted only by candles in heavy silver candlesticks,
which flared away all down the tables. In the dark gallery a couple
of sconces burned still and clear. The dusty rafters, the dim
portraits above the panelling, the gleam of gilded cornices were a
pleasant contrast to the lively talk, the brisk coming and going,
the clink and clatter below. It was noisy indeed, but noisy as a
healthy and friendly family party is noisy, with no turbulence.
Once or twice a great shout of laughter rang out from the tables
and died away. There was no sign of discipline, and yet the whole
was orderly enough. The carvers carved, the waiters hurried to and
fro, the swing-doors creaked as the men hurried out. It was a very
business-like, very English scene, without any ceremony or parade,
and yet undeniably stately and vivid.

The undergraduates finished their dinners with inconceivable
rapidity, and the Hall was soon empty, save for the more
ceremonious and deliberate party at the high table. Presently these
adjourned in procession to the Parlour, a big room, comfortably
panelled, opening off the Hall, where the same party sat round the
fire at little tables, sipped a glass of port, and went on to
coffee and cigarettes, while the talk became more general. Howard
felt, as he had often felt before, how little attention even able
and intellectual Englishmen paid to the form of their talk. There
was hardly a grammatical sentence uttered, never an elaborate one;
the object was, it seemed, to get the thought uttered as quickly
and unconcernedly as possible, and even the anecdotes were pared to
the bone. A clock struck nine, and Mr. Redmayne rose. The party
broke up, and Howard went off to his rooms.

He settled down to look over a set of compositions. But he was in a
somewhat restless frame of mind to-night, and a not unpleasant mood
of reflection and retrospect came over him. What an easy, full,
lively existence his was! He seemed to himself to be perfectly
contented. He remembered how he, the only son of rather elderly
parents, had gone through Winchester with mild credit. He had never
had any difficulties to contend with, he thought. He had been
popular, not distinguished at anything--a fair athlete, a fair
scholar, arousing no jealousies or enmities. He had been naturally
temperate and self-restrained. He had drifted on to Beaufort as a
Scholar, and it had been the same thing over again--no ambitions,
no failures, friends in abundance. Then his father had died, and it
had been so natural for him, on being elected to a Fellowship, just
to carry on the same life; he had to settle to work at once, as his
mother was not well off and much invalided. She had not long
survived his father. He had taught, taken pupils, made a fair
income. He had had no break of travel, no touch with the world;
a few foreign tours in the company of an old friend had given
him nothing but an emotional tincture of recollections and
associations--a touch of varnish, so to speak. Suddenly the
remembrance of some of the things which Jack Sandys had said that
morning came back to him; "real things" the boy had said, so
lightly and yet so decisively. He wondered; had he himself ever had
any touch with realities at all? He had been touched by no
adversity or tragedy, he had been devastated by no disappointed
ambitions, shattered by no emotions. His whole life had been
perfectly under his control, and he had grown into a sort of
contempt for all unbalanced people, who were run away with by their
instincts or passions. It had been a very comfortable, sheltered,
happy life; he was sure of that; he had enjoyed his work, his
relations with others, his friendships; but had he ever come near
to any fulness of living at all? Was it not, when all was said and
done, a very empty affair--void of experience, guarded from
suffering? "Suffering?" he hardly knew the meaning of the word. Had
he ever felt or suffered or rebelled? Yes, there was one little
thing. He had had a small ambition once; he had studied comparative
religion very carefully at one time to illustrate some lectures,
and a great idea had flashed across him. It was a big, a fruitful
thought; he had surveyed that strange province of human emotion,
the deepest strain of which seemed to be a disgust for mingling
with life, a loathing of bodily processes and instincts, which
drove its votaries to a deliberate sexlessness, and set them at
variance with the whole solid force of Nature, the treacherous and
alluring devices by which she drove men to reproduction with an
insatiable appetite; that mystical strain, which appeared at all
times and in all places, a spiritual rebellion against material
bondage, was not that the desperate cry of the fettered spirit? The
conception of sin, by which Nature traversed her own activities and
made them void--there was a great secret hidden here. He had
determined to follow this up, and to disguise with characteristic
caution and courtesy a daring speculation under the cloak of
orthodox research.

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