i feared that i was losing jim and janet and the others, but i have not lost them. they conform to macdonald's reign of authority when they are in school, but they do it with their tongues in their cheeks. but only the select few have followed my banner. jim is the only boy, and the only girls are janet, jean, ellen, annie, and gladys. barbara is of divided allegiance. the others are macdonaldised. i find it a very difficult thing to define macdonaldisation. possibly its most distinguishing characteristic is what i might call a dour pertness. the bairns have lost their standard of values; they don't know limits. i pinched mary's cheek when i met her this morning on her way to school, and she tossed her head in the air and looked at me with a cheeky expression which meant: "what do you think you're doing?" if i rag eva she answers with brazen impudence. i have given up speaking facetiously to the boys, for they also were impudent. they were not like that when i had them; i could play with them, joke with them, rag them and they took it all with the best good humour; they teased me and played jokes on me, but they did it in the right spirit.
i have seen it again and again. strict discipline destroys a child's values of good[pg 157] taste and bad taste. naturally when freedom is denied them they do not know what freedom means. the atrocities committed by the super-disciplined german army are quite understandable to me; like macdonaldised bairns they did not understand the freedom they suddenly found themselves enjoying, and they converted it into licence. i can tell the character of a village dominie when i stop to ask a group of boys the way to the next village when i am cycling.
jimmy young slouches past me now with a stare of hostility, and it isn't six months ago since he came running to me on the road one night for protection from the policeman who was after him for stealing a turnip from peter mitchell's field. the policeman came up and in a loud voice accused the laddie, while at the same time he threw in a hint or two that my lax discipline had something to do with the case.
"if they got a little mair o' the leather, things wud be different," he growled.
i do not like policemen; their little brief authority somehow manages to get my back up.
"what's the row?" i asked mildly.
"this young devil has been stealin' neeps," he roared, "and mitchell's gaein' to mak a pollis court case o't."
i said nothing; i took jimmy by the arm and walked towards the gate of mitchell's field. i vaulted it and deliberately pulled[pg 158] up a turnip and peeled it and ate it, while the constable stood writing down notes voluminously.
"understand," i said to him, "that i am not primarily encouraging jimmy to steal turnips; my one aim is to appear in the police court with him if he is charged. i would rather a thousand times be with him in the dock than with you and your farmer in the witness-box."
peter mitchell did not prosecute.
in these days jimmy realised that he and i were friends; we understood each other. now he does not think of trying to understand me; i am an ex-dominie, and that's enough for him. macdonald is the real dominie; jimmy must be circumspect when he is about else there will be ructions. i don't count: i have no authority. i should like to hear macdonald's remarks to jimmy if the constable came to the school to tell of one of the laddie's escapades.
i have lost jimmy and a hundred others, but i thank heaven for the bairns left to me. they come up nearly every night, and they spend saturdays and sundays with me.
last saturday macdonald came into the field where we were playing. janet and the other girls froze at once; all the fun went out of them, and they looked at him timidly. he tried to show that he also could be playful and he tried to romp with them for a while. the romp wasn't a success; they were acting all the time, and when a girl "tigged" him she did so with a woefully apologetic air as if she[pg 159] would say: "excuse my touching you, sir, but it's only a game, you know. i'll take care not to presume when we meet on monday morning."
luckily he did not stay long, and the girls resumed their attempt to tie my legs together with grass ropes, their motive being to stuff my mouth with brambles. i invited them down to the bothy for tea, and they rushed off to lay the table.
"and we'll look into a' yer drawers and places," cried jean, "and read a' yer love-letters."
"if you could read i believe you would read them," i shouted after her.
"eh! what an insult!" she cried. "aw'll just go straucht doon to maggie and tell her no to hae ye!"
after tea gladys suddenly said: "come on, we'll play at schules, eh?" the idea was hailed with delight, and annie requisitioned the services of my new braces for a strap, and ranged us round the fire.
"now," she said, "this is playtime and you are all outside, and when i blow the whistle you'll all come in."
"blaw yer bugle," said jean, "just to mak it like it was when ye were at the schule." so i played the "fall in" and went out to play. i came in late.
"why are you late?" demanded annie.
i looked round the room vacantly.
"yes!" i said with a nod of enlightenment.
[pg 160]
the girls giggled, and annie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
"where have you been, sir?"
"oh, no!" i cried, "at least i don't think so!"
annie had to sit down and laugh.
"that's no fair," she said, "there shud be nae funnin' in the schule."
i sat down on the fender and pulled a face that alfred lester might have envied. annie went into fits of laughter.
"tell ye what, annie," said ellen, "we'll put the mester oot, and we'll play oorsells," and i was dismissed the school. after deliberation they agreed to allow me to be an inspector provided i did not say anything.
when bairns play school they always put on the fine english. the teacher's main duty is to call erring pupils out and punish them.
"now, ellen smith, what is two and two?"
"four."
"very good. now we'll have an object lesson. what animal do we get milk from, janet?"
"the cow."
"very good. now we'll have some geography. where is the town of—?"
"give us spellin' instead," cried gladys.
"come out, girl!" and gladys was punished severely. then jean was punished for laughing.
"it's my chance o' bein' teacher noo," cried ellen and janet at the same time, and a treble[pg 161] scuffle for the strap followed. janet got it.
"now," she began, "i'll be mister macdonald. put yer hands behind yer backs, and the first one that moves will hear about it!" they sat up like statues.
"now, jean broon, you stand up and recite the elegy written in a country churchyard!" and jean stood up and recited the first verse dramatically.
"that'll do. sit down. ellen smith, i want you to say the first verse of wordsworth's ode to the imitations of immorality."
"p-please, sir," tittered gladys, "the inspector's laughin' like onything!"
i laughed immoderately, but it wasn't at janet's malapropism that i laughed so much. i thought of mrs. wilks, the charwoman, who looked after the flat another man and i shared in croydon. one morning she did not arrive to make the breakfast, and i went out to look for her. i found the old woman—she was sixty-three—standing at the foot of the stairs weeping.
"great scot!" i cried, "what's the matter?"
"my 'usband ain't goin' to allow me to char for you young gentlemen again."
"what for?" i asked in amazement.
"he ... he accuses me of 'avin' immortal relations wiv you," she sobbed.
i hasten to add that her relations with us were not immortal: we sacked her a week later for pinching the cream.
"sorry, janet," i said at length, "proceed[pg 162] with your imitations of immorality, although personally i don't see the need for them; the real thing's good enough for me."
"now," she said, "i'll be mister neill now."
annie at once began to sing "tipperary"; ellen began to pull gladys's hair; jean pretended that she was biting a huge apple ... and the teacher janet took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit it.
"you gross libellers!" i cried, and i chased them out of the bothy.
* * *
to-night i had a long walk with margaret. i tried to make her talk, for i want so much to know her views on things.
"you talk," she said; "i like to listen."
"but," i protested, "i'm always talking to you, and you listen all the time. i want to know what is in that wee head of yours ... although i suppose that i ought to be satisfied with its exterior."
"you see," she said slowly and somewhat sadly, "i am not clever; i am only an ordinary farmer's daughter working in the dairy and the fields. if i told you what i was thinking you would not be interested."
we walked many yards in silence.
"it is all a mistake!" she suddenly burst out passionately. "i am not good enough for you, and when my bonny face is gone you will hate me. we have nothing in common, and if you met me in london you wouldn't be interested in me at all. you will bring[pg 163] clever women to the house and i—i will sit in a corner and say nothing, for i won't understand the things that you talk about. i am afraid to go to london with you."
"we'll stay here then," i said quietly.
"no!" she cried, "not that! i will stay here, but you must go to your work and your clever friends. o! it's all been a mistake!" she sat down on a fallen tree and wept silently. i sat down beside her and placed my arm round her shoulders.
"margaret," i said softly, "we'll have a soul to soul talk about it. i'll tell you very very frankly what i think about the whole matter, and i'll try to deceive neither you nor myself.
"intellectually you are not a soul-mate to me. that can't be possible seeing that you have never had the chance to develop your intellect. i know girls whose intellect is brilliant and whose sense of humour is delicious ... but i don't love them. i like them; i love a witty conversation with them, but ... i don't want to touch them. the touch of your hand sends a thrill through me, and there is no other hand in the world that can do that. i want to caress you, to hug you, to kiss your lips, to kiss your lovely neck. margaret, i want you ... and you are not my soul-mate. margaret, i must have you.
"you see, dear, love is a thing that cannot be reasoned with. i once wrote down on paper a list of the qualities i wanted in the[pg 164] woman who should be my wife. she was to have blue eyes, a grecian nose, auburn hair; she was to be tall and imperious; she was to be a fine pianist. dear, your eyes are grey; your nose isn't grecian; you aren't tall, and your limit as a pianist is i'm a little pilgrim played with one finger. you're hopeless, madam, but, dash it all!... i'll buy an auto-piano!
"according to all the rules i oughtn't to find any interest in you at all. do you know that popular song you made me love you? that's the only popular song i ever struck that has any philosophy in it. it has more real pathos in it than the rosary and tosti's goodbye rolled into one.
"'you made me love you; i didn't want to do it,' ... margaret, that's the true story of love. love is blind they say, but the truth is that love is mad. i didn't want to love you; my mind kept telling me that you were not the right woman ... and here i sit in paradise because your head is on my shoulder. the whole thing's absurd and irrational. i almost believe that there is a real cupid who fires his arrows broadcast; of course the little fellow is blind and he hits the wrong people."
i turned her face towards mine.
"margaret, do you love me?"
"i love you," she whispered and she nestled more closely into my shoulder.
"and i love you," i replied, and kissed her brow. "it may be all a mistake, darling,[pg 165] but you and i are going to be man and wife."
"anyway," i added, "we have no illusions about it. we've looked at the thing frankly and openly. we are blind, but we are going into it with our eyes open."
"you are getting silly again," laughed margaret, and we forgot all our doubts and fears, and became two children playing with the toy we call love.
* * *
margaret came to me to-night.
"mr. macdonald's evening school opens to-night. do you think i should join it?"
"why should you?" i asked.
"oh, i have no education, and i want to learn things."
"well," i said consideringly, "you'll learn things all right down there. you'll learn how to measure a field, and how to analyse a sentence; you'll learn a few things about the stuart kings, and a few things about the british colonies. but, my dear, do you specially want to learn things like that?"
"i don't know what things i want to learn," she said sadly. "i think i want to know about the things you used to speak about at your evening school. things that i don't agree with when you say them."
she laughed shortly.
"you know," she continued, "you used to make me angry sometimes. when you said that you didn't object to girls smoking i was[pg 166] wild with you. and i remember how shocked i was when you said that swearing navvies were no worse than we were. when you said that the text 'children, obey your parents' gave bad advice i nearly got up and left the room."
"i expect that i was a sort of bombshell," i laughed.
"you made me think about things that i had never thought about before."
"that was what i was paid for, margaret; i was educating you."
"what is education?" she asked.
"education is thinking, margaret. most people take things for granted; they won't face truth. you don't like your sister edith; she is catty and jealous. but you won't confess to yourself that you dislike edith. all your training tells you that brotherly love is the accepted thing, and if you confessed to yourself that you are fonder of jean mackay than you are of edith, you would think yourself a sinner of the worst type. if you want to be educated you must be ready to question everything; you must doubt everything. you must be very chary of making up your mind. do you believe in ghosts?" i asked suddenly.
"of course not!" she said with a smile. "do you?"
"i don't know," i answered. "lots of people claim to have seen them, and for that reason i leave the question open. there may not be ghosts, but i don't know enough about[pg 167] the subject to deny that they exist. i am quite ready to believe you if you tell me that you saw a ghost in the granary. i asked the question just to use it as an illustration. popular opinion laughs at the idea of a ghost, but the thinking person won't accept the conventional view. keep an open mind, margaret, and believe when you are convinced.
"education never stops; we are being educated every day of our lives. why, only yesterday, i was up in the top field, and i heard a great squealing. i hurried to the place and was just in time to rescue a tiny rabbit from a weasel. i had seen a weasel kill a rabbit many a time before that, and i had never thought anything about it. but yesterday a sudden thought came to me. i remembered the words 'god is good,' and i began to think about them. then i suddenly said to myself that the words were not true. the world is full of pain and terror; the great law of nature is: eat or be eaten. i realised for the first time that every hedgerow is a horrid den of suffering and fear. cruelty is nature's name, margaret."
"but," she cried in perplexity, "isn't there much good in the world too?"
"yes, dear, there is much good in the world, but cruelty is much more powerful. you and i are cruel unthinkingly. we kill wasps before they sting us; we aren't good enough to give the poor brutes the benefit of the doubt. your father is a very kind-hearted man, yet he never[pg 168] once thinks of the cruelty he perpetrates when he rears sheep and cattle and lambs for the butcher's knife. you and i dined on roast lamb often this summer, and we never thought of the poor wee creature's agony when the butcher cut its throat. your mother is kind, yet she will kill a mouse without a thought, and the mouse is to me the bonniest creature that lives. its great big glorious eyes fascinate me. think of the kindly people who chase a poor half-starved fox with hounds and horses; sport is the cruellest thing in the world. shooting, fishing, hunting ... men are as cruel and as devilish as the tiger or the hawk, margaret."
"animals maybe don't feel the same as we do," she said.
"don't you lay that flattering unction to your soul," i cried. "i used to believe that comforting tale of the scientist that the lower animals do not feel. i ceased to believe it when i tried to put a worm on a fish-hook. when i saw it wriggle about i said to myself: 'this is pain, or rather it is agony.' think of the pain that your mares and cows suffer when they are having their young. you and i heard the screams of polly when that dead foal was born this year.
"when you think of it, margaret, man's chief end is not to glorify god as the catechism says; his chief end is to eliminate pain ... human pain. you have heard of vivisection? performing operations on animals, often without chloroform. what's it all for? not[pg 169] cruelty, as bernard shaw suggests; it's all done with the kindly purpose of finding out new ways to abolish human pain. rabbits and guinea-pigs are dosed with all sorts of microbes so that scientists might discover how to protect human beings from the pain of disease. the doctors sometimes do manage to discover a new way to abolish a certain pain, and the pathetic thing is that while they torture animals to find a way to abolish pain a thousand scientists are busily engaged inventing weapons that will bring more pain into the world. it is an alarming thought that our doctors and nurses spend their lives trying to keep the unfit alive, while our armament makers spend their lives planning means to send the fit to their death. lots of people have said that this war shows the failure of christianity; what it really shows is the failure of medicine. medicine's primary aim is to keep people alive as long as possible; war's primary aim is to kill as many people as possible. war is really a battle between two branches of science, between shells and senna. the shell scientist won ... and the medicine man buckled on a sam browne belt and went out to help his rival's victims. if the doctors of the world had realised that war was a defeat of their principles they would have gone on strike, and would no doubt have stopped the war by doing so. every doctor should be a pacifist, but as a matter of fact very few doctors are pacifists."
[pg 170]
"what is a pacifist?" asked margaret.
"a pacifist is a man who loves peace so much that people look up almanacs to see whether his name was schmidt a generation back, margaret. he is usually a nervous man with the physical courage of a hen, but he has more moral courage than three army corps. he is usually a conscientious objector, and it takes the moral courage of a god to be that."
"they are just a lot of cowards!" cried margaret with indignation.
"no," i said, "i can't agree with you. no coward will face the scorn of women and the contempt of men as these men do. think of the life that lies in front of a conscientious objector. nobody will ever understand him; he will be an outcast for ever. dear, it takes stupendous courage to put yourself in that position, and i can't think that any man could do it unless he were following principles that were dearer to him than the judgment of his fellow men. you see, margaret, ordinary courage and moral courage are totally different things. i know a man who won the v.c. for a very brave deed, and that chap wouldn't wear a made-up tie for all the decorations in the world; he wouldn't have the moral courage to be seen walking down the street with a bengali. the more imagination you have the higher is your moral courage, but imagination is fatal to physical courage. moral courage belongs to the thinker; physical courage to the doer. and i can't help thinking that[pg 171] moral courage goes with unhealthiness. i am quite sure that physical courage is primarily dependent on physical health. if my liver is out of order i tremble to open a letter; i can't walk ten yards in the dark; and the arrival of a telegram would give me a fainting fit. nerves are always unhealthy, and as thinkers are always highly strung people i conclude that thinking is unhealthy. thinkers are mad, margaret, mad as hatters."
"mad!"
"yes. the lunatic is merely the man whose brain is different from the brain of the average man. the average man does not imagine himself to be jesus christ, and when a man does imagine himself to be christ we say that he is mad, and we shut him up. he may be a christ for all we know. i don't know why the community didn't shut up shaw when he first preached that obedience was one of the seven deadly virtues. the average man didn't agree with him, and we can say that shaw is therefore mad. you see, dear, man is firstly an animal; joe smith the butcher down in the village is an animal, a fine healthy animal. he is primitive man, and thinking is the last thing he could attempt. thinking is an acquired characteristic; it isn't a natural thing, and anything unnatural is diseased. a thinker is as much a freak as a man born with two heads. and that's why i say that thinkers are unhealthy. blake the great poet was mad; ibsen the great norwegian dramatist[pg 172] died in the mad-house; shelley was diseased; milton was blind, keats a consumptive; nearly every great composer of music who ever lived was mad."
"but," laughed margaret, "you said that education was thinking, and now you say that thinkers are all mad."
"yes, but madness is what the world needs. all these villagers down there are absolutely sane, but the world won't be a scrap the better for their existence. i prefer a world of shelleys and ibsens to a world of jack johnsons and sandows ... and joe smiths. a great german philosopher called nietzsche preached the gospel of superman. he wanted a fine race of powerful men who would rule the world. some people say that napoleon and c?sar and cromwell were supermen, but the real supermen were men like christ and ibsen and darwin and shelley; a fighter is a nobody, but a man with a message is a superman."
"i don't understand," said margaret dully; "what do you mean by having a message?"
"a messenger is a man who forces people to consider things that they wouldn't consider without being prompted. christ's message was love; he encouraged men to act according to the good that was in them; the kindliness, the charity, the love. and the fact that shooting and hunting and lamb eating still persist shows that we pay but little attention to christ's message. shelley's message was freedom, freedom to think and to live one's own life. you'll[pg 173] find that there are only the two kinds of message ... love and freedom."
"the evangelists who were holding meetings in the school last winter used to speak about their 'message,'" said margaret. "would you say that they were supermen?"
"they were superwomen," i said hastily. "they depended on emotionalism. they said nothing new, and they would refuse to consider anything new if you asked them to. they had no power to think; they quoted all the time. consequently their message evaporated; when the magnetism of their appeal went away the converts lapsed into their old sinful ways. they didn't understand the message they tried to deliver; they had never really thought out christ's philosophy. they had got hold of a catch phrase or two, and they kept shouting: 'though your sins be as scarlet they shall be made whiter than snow.' but i am quite sure that they did not know what they meant by sin. christ's chief message was: 'love one another,' but they made it out to be: 'love yourself so well that you may cry for salvation from the wrath to come.'"
margaret looked at the clock on my mantelpiece.
"o!" she cried, "it's eight o'clock ... and the class began at seven! i can't go now."
at the door she paused for a moment; then she came back slowly.
"i won't attend his class," she said thoughtfully; "i think i'll just come over to see you[pg 174] every night, and you'll talk to me and educate me."
"well," i smiled, "i will give you a wider education than macdonald can give you. for example ... this!"
"i could get any amount of teaching in kissing," she tittered.
"possibly, darling ... but there is no teacher hereabouts with my knowledge and experience of the art."
"you horrid pig!" she laughed, and she pulled my hair.
