Public School Life: Boys, Parents, Masters

by Alec Waugh

Prefectship is the coping-stone of a public school education. The boy who leaves without becoming a prefect has missed, we are continually assured, the most important part of his school career. And yet what percentage of an old boys' list, I wonder, reaches the dignity of house prefectship. One gets the impression sometimes that every one, provided he stays on long enough, becomes a prefect. All school stories follow a convention. They open with the new boy closing behind him the green-baize door of the head master's study, gazing wistfully down a long corridor at the end of which is the oak door of the day room. From behind that door comes to him the sound of laughter and eager conversation. There is the unknown, mysterious world he has to enter. That is how every school story opens. And every school story closes on the departure of a hero crowned with athletic and academic honours. The space in between is occupied with the 'see-saw up' process. How else a school story is to be constructed I do not know. It has to be narrative rather than dramatic. But it gives the impression that public school life for the average boy is a slow voyage from fag to prefect. Indeed, if Peg's Paper printed school stories, 'From Fag to Prefect' would probably be the title. Such a tale would, however, be little more generally applicable than a tale of army life entitled 'From Bugler to Brigadier.' The majority of schoolboys do not become prefects. But the people in whose hands the framing of the convention lies think they do, because they did themselves. The dwellers in Mayfair think London consists of a few drawing-rooms and a few restaurants. The schoolmaster naturally follows the conventional course, otherwise he would not be a schoolmaster. If he had not reached the Upper Sixth he would not be in a position to teach. If he had not reached the Eleven he would not be a games master. The story-writer may not be an athlete, but it is hardly possible that a man who can write an interesting book should have failed to make some mark at school if he had stayed out his full time. And so there has grown up a tendency to ignore entirely the careers of the insignificant, which form the background for more striking exploits. And yet, as always, the insignificant are in the majority.

A couple of years ago I spent an afternoon in the company of some friends at the school where their son was completing his second term. It was a warm afternoon and we naturally walked down to the cricket field. On the Upper a senior house match, which we should have liked to have watched, was in progress. Our small guide assured us, however, that this would be impossible. 'It isn't our house, you see, and the fellows would think it awful niff of me to watch another house playing. But there's a house game of our own going on down there.' Realising that it was impossible to overcome the novice's fear of doing the wrong thing, we reluctantly, slowly, and with backward glances, followed our young friend to the far end of a big field, where a ridiculous junior house game was being played on a sloping and bumping pitch. The small boy was, however, more interested in his friends than in the cricket. Beyond this game there was the pick up.

Now I do not believe that I had ever before watched a pick up at all closely. I had imagined that the cricket would be pretty bad, that firm-footed batsmen would mow full pitches towards long on, that wides would be only more frequent than the fall of wickets, that every third scoring stroke would be in the nature of a chance. I had never, however, anticipated anything approaching the complete impotence of that game. The batsmen could not hit the ball hard, indeed it was only on rare occasions that they managed to connect the bat with the ball. There was no need for any fieldsmen, with the possible exception of long-stop, to stand more than twenty-five yards from the wicket. The bowler's main object appeared to be the keeping down of wides. Every game has its own technique; this game was certainly not cricket as it is played generally, and, no doubt, the victorious side was the one that bowled fewest wides. For no other reason would any captain have kept on either of those two bowlers for a second over.

And I could not help wondering what a public school career stood for in the lives of those pitiably ineffectual cricketers. It is possible that one or two of them might be brilliant scholars, or that a few played football successfully, though this I am prepared to doubt; for the true sportsman is self-declared the moment that he walks on to a field. It seemed to me incredible that any one who had played any game successfully could tolerate the miserable travesty of sport that was being enacted on that sloping, bumping pitch. But even if there were a few exceptions, even if one or two were destined for privilege and authority and a name upon the honour boards, the fate of the majority was certain. They would remain inconspicuous, belonging to that large tribe of those whose names on the old boys' list are vaguely familiar to us, but with whom we can connect not one incident, anecdote, or conversation. They pass and they leave no mark behind them. They never rise to a position of responsibility. They never learn to wield authority. They never acquire, that is to say, those qualities of administration that have made English rule so tolerant and so universally respected. What can public school life mean to such as these? I put the question, but I cannot answer it. I do not know. Public school life is designed as a slow voyage from fag to prefectship, and, even if only a minority complete that voyage, it is the process and the stages of that voyage we have here to represent and interpret. It should, however, be here set on record that, be the advantages or disadvantages of the public school system what they may, a great many public school boys never partake of them.

From the distance of early years the obligations of prefectship seems slight in comparison with their enormous privileges. A prefect does not have to answer his name at roll; he can wander round the studies without leave during hall. He has fags to clean his study, to wash his plates, to light his fire, to carry his books down to chapel in the morning. He can inflict punishment without being liable to it. The new boy who has recently been caned, in his opinion most unjustly, for whispering in prayers, looks forward to his day of revenge. The life of a prefect must be free from all the cares that so perplex him. Prefects can never be troubled with impositions and imperfectly prepared exercises. He glances up to the Sixth Form table and contemplates the majesty of Meredith with his neatly-tied tie, and hair brushed back immaculately from his forehead. What master would have the cheek to 'bottle' Meredith? The very idea is unthinkable. Meredith has the invulnerable infallibility of a god. The small boy reconsiders this view as he rises in the school. The horizon narrows. But even when he reaches the Sixth Form table he sees prefectship in terms of freedom rather than of service. And it would, of course, be absurd to maintain that the obligations outweigh the privileges. They do not: but they are none the less considerable. If a prefect is found playing the ass, ragging in the studies, or cutting lock up, he would be neither lined nor beaten; but the twenty minutes interview with the Chief would be far worse than any caning. He would feel humbled, he would feel thoroughly ashamed of himself, he would have done a rotten thing. Punishments have ceased to be a pawn in a game between boy and master. And, when a prefect realises this, he realises also that this particular game is finished.

The degree to which a prefect appreciates his obligation, depends a good deal on the way his house master treats him. The boy who is trusted usually proves himself worthy of that trust. I do not mean in everything. If a master says to a boy: 'Now, Jones, I am going to let you prepare your lessons in your study in future. I trust you to work,' Jones feels himself under no obligation to work. By going to his study he is sparing the master the irksome duty of supervision. That is a fair bargain. He has saved the master work and the master has saved him work. In matters of form work a boy will never cease to regard his relationship with his master as that of the hunter and hunted. He will find when he reaches the Sixth Form that instead of being told to prepare fifty lines of Virgil, he is expected to prepare as much work as is possible in the time at his disposal. If, when put on to construe in form he states as an excuse for an unsuccessful effort, that the fifty line limit has been passed, he will be handled roughly: 'My dear Evans,' the head master will say, 'you have ceased to be in the Lower Fourth. You don't work to scale. If you haven't had time to prepare the passage, say so, and I won't put you on, but whatever you do don't bring forward that middle school excuse about fifty lines.' The new arrival will look abashed, but he will not feel that he has been put upon his honour to do an hour's work every night. He may possibly prepare next time, with the aid of a crib, an extra dozen lines, but he will do it as quickly as he can.

He feels differently, however, about what happens outside the class-room. When an excuse is accepted because he is a prefect that would not be accepted without a long cross-examination were he not a prefect, a boy considers himself to have been put on his honour. I will give an example. The O.T.C. was, with us, practically compulsory; ninety-seven per cent. of the school was in it, and that three per cent. was garrisoned with doctors' certificates. Like all compulsory things it was extremely unpopular. We used to employ elaborate devices to get leave off. In break we used to visit the matron and suggest that our health required some castor oil. If possible we would retain the dose in our mouths till we got safely into the passage and then deposit it in our handkerchiefs. When this was impossible we swallowed it. A dose alone was not a sufficient excuse. We had to assume faintness, sickness, or some other indisposition during afternoon school. It was an intricate business that rarely proved successful. The authorities were prepared for it. Corps Parade was on Friday, and one Friday after I had become a prefect, I decided that never before had I felt less like doing squad drill. I had a headache, I had not finished my Latin Prose, we were playing Dulwich the next day and I was anxious to be as fresh as possible. I had also very, very slightly twisted my ankle. Remembering my courage in the days of castor oil I thought it worth making an attempt to get leave off. On this occasion I went to the head master.

I informed him of my injury, and was about to embark on a lengthy explanation of the accident when the head master cut me short. 'Oh, yes, Waugh, of course, that'll be quite all right. I hope you'll be fit for to-morrow.' I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself. Because I was a prefect, my word had been accepted without examination and without proof. I was trusted to tell the truth. And yet I actually had produced as feeble an excuse as a fellow in the Lower Fourth. I went on parade that afternoon, and from then onwards I never tried to get off anything unless I was absolutely certain that I could have got off it without the influence of prefectship. And whatever may be urged against the inflated opinion of himself that the power to exert authority may give a boy, I can only believe that this sense of duty, this obligation to be true to himself is an invaluable experience. It comes out in all sorts of ways. I remember an old colour once telling me at the end of the season that he had not enjoyed his cricket half as much as he had the previous year. I was surprised. 'I should have thought you'd have enjoyed it much more,' I said; 'you haven't had to worry about your colours; you've been certain of your place; you've been able to play whatever sort of game you liked.'

'That's just what I have not been able to do,' he replied. 'Last year I was a free-lance. I took risks. I had a dip when I wanted to, and when we played unimportant matches against the town and the regiment, I thought more about hitting a couple of sixes than making a big score. But I can't do that now. I'm captain of my house. I spend half my evenings trying to persuade those young asses in the junior side that seven singles between cover and mid off are of more use to the side than the most tremendous six. If they see me going in and chucking away my wicket in a school match, they'd think me a pretty sort of captain, wouldn't they? I've got to set an example of sorts.' And, though the captious may maintain that it would have been more to the point if that particular sportsman had worried a little less about the example he was setting on the cricket field and a little more about the example he was setting in the form room and the studies, virtue is virtue wheresoever it is found and in whatsoever garb it is adorned. It is a good thing to feel that an example has to be set and to decide to set it. It is the high privilege of service.

There are occasions when the setting of example grows not only irksome, but pointless. Throughout one winter my whole dormitory and myself subjected ourselves to the miseries of a freezing cold bath because neither party had the face to own itself defeated. In the first warm day of October the whole house ran cheerily to the shower bath down a long passage that faced east and was filled with sunlight. But when the November frosts came on, the long run down the passage in bare feet with a small towel gathered round our loins became increasingly unattractive. By the time we reached the bath we were thoroughly cold and the zinc tubs under the cascade of water were not enticing. Each morning fewer feet pattered down the passage. But my dormitory maintained its courage. As long as I went on having a bath I knew that they would go on having one, and as long as they went on having one I knew that I should have to also. There were mornings when I longed to say: 'Look here, you fellows, you don't want to have a bath. Nor do I. Let's chuck it.' The words were sometimes on the tip of my tongue. But just as I was about to utter them some one would rise from his bed, reluctantly divest himself of his pyjamas, wrap a towel round himself, and run out into the passage. After that retreat was hopeless. The thing had to be seen through. Not one of us missed his bath throughout the term. It may have been good for us: I don't know. Most things that are supposed to be are unpleasant.