Wesblock, the autobiography of an automaton

by Harry McDonald Walters

I was so unhappy in the house of Canon Barr that I decided I must leave or die; it did not matter which. To effect my release I pretended to have gone violently insane. It is not certain if I deceived the Canon, but I think I did. When the foolish idea first came to me, I did not realise what a strain acting the madman would be, or how I could make an end of the comedy. I just played my little part and trusted to luck.

I started moderately by doing foolish things, grinning at every one one minute and being cross the next; striking and slapping all who approached me. This brought the Canon down on me with his favourite implement of torture—a nice, smooth flour barrel stave with a handle whittled at one end. He thought it was a case of ordinary rebellion. But one blow from the barrel stave was enough for me; and its effect, I fancy, startled the old brute. I flew at him like a wild cat, kicked his shins, bit him on the hand and on the calf of his leg, and tore his gown to ribbons. Of course I was no match for the Canon and his barrel stave, and received unmerciful punishment; but I played the game, throwing ink bottles, rulers, books, anything that came to hand, in the old fellow’s face, and overturning desks and chairs like a maniac. He called on the boys for assistance. I brandished a ruler and threatened dire vengeance in a loud hysterical voice against any one who dared approach me, and the boys held back. I was not subdued till the hired man came to the rescue, and bundled me into my room and locked me up. There I continued to howl aloud, and destroy every breakable thing. When I had screamed myself hoarse and was tired out I lay down on my bed and cried till I fell asleep. When I awoke it was nearly dark. There were people in the room, so I remained quiet with closed eyes to discover if any conversation would give me a cue for my next move in the drama. I was rewarded for my cunning by hearing the voice of the village doctor telling the Canon to keep me very quiet and to send for my parents. In a minute they withdrew, and presently a lamp and my supper were brought me by a very nervous maid.

The next day I was in a raging fever. My mother arrived in the evening and to her I confessed. I was forgiven, taken home, and not sent to another boarding school.

Sending children to boarding schools is an admission of incapacity made by a great many parents who are too lazy or ignorant to superintend the early years of a child’s up-bringing; or else it is done in vanity as the proper thing.

There are possibly good boarding schools where children are better than they would be at home, but I never knew one. The only good reason for sending the young to be cared for by strangers is when the home for some reason is not a fit place. No doubt a good boarding school is better than a bad home; but no boarding school is as good as a good home and wise parents. Girls brought up in fashionable schools are notoriously ignorant and useless.

One pleasant memory remains to me of the Canon’s school. It is that of a little girl with blue eyes, golden hair, red pouty lips and blunt nose. She was a day scholar from the village, where her father kept a general store. I never had much opportunity to speak to her, and she was very shy when I did; yet it was a pleasure just to look at her. When the Canon frightened her by shouting and pounding his desk with his large hard hand I was maddened to the fury point. She was a gentle little creature, truthful, believing and good-hearted; a thing so little understood by the Canon that he called her “Little Blockhead.” When I was robbed of my meals, which frequently happened as punishment for some fault, “Little Blockhead” would bring me biscuits on the sly. Whether the Canon made me forego meals wholly as a punishment for my misdeeds, or partly in delight to torture me and save victuals, I cannot say. But for whatever cause it was, I really did not mind it, and sometimes even looked forward to it so that “Little Blockhead” could feed me from her pocket.

During the miserable days at the Canon’s my little brother died suddenly without giving me a last sweet hug and kiss. He was ten years younger than me to a day, having been born on my tenth birthday. This was the first real sorrow to leave its mark upon me. I loved that brother more than anything or anybody. I had taught him his first words, mended his playthings, and been his play-horse, his cow, his dog—anything he desired me to be. When I was at home, it was to me he always came first thing in the early morning, crawling into my bed to start the day’s play, and every word of his lisping, indistinct prattle stuck in my mind.

I was brought home by an old friend of my father’s, who came for me with the message that my little brother was seriously ill. On looking into the old man’s face, I was not deceived, and knew at once that my little friend was dead. But I said nothing. I did not weep or wail. I could not.

When we were seated beside each other on the train, and I said to him, “Chuckie is dead!” he did not reply. He merely nodded his head, and I rode silently home without a word or a tear. I wished to weep, but could not. Even when I arrived home and my mother kissed me I remained dry-eyed, but my misery was very real. It hurt me so much my breath came short and painful.

Then we went through the ghastly meaningless mummery and pomp of the funeral. Even then I disliked our foolish display in burying our dead. Since that day I have buried my own dead; but it was always done silently, privately, quickly, without display, without pomp and without advertisement. To me death is a thing to be put behind you. When loved ones die, there is nothing to be done or said. It is over. First bury them, then get occupied with the affairs of the living, being careful in your conduct that you make as few mistakes as may be; so that when another goes away you may have no memories of actions or words to cause self-reproach.