Chapter 14

'Forsyth Sahib's regiment was once the old Forty-sixth Pathans which was called--' the Subadar-Major gave the almost forgotten title, adding that he had met them in such and such campaigns, when Forsyth Sahib was a young captain.

The Havildar-Major took up the tale, saying, 'The eldest knew that also, my father. He laughed, and presently Forsyth Sahib laughed.

'"It is true," said Forsyth Sahib. "I have no regiment. For twenty years I have been a clerk tied to a thick pen. Therefore I am the more fit to be your orderly and messenger in this business."

'The eldest then said, "If it were a matter of my life or the honour of _any_ of my household, it would be easy." And Forsyth Sahib joined his hands together, half laughing, though he was ready to weep, and he said, "Enough! I ask pardon. Which one of you goes with the offering?"

'The eldest said, feigning not to have heard, "Nor must they be delivered by a single sword--as though we were pressed for men in His service," and they saluted and went out.'

'Were these things seen, or were they told thee?' said the Subadar-Major.

'I both saw and heard in the office full of books and papers where my Colonel Sahib consulted Forsyth Sahib upon the business that had brought my Colonel Sahib to England.'

'And what was that business?' the Regimental Chaplain asked of a sudden, looking full at the Havildar-Major, who returned the look without a quiver.

'That was not revealed to me,' said the Havildar-Major.

'I heard it might have been some matter touching the integrity of certain regiments,' the Chaplain insisted.

'The matter was not in any way open to my ears,' said the Havildar-Major.

'Humph!' The Chaplain drew his hard road-worn feet under his robe. 'Let us hear the tale that it is permitted thee to tell,' he said, and the Havildar-Major went on:

'So then the three, having returned to the Temple, called the fourth, who had only forty-five years, when he came off guard, and said, "We go to the Palace at Wanidza with the offerings. Remain thou in the Presence, and take all our guards, one after the other, till we return."

'Within that next hour they hired a large and strong _mota-kahar_ for the journey from the Temple to Wanidza, which is twenty _koss_ or more, and they promised expedition. But he who took their guards said, "It is not seemly that we should for any cause appear to be in haste. There are eighteen medals with eleven clasps and three Orders to consider. Go at leisure. I can endure."

'So the three with the offerings were absent three hours and a half, and having delivered the offering at Wanidza in the correct manner they returned and found the lad on guard, and they did not break his guard till his full hour was ended. So _he_ endured four hours in the Presence, not stirring one hair, his eyes abased, and the river of feet, from the knee down, passing continually before his eyes. When he was relieved, it was seen that his eyeballs worked like weavers' shuttles.

'And so it was done--not in hot blood, not for a little while, nor yet with the smell of slaughter and the noise of shouting to sustain, but in silence, for a very long time, rooted to one place before the Presence among the most terrible feet of the multitude.'

'Correct!' the Chaplain chuckled.

'But the Goorkhas had the honour,' said the Subadar-Major sadly.

'Theirs was the Honour of His Armies in Hind, and that was Our Honour,' the nephew replied.

'Yet I would one Sikh had been concerned in it--even one low-caste Sikh. And after?'

'They endured the burden until the end--until It went out of the Temple to be laid among the older kings at Wanidza. When all was accomplished and It was withdrawn under the earth, Forsyth Sahib said to the four, "The King gives command that you be fed here on meat cooked by your own cooks. Eat and take ease, my fathers."

'So they loosed their belts and ate. They had not eaten food except by snatches for some long time; and when the meat had given them strength they slept for very many hours; and it was told me that the procession of the unendurable feet ceased to pass before their eyes any more.'

He threw out one hand palm upward to show that the tale was ended.

'We came well and cleanly out of it,' said the Subadar-Major.

'Correct! Correct! Correct!' said the Regimental Chaplain. 'In an evil age it is good to hear such things, and there is certainly no doubt that this is a very evil age.'

JOBSON'S AMEN

'Blessed be the English and all their ways and works. Cursed be the Infidels, Hereticks, and Turks!' 'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I used to lie Was neither Candle, Bell nor Book to curse my brethren by:

'But a palm-tree in full bearing, bowing down, bowing down, To a surf that drove unsparing at the brown-walled town-- Conches in a temple, oil-lamps in a dome-- And a low moon out of Africa said: "This way home!"'

'Blessed be the English and all that they profess. Cursed be the Savages that prance in nakedness!' 'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I used to lie Was neither shirt nor pantaloons to catch my brethren by:

'But a well-wheel slowly creaking, going round, going round, By a water-channel leaking over drowned, warm ground-- Parrots very busy in the trellised pepper-vine-- And a high sun over Asia shouting: "Rise and shine!"'

'Blessed be the English and everything they own. Cursed be the Infidels that bow to wood and stone!' 'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I used to lie Was neither pew nor Gospelleer to save my brethren by:

'But a desert stretched and stricken, left and right, left and right, Where the piled mirages thicken under white-hot light-- A skull beneath a sand-hill and a viper coiled inside-- And a red wind out of Libya roaring: "Run and hide!"'

'Blessed be the English and all they make or do. Cursed be the Hereticks who doubt that this is true!' 'Amen,' quo' Jobson, 'but where I mean to die Is neither rule nor calliper to judge the matter by:

'But Himalaya heavenward-heading, sheer and vast, sheer and vast, In a million summits bedding on the last world's past; A certain sacred mountain where the scented cedars climb, And--the feet of my Beloved hurrying back through Time!'

REGULUS

(1917)

_Regulus, a Roman general, defeated the Carthaginians 256 B.C., but was next year defeated and taken prisoner by the Carthaginians, who sent him to Rome with an embassy to ask for peace or an exchange of prisoners. Regulus strongly advised the Roman Senate to make no terms with the enemy. He then returned to Carthage and was put to death._

The Fifth Form had been dragged several times in its collective life, from one end of the school Horace to the other. Those were the years when Army examiners gave thousands of marks for Latin, and it was Mr. King's hated business to defeat them.

Hear him, then, on a raw November morning at second lesson.

'Aha!' he began, rubbing his hands. '_Cras ingens iterabimus aequor._ Our portion to-day is the Fifth Ode of the Third Book, I believe--concerning one Regulus, a gentleman. And how often have we been through it?'

'Twice, sir,' said Malpass, head of the Form.

Mr. King shuddered. 'Yes, twice, quite literally,' he said. 'To-day, with an eye to your Army _viva-voce_ examinations--ugh!--I shall exact somewhat freer and more florid renditions. With feeling and comprehension if that be possible. I except'--here his eye swept the back benches--'our friend and companion Beetle, from whom, now as always, I demand an absolutely literal translation.' The form laughed subserviently.

'Spare his blushes! Beetle charms us first.'

Beetle stood up, confident in the possession of a guaranteed construe, left behind by M'Turk, who had that day gone into the sick-house with a cold. Yet he was too wary a hand to show confidence.

'_Credidimus_, we--believe--we have believed,' he opened in hesitating slow time, '_tonantem Joven_, thundering Jove--_regnare_, to reign--_caelo_, in heaven. _Augustus_, Augustus--_habebitur_, will be held or considered--_praesens divus_, a present God--_adjectis Britannis_, the Britons being added--_imperio_, to the Empire--_gravibusque Persis_, with the heavy--er, stern Persians.'

'What?'

'The grave or stern Persians.' Beetle pulled up with the 'Thank-God-I-have-done-my-duty' air of Nelson in the cockpit.

'I am quite aware,' said King, 'that the first stanza is about the extent of your knowledge, but continue, sweet one, continue. _Gravibus_, by the way, is usually translated as "troublesome."'

Beetle drew a long and tortured breath. The second stanza (which carries over to the third) of that Ode is what is technically called a 'stinker.' But M'Turk had done him handsomely.

'_Milesne Crassi_, had--has the soldier of Crassus--_vixit_, lived--_turpis maritus_, a disgraceful husband--'

'You slurred the quantity of the word after _turpis_,' said King. 'Let's hear it.'

Beetle guessed again, and for a wonder hit the correct quantity. 'Er--a disgraceful husband--_conjuge barbara_, with a barbarous spouse.'

'Why do you select _that_ disgustful equivalent out of all the dictionary?' King snapped. 'Isn't "wife" good enough for you?'

'Yes, sir. But what do I do about this bracket, sir? Shall I take it now?'

'Confine yourself at present to the soldier of Crassus.'

'Yes, sir. _Et_, and--_consenuit_, has he grown old--_in armis_, in the--er--arms--_hositum socerorum_, of his father-in-law's enemies.'

'Who? How? Which?'

'Arms of his enemies' fathers-in-law, sir.'

'Tha-anks. By the way, what meaning might you attach to _in armis_?'

'Oh, weapons--weapons of war, sir.' There was a virginal note in Beetle's voice as though he had been falsely accused of uttering indecencies. 'Shall I take the bracket now, sir?'

'Since it seems to be troubling you.'

'_Pro Curia_, O for the Senate House--_inversique mores_, and manners upset--upside down.'

'Ve-ry like your translation. Meantime, the soldier of Crassus?'

'_Sub rege Medo_, under a Median King--_Marsus et Apulus_, he being a Marsian and an Apulian.'

'Who? The Median King?'

'No, sir. The soldier of Crassus. _Oblittus_ agrees with _milesne Crassi_, sir,' volunteered too-hasty Beetle.

'Does it? It doesn't with _me_.'

'_Oh-blight-us_,' Beetle corrected hastily, 'forgetful--_anciliorum_, of the shields, or trophies--_et nominis_, and the--his name--_et togae_, and the toga--_eternaeque Vestae_, and eternal Vesta--_incolumi Jove_, Jove being safe--_et urbe Roma_, and the Roman city.' With an air of hardly restrained zeal--'Shall I go on, sir?'

Mr. King winced. 'No, thank you. You have indeed given us a translation! May I ask if it conveys any meaning whatever to your so-called mind?'

'Oh, I think so, sir.' This with gentle toleration for Horace and all his works.

'We envy you. Sit down.'

Beetle sat down relieved, well knowing that a reef of uncharted genitives stretched ahead of him, on which in spite of M'Turk's sailing-directions he would infallibly have been wrecked.

Rattray, who took up the task, steered neatly through them and came unscathed to port.

'Here we require drama,' said King. 'Regulus himself is speaking now. Who shall represent the provident-minded Regulus? Winton, will you kindly oblige?'

Winton of King's House, a long, heavy, tow-headed Second Fifteen forward, overdue for his First Fifteen colours, and in aspect like an earnest, elderly horse, rose up, and announced, among other things, that he had seen 'signs affixed to Punic deluges.' Half the Form shouted for joy, and the other half for joy that there was something to shout about.

Mr. King opened and shut his eyes with great swiftness. '_Signa adfixa delubris_,' he gasped. 'So _delubris_ is "deluges" is it? Winton, in all our dealings, have I ever suspected you of a jest?'

'No, sir,' said the rigid and angular Winton, while the Form rocked about him.

'And yet you assert _delubris_ means "deluges." Whether I am a fit subject for such a jape is, of course, a matter of opinion, but.... Winton, you are normally conscientious. May we assume you looked out _delubris_?'

'No, sir.' Winton was privileged to speak that truth dangerous to all who stand before Kings.

''Made a shot at it then?'

Every line of Winton's body showed he had done nothing of the sort. Indeed, the very idea that 'Pater' Winton (and a boy is not called 'Pater' by companions for his frivolity) would make a shot at anything was beyond belief. But he replied, 'Yes,' and all the while worked with his right heel as though he were heeling a ball at punt-about.

Though none dared to boast of being a favourite with King, the taciturn, three-cornered Winton stood high in his House-Master's opinion. It seemed to save him neither rebuke nor punishment, but the two were in some fashion sympathetic.

'Hm!' said King drily. 'I was going to say--_Flagito additis damnum_, but I think--I think I see the process. Beetle, the translation of _delubris_, please.'

Beetle raised his head from his shaking arm long enough to answer: 'Ruins, sir.'

There was an impressive pause while King checked off crimes on his fingers. Then to Beetle the much-enduring man addressed winged words:

'Guessing,' said he. 'Guessing, Beetle, as usual, from the look of _delubris_ that it bore some relation to _diluvium_ or deluge, you imparted the result of your half-baked lucubrations to Winton who seems to have been lost enough to have accepted it. Observing next, your companion's fall, from the presumed security of your undistinguished position in the rear-guard, you took another pot-shot. The turbid chaos of your mind threw up some memory of the word "dilapidations" which you have pitifully attempted to disguise under the synonym of "ruins."'

As this was precisely what Beetle had done he looked hurt but forgiving. 'We will attend to this later,' said King. 'Go on, Winton, and retrieve yourself.'

_Delubris_ happened to be the one word which Winton had not looked out and had asked Beetle for, when they were settling into their places. He forged ahead with no further trouble. Only when he rendered _scilicet_ as 'forsooth,' King erupted.

'Regulus,' he said, 'was not a leader-writer for the penny press, nor, for that matter, was Horace. Regulus says: "The soldier ransomed by gold will come keener for the fight--will he by--by gum!" _That's_ the meaning of _scilicet_. It indicates contempt--bitter contempt. "Forsooth," forsooth! You'll be talking about "speckled beauties" and "eventually transpire" next. Howell, what do you make of that doubled "Vidi ego--ego vidi"? It wasn't put in to fill up the metre, you know.'

'Isn't it intensive, sir?' said Howell, afflicted by a genuine interest in what he read. 'Regulus was a bit in earnest about Rome making no terms with Carthage--and he wanted to let the Romans understand it, didn't he, sir?'

'Less than your usual grace, but the fact. Regulus _was_ in earnest. He was also engaged at the same time in cutting his own throat with every word he uttered. He knew Carthage which (your examiners won't ask you this so you needn't take notes) was a sort of God-forsaken nigger Manchester. Regulus was not thinking about his own life. He was telling Rome the truth. He was playing for his side. Those lines from the eighteenth to the fortieth ought to be written in blood. Yet there are things in human garments which will tell you that Horace was a flâneur--a man about town. Avoid such beings. Horace knew a very great deal. _He_ knew! _Erit ille fortis_--"will he be brave who once to faithless foes has knelt?" And again (stop pawing with your hooves, Thornton!) _hic unde vitam sumeret inscius_. That means roughly--but I perceive I am ahead of my translators. Begin at _hic unde_, Vernon, and let us see if you have the spirit of Regulus.'

Now no one expected fireworks from gentle Paddy Vernon, sub-prefect of Hartopp's House, but, as must often be the case with growing boys, his mind was in abeyance for the time being, and he said, all in a rush, on behalf of Regulus: '_O magna Carthago probrosis altior Italiae ruinis_, O Carthage, thou wilt stand forth higher than the ruins of Italy.'

Even Beetle, most lenient of critics, was interested at this point, though he did not join the half-groan of reprobation from the wiser heads of the Form.

'_Please_ don't mind me,' said King, and Vernon very kindly did not. He ploughed on thus: 'He (Regulus) is related to have removed from himself the kiss of the shameful wife and of his small children as less by the head, and, being stern, to have placed his virile visage on the ground.'

Since King loved 'virile' about as much as he did 'spouse' or 'forsooth' the Form looked up hopefully. But Jove thundered not.

'Until,' Vernon continued, 'he should have confirmed the sliding fathers as being the author of counsel never given under an alias.'

He stopped, conscious of stillness round him like the dread calm of the typhoon's centre. King's opening voice was sweeter than honey.

'I am painfully aware by bitter experience that I cannot give you any idea of the passion, the power, the--the essential guts of the lines which you have so foully outraged in our presence. But--' the note changed, 'so far as in me lies, I will strive to bring home to you, Vernon, the fact that there exist in Latin a few pitiful rules of grammar, of syntax, nay, even of declension, which were not created for your incult sport--your Boeotian diversion. You will, therefore, Vernon, write out and bring to me to-morrow a word-for-word English-Latin translation of the Ode, together with a full list of all adjectives--an adjective is not a verb, Vernon, as the Lower Third will tell you--all adjectives, their number, case, and gender. Even now I haven't begun to deal with you faithfully.'

'I--I'm very sorry, sir,' Vernon stammered.

'You mistake the symptoms, Vernon. You are possibly discomfited by the imposition, but sorrow postulates some sort of mind, intellect, _nous_. Your rendering of _probrosis_ alone stamps you as lower than the beasts of the field. Will some one take the taste out of our mouths? And--talking of tastes--' He coughed. There was a distinct flavour of chlorine gas in the air. Up went an eyebrow, though King knew perfectly well what it meant.

'Mr. Hartopp's st--science class next door,' said Malpass.

'Oh yes. I had forgotten. Our newly established Modern Side, of course. Perowne, open the windows; and Winton, go on once more from _interque maerentes_.'

'And hastened away,' said Winton, 'surrounded by his mourning friends, into--into illustrious banishment. But I got that out of Conington, sir,' he added in one conscientious breath.

'I am aware. The master generally knows his ass's crib, though I acquit _you_ of any intention that way. Can you suggest anything for _egregius exul_? Only "egregious exile"? I fear "egregious" is a good word ruined. No! You can't in this case improve on Conington. Now then for _atqui sciebat quae sibi barbarus tortor pararet_. The whole force of it lies in the _atqui_.'

'Although he knew,' Winton suggested.

'Stronger than that, I think.'

'He who knew well,' Malpass interpolated.

'Ye-es. "Well though he knew." I don't like Conington's "well-witting." It's Wardour Street.'

'Well though he knew what the savage torturer was--was getting ready for him,' said Winton.

'Ye-es. Had in store for him.'

'Yet he brushed aside his kinsmen and the people delaying his return.'

'Ye-es; but then how do you render _obstantes_?'

'If it's a free translation mightn't _obstantes_ and _morantem_ come to about the same thing, sir?'

'Nothing comes to "about the same thing" with Horace, Winton. As I have said, Horace was not a journalist. No, I take it that his kinsmen bodily withstood his departure, whereas the crowd--_populumque_--the democracy stood about futilely pitying him and getting in the way. Now for that noblest of endings--_quam si clientum_,' and King ran off into the quotation:

'As though some tedious business o'er Of clients' court, his journey lay Towards Venafrum's grassy floor Or Sparta-built Tarentum's bay.

All right, Winton. Beetle, when you've quite finished dodging the fresh air yonder, give me the meaning of _tendens_--and turn down your collar.'

'Me, sir? _Tendens_, sir? Oh! Stretching away in the direction of, sir.'

'Idiot! Regulus was not a feature of the landscape. He was a man, self-doomed to death by torture. _Atqui, sciebat_--knowing it--having achieved it for his country's sake--can't you hear that _atqui_ cut like a knife?--he moved off with some dignity. That is why Horace out of the whole golden Latin tongue chose the one word "tendens"--which is utterly untranslatable.'

The gross injustice of being asked to translate it, converted Beetle into a young Christian martyr, till King buried his nose in his handkerchief again.

'I think they've broken another gas-bottle next door, sir,' said Howell. 'They're always doing it.' The Form coughed as more chlorine came in.

'Well, I suppose we must be patient with the Modern Side,' said King. 'But it is almost insupportable for this Side. Vernon, what are you grinning at?'

Vernon's mind had returned to him glowing and inspired. He chuckled as he underlined his Horace.

'It appears to amuse you,' said King. 'Let us participate. What is it?'

'The last two lines of the Tenth Ode, in this book, sir,' was Vernon's amazing reply.

'What? Oh, I see. _Non hoc semper erit liminis aut aquae caelestis patiens latus_[2].' King's mouth twitched to hide a grin. 'Was that done with intention?'

[Footnote 2: 'This side will not always be patient of rain and waiting on the threshold.']

'I--I thought it fitted, sir.'

'It does. It's distinctly happy. What put it into your thick head, Paddy?'

'I don't know, sir, except we did the Ode last term.'

'And you remembered? The same head that minted _probrosis_ as a verb! Vernon, you are an enigma. No! This Side will _not_ always be patient of unheavenly gases and waters. I will make representations to our so-called Moderns. Meantime (who shall say I am not just?) I remit you your accrued pains and penalties in regard to _probrosim, probrosis, probrosit_ and other enormities. I oughtn't to do it, but this Side is occasionally human. By no means bad, Paddy.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Vernon, wondering how inspiration had visited him.

Then King, with a few brisk remarks about Science, headed them back to Regulus, of whom and of Horace and Rome and evil-minded commercial Carthage and of the democracy eternally futile, he explained, in all ages and climes, he spoke for ten minutes; passing thence to the next Ode--_Delicta Majorum_--where he fetched up, full-voiced, upon--'_Dis te minorem quod geris imperas_' (Thou rulest because thou bearest thyself as lower than the Gods)--making it a text for a discourse on manners, morals, and respect for authority as distinct from bottled gases, which lasted till the bell rang. Then Beetle, concertinaing his books, observed to Winton, 'When King's really on tap he's an interestin' dog. Hartopp's chlorine uncorked him.'

'Yes; but why did you tell me _delubris_ was "deluges," you silly ass?' said Winton.

'Well, that uncorked him too. Look out, you hoof-handed old owl!' Winton had cleared for action as the Form poured out like puppies at play and was scragging Beetle. Stalky from behind collared Winton low. The three fell in confusion.

'_Dis te minorem quod geris imperas_,' quoth Stalky, ruffling Winton's lint-white locks. 'Mustn't jape with Number Five study. Don't be too virtuous. Don't brood over it. 'Twon't count against you in your future caree-ah. Cheer up, Pater.'

'Pull him off my--er--essential guts, will you?' said Beetle from beneath. 'He's squashin' 'em.'

They dispersed to their studies.

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