Saturday, November 24, 2012
I have to admit that I was rather reluctant to post these here at first, as my instructor Herman Bagstock could have probably sued me for libel if he found these. However, he's very fortunately dead, so this can go on the internet and I don't have to worry about a thing.
This is the first of a series of stories I wrote when I was a schoolboy at Eton. They've been dubbed 'the Dirty Schoolboy Papers' because they're extremely inappropriate because when you're around that age you think that sort of thing is hilarious.
All names, including the surnames of my friends, have been changed because when I wrote this I didn't want to get in trouble.
I remember the first time I
saw Mr. Bigsby. That, I must inform you before continuing, is not his real
name, of course, for I should think he would be rather embarrassed if I used
his actual one. To be honest with you, dear reader, I really would not care if
I embarrassed Mr. Bigsby, for he certainly deserves to be embarrassed. I merely
fear the legal repercussions that might ensue if I were to write this
scandalous exposure using the real names of all of the players involved.
Mr. Bigsby teaches students
at Eton College, where he fancies himself to be an Emperor on par with
Caligula. I say Caligula because he happens to be a bit touched in the head and
because of his sheer tyranny. I would have compared old Bigsby to Sulla, but he
has been carrying on a less-than-clandestine affair with a mare for many years
now. Sulla, as far as my history books know, never allowed the equine species
to move up through the government in exchange for sexual favours. Therefore,
Bigsby became known to us at school as Mr. Caligula due to his bias towards his
horse. The way he acted around that horse was positively lewd, after all – he
rode her in public, and in front of all of the students! The way they would
parade on the school grounds was just positively vulgar.
But I am rambling here. I
apologize, dear reader – I must get back to my story now, for that is what you
wish to hear. Indeed, I was informing you of my very first meeting with the
man. If you would kindly permit me to tell you about it, I can provide you with
more details about the horse later.
I was a boy of thirteen[1]
when we first met. I was sitting at my desk in his classroom with my
classmates, and we were having a rather pleasant conversation about something
entirely irrelevant when he walked in. Actually, it was more of a trot than a
walk – his gait was positively equine, now that I reflect upon it. We all
stopped speaking amongst ourselves and gazed up at him expectantly, our large
round eyes fixed upon his long, flat face.
“Good morning, boys,” he said
at last, his voice very boring and monotonic. “My name is Mr. Bigsby, and I
will be your literature teacher.” He proceeded to inform us of what, exactly,
we would be doing in his class, but I only wrote down the important bits. I
cannot recall much of what he said due to his tone of voice, but I can clearly
remember my classmate William[2]
carving the words ‘throbbing organ’ into his desk with the metal tip of his
arithmetic compass. Somehow, at the time that was more important and memorable
to me.
At the end of his brief
lecture, an intrepid young man raised his hand. We all knew what to expect from
him, as he was the resident imbecile and asked tutors the most unintelligent
questions they had likely ever heard in their careers. None of us were ever
sure if they were serious questions or if they were merely asked to raise a
laugh. This one, however, was easily the worst of them all. He never topped
this inquiry.
“Mr. Bigsby, sir, one of the
upperclassmen told me you make love to your horse. Is that true?”
Mr. Bigsby first turned a pale
white, as if he had taken some arsenic, and then a rather delightful shade of
fuchsia that made the class laugh heartily. His answer, unfortunately for him,
only further served to humiliate him: “Make love to my horse? Nay! I should
never think of it!”
At this point, we all began
to regard him as being a bit on the unintelligent side. Surely someone who
taught students literature would know that ‘nay’ was a homonym of ‘neigh!’ He
was tall and imposing, however – I suppose one had to be to court someone like
Lady Cordelia – and he towered over the young boy. He grabbed him by the shirt
collar and proceeded to drag him out into the hall. We did not see that young
gentleman again for a week, and we suspected that his parents had fought to
rescue him from the horrific and dishonourable fate of expulsion. We did,
however, see Mr. Bigsby again moments after this scene. He re-entered the room,
his nostrils flaring with anger so that we could all see the little twisted
hairs inside. “How dare he say things like that about her! Let that be a lesson
to the rest of you,” he announced to the class, “to never insult myself or Lady
Cordelia in such a fashion.”
Lady Cordelia, whom I
mentioned in passing beforehand, was Mr. Bigsby’s beautiful, elegant mare who
carried herself as if she was the Queen of England. She quickly gave her name
to every courtesan and prostitute my classmates and I wrote stories about – if
the tale called for a fallen woman, she invariably became a former noblewoman
named Lady Cordelia who had recently fallen on hard times and desperately
needed some money. But I am getting carried away again.
We were surprisingly obedient
whenever we were in Mr. Bigsby’s class, which was likely because we did not
wish to be dragged down the hallway like our dear compatriot had been. Indeed,
we behaved very nicely for Mr. Bigsby, which was unusual given his actual lack
of authority and credibility. We pretended to laugh at his feeble attempts at
humour and tried to look interested during his lectures. William occasionally
got in trouble for his artistic talents; he would draw little images of Bigsby
in his notes and label them ‘Bellerophon.’ It was on more than one occasion
that Master Carson had to tear pages out of his notebook and mime throwing them
in the wastepaper basket in the corner of the room. He actually pocketed a
great majority of the drawings and shared them with us later. (William is now a
cartoonist working for Punch, so his talent is not being wasted.[3])
We were, I do believe, in awe of the man. Mr. Bigsby was a fascinating
individual – he was boring, yes, and strange and really quite hideous-looking,
but that only added to his allure. I suspect that it was the bestiality that
was interesting to us, as it was something we had never experienced before. A
man who was courageous enough to publicly display his undying love for his
horse deserved our unrequited admiration. Yes, I recall how fond we were of old
Bigsby, as questionable as his tastes in women were and despite how strict he
was. We loved the man – though not nearly as much as Lady Cordelia did, I can
assure you. The passion betwixt those two star-crossed lovers could have
inspired William Shakespeare to take up his pen one last time and scribble out
a play.[4]
There are those who believe that young love is the most beautiful sort, but at
Eton we learned otherwise. A middle-aged gentleman and his lovely lady friend
showed us that true love knows no age boundaries.
It does not understand
variation between species, either.
[1] Most
students start at Eton when they are twelve to thirteen, but I have a summer
birthday (July). That is why I was still thirteen in my second year at
boarding school.
[2] In the
story, I call him William Carson. His real name was William Conrad, of course.
[3] William
Conrad actually planned to be a Punch cartoonist, which is why I wrote
this. Although he became a stockbroker, he did go on to submit cartoons to
Punch occasionally.
[4]
Interestingly enough, about one year after the Dirty Schoolboy Papers were
written, William and I wrote a play concerning Bagstock and Countess
Adelaide. It was entitled ‘Much Ado About Neighthing’ and was billed as
‘Shakespeare’s long-lost 38th play.’ We did not
attempt to perform it until we were safe, however – namely, out of Eton and
at Oxford University.
0 comments:
Post a Comment