I have always thought it a better fate for a man to be born a bowler than a bat. A batsman certainly gets a considerable amount of innocent fun by snicking good fast balls just off his wicket to the ropes, and standing stolidly in front against slow leg-breaks. These things are good, and help one to sleep peacefully o’ nights, and enjoy one’s meals. But no batsman can experience that supreme emotion of ‘something attempted, something done’, which comes to a bowler when a ball pitches in a hole near point’s feet, and whips into the leg stump. It is one crowded second of glorious life. Again, the words ‘retired hurt’ on the score-sheet are far more pleasant to the bowler than the batsman. The groan of a batsman when a loose ball hits him full pitch in the ribs is genuine. But the ‘Awfully-sorry-old-chap-it-slipped’ of the bowler is not. Half a loaf is better than no bread, as Mr Chamberlain might say, and if he cannot hit the wicket, he is perfectly contented with hitting the man. In my opinion, therefore, the bowler’s lot, in spite of billiard table wickets, red marl, and such like inventions of a degenerate age, is the happier one.
And here, glowing with pride of originality at the thought that I have written of cricket without mentioning Alfred Mynn or Fuller Pilch, I heave a reminiscent sigh, blot my MS., and thrust my pen back into its sheath.
[16]
THE TOM BROWN QUESTION
The man in the corner had been trying to worry me into a conversation for some time. He had asked me if I objected to having the window open. He had said something rather bitter about the War Office, and had hoped I did not object to smoking. Then, finding that I stuck to my book through everything, he made a fresh attack.
‘I see you are reading Tom Brown’s Schooldays,’ he said.
This was a plain and uninteresting statement of fact, and appeared to me to require no answer. I read on.
‘Fine book, sir.’
‘Very.’
‘I suppose you have heard of the Tom Brown Question?’
I shut my book wearily, and said I had not.
‘It is similar to the Homeric Question. You have heard of that, I suppose?’
I knew that there was a discussion about the identity of the author of the Iliad. When at school I had been made to take down notes on the subject until I had grown to loathe the very name of Homer.
‘You see,’ went on my companion, ‘the difficulty about Tom Brown’s Schooldays is this. It is obvious that part one and part two were written by different people. You admit that, I suppose?’
‘I always thought Mr Hughes wrote the whole book.’
‘Dear me, not really? Why, I thought everyone knew that he only wrote the first half. The question is, who wrote the second. I know, but I don’t suppose ten other people do. No, sir.’
‘What makes you think he didn’t write the second part?’
‘My dear sir, just read it. Read part one carefully, and then read part two. Why, you can see in a minute.’
I said I had read the book three times, but had never noticed anything peculiar about it, except that the second half was not nearly so interesting as the first.
‘Well, just tell me this. Do you think the same man created East and Arthur? Now then.’
I admitted that it was difficult to understand such a thing.
‘There was a time, of course,’ continued my friend, ‘when everybody thought as you do. The book was published under Hughes’s name, and it was not until Professor Burkett-Smith wrote his celebrated monograph on the subject that anybody suspected a dual, or rather a composite, authorship. Burkett-Smith, if you remember, based his arguments on two very significant points. The first of these was a comparison between the football match in the first part and the cricket match in the second. After commenting upon the truth of the former description, he went on to criticize the latter. Do you remember that match? You do? Very well. You recall how Tom wins the toss on a plumb wicket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then with the usual liberality of young hands (I quote from the book) he put the M.C.C. in first. Now, my dear sir, I ask you, would a school captain do that? I am young, says one of Gilbert’s characters, the Grand Duke, I think, but, he adds, I am not so young as that. Tom may have been young, but would he, could he have been young enough to put his opponents in on a true wicket, when he had won the toss? Would the Tom Brown of part one have done such a thing?’
‘Never,’ I shouted, with enthusiasm.
‘But that’s nothing to what he does afterwards. He permits, he actually sits there and permits, comic songs and speeches to be made during the luncheon interval. Comic Songs! Do you hear me, sir? COMIC SONGS!! And this when he wanted every minute of time he could get to save the match. Would the Tom Brown of part one have done such a thing?’
‘Never, never.’ I positively shrieked the words this time.
‘Burkett-Smith put that point very well. His second argument is founded on a single remark of Tom’s, or rather—’
‘Or rather,’ I interrupted, fiercely,’ or rather of the wretched miserable—’
‘Contemptible,’ said my friend.
‘Despicable, scoundrelly, impostor who masquerades as Tom in the second half of the book.’
‘Exactly,’ said he. ‘Thank you very much. I have often thought the same myself. The remark to which I refer is that which he makes to the master while he is looking on at the M.C.C. match. In passing, sir, might I ask you whether the Tom Brown of part one would have been on speaking terms with such a master?’
I shook my head violently. I was too exhausted to speak.
‘You remember the remark? The master commented on the fact that Arthur is a member of the first eleven. I forget Tom’s exact words, but the substance of them is this, that, though on his merits Arthur was not worth his place, he thought it would do him such a lot of good being in the team. Do I make myself plain, sir? He—thought—it—would—do— him—such—a—lot—of—good—being—in—the—team!!!’
There was a pause. We sat looking at one another, forming silently with our lips the words that still echoed through the carriage.
‘Burkett-Smith,’ continued my companion, ‘makes a great deal of that remark. His peroration is a very fine piece of composition. “Whether (concludes he) the captain of a school cricket team who could own spontaneously to having been guilty of so horrible, so terrible an act of favouritismical jobbery, who could sit unmoved and see his team being beaten in the most important match of the season (and, indeed, for all that the author tells us it may have been the only match of the season), for no other reason than that he thought a first eleven cap would prove a valuable tonic to an unspeakable personal friend of his, whether, I say, the Tom Brown who acted thus could have been the Tom Brown who headed the revolt of the fags in part one, is a question which, to the present writer, offers no difficulties. I await with confidence the verdict of a free, enlightened, and conscientious public of my fellow-countrymen.” Fine piece of writing, that, sir?’
‘Very,’ I said.
‘That pamphlet, of course, caused a considerable stir. Opposing parties began to be formed, some maintaining that Burkett-Smith was entirely right, others that he was entirely wrong, while the rest said he might have been more wrong if he had not been so right, but that if he had not been so mistaken he would probably have been a great deal more correct. The great argument put forward by the supporters of what I may call the “One Author” view, was, that the fight in part two could not have been written by anyone except the author of the fight with Flashman in the school-house hall. And this is the point which has led to all the discussion. Eliminate the Slogger Williams episode, and the whole of the second part stands out clearly as the work of another hand. But there is one thing that seems to have escaped the notice of everybody.’