I think my hatred of bells dated back to my early childhood, when the
village church, having only three bells, played the first bar of
"Three Blind Mice" a million times every Sunday evening, till I could
have cried for monotony and the vexation of the thwarted tune. But at
school I had to pay the penalty for my prejudice every hour of the
day. Especially I suffered at night during preparation, when they
rang the curfew on the church bells at intolerable length, for these
were tranquil hours to which I looked forward eagerly. We prepared
our lessons for the morrow in the Great Hall, and I would spread my
books out on the desk and let my legs dangle from the form in a
spirit of contentment for the troubled day happily past. Over my head
the gas stars burned quietly, and all about me I heard the restrained
breathing of comrades, like a noise of fluttering moths. And then,
suddenly, the first stroke of the curfew would snarl through the air,
filling the roof with nasal echoes, and troubling the quietude of my
mind with insistent vibrations. I derived small satisfaction from
cursing William the Conqueror, who, the history book told me, was
responsible for this ingenious tyranny. The long pauses between the
strokes held me in a state of strained expectancy until I wanted to
howl. I would look about me for sympathy and see the boys at their
lessons, and the master on duty reading quietly at his table. The
curfew rang every night, and they did not notice it at all.
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