The only bell I liked to hear was the last bell that called us to our
brief supper and to bed, for once the light was out and my body was
between the sheets I was free to do what I would, free to think or to
dream or to cry. There was no real difference between being in bed at
school or anywhere else; and sometimes I would fill the shadows of
the dormitory with the familiar furniture of my little bedroom at
home, and pretend that I was happy. But as a rule I came to bed
brimming over with the day's tears, and I would pull the bedclothes
over my head so that the other boys should not know that I was
homesick, and cry until I was sticky with tears and perspiration.
The discipline at school did not make us good boys, but it made us
civilised; it taught us to conceal our crimes. And as home-sickness
was justly regarded as a crime of ingratitude to the authorities and
to society in general, I had to restrain my physical weakness during
the day, and the reaction from this restraint made my tears at night
almost a luxury. My longing for home was founded on trifles, but it
was not the less passionate. I hated this life spent in walking on
bare boards, and the blank walls and polished forms of the school
appeared to me to be sordid. When now and again I went into one of
the master's studies and felt a carpet under my feet, and saw a
pleasant litter of pipes and novels lying on the table, it seemed to
me that I was in a holy place, and I looked at the hearthrug, the
wallpaper, and the upholstered chairs with a kind of desolate love
for things that were nice to see and touch.
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