He was a German, and as is the case with
others of his nationality, a spray of saliva flew from his lips when
he was angry, and seeing this, I would edge away from him in alarm.
Perhaps it was on this account that he treated me with systematic
unfairness and set himself the unnecessary task of making me
ridiculous in the eyes of the other boys. One night I was wandering
in the playground and heard him playing the violin in his study. My
taste in music was barbarian; I liked comic songs, which I used to
sing to myself in a lugubrious voice, and in London the plaintive
clamour of the street-organs had helped to make my sorrows
rhythmical. But now, perhaps for the first time, I became aware of
the illimitable melancholy that lies at the heart of all great
music. It seemed to me that the German master, the man whom I hated,
had shut himself up alone in his study, and was crying aloud. I knew
that if he was unhappy, it must be because he too was an Ishmael, a
personality, one of the different ones. A great sympathy woke within
me, and I peeped through the window and saw him playing with his
face all shiny with perspiration and a silk handkerchief tucked
under his chin. I would have liked to have knocked at his door and
told him that I knew all about these things, but I was afraid that
he would think me cheeky and splutter in my face.
The next day in his class, I looked at him hopefully, in the light
of my new understanding, but it did not seem to make any difference.
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