Girton College (University of Cambridge) -- Fiction; Women college students -- Fiction
As a four-foot high boy, with shrewd observant Scottish eyes, with
a Scottish mind already beginning to hold its own ideas as to the
universe, he was sent, through the reluctant generosity of an uncle, to
a London public school. In those days sanitary and social reforms for
overtaxed city schoolboys were still inchoate. Each boy must look after
himself, make personal acquaintance with facts, with the cut and thrust
of human circumstance, take his recreation on the London pavements,
sink or swim as he listed.
Geoffrey Arbuthnot, before he was ten had made acquaintance with a
great many facts, all hard ones. He had no pocket-money, no tips.
His holidays had to be paid for out of the same reluctant uncle’s
purse--father and mother sleeping in a Perthshire kirkyard ere Geff
could well remember aught--and were enjoyed under the roof of such
persons as endure homeless schoolboys, on systems of rigid economy, as
a business.
Hard-working to excess, perhaps because in work he found a friend,
pushed into dead-language grooves because the masters sought to keep up
the dead-language reputation of the school, Geoffrey Arbuthnot awoke
one morning at the age of eighteen a fine classic. He was sent up to
compete for a Cambridge scholarship, won it, and, true to tradition,
began reading, his heart warmed by the unwonted feeling of success, for
his Classical Tripos.
Considering that every aptitude he possessed lay in an opposite
direction to classical study, one can scarcely look on the nine
Cambridge terms that followed as fortunate. The square man did his best
to fill the round hole faithfully, his own squareness decreased not.
And then, in the midst of this Greek and Latin epoch, came his love
affairs--I retract the plural: his one overwhelming passion, ardent,
pure as was ever love felt by man for woman; a passion which paled,
ere he could well grasp it, into shadow, and which still--yes, in the
Guernsey sunshine of this June day--rendered his happiness paradoxical,
just at the age when happiness should be fullest, most complete.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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