The Making Of A Novelist: An Experiment In AutobiographyMurray, David Christie
General
The Making Of A Novelist: An Experiment In Autobiography
Murray, David Christie
Murray, David Christie, 1847-1907; Novelists, English -- 19th century -- Biography
He was a pale-faced man, with a slight lisp; and the men despised
him because he had not the nerve even to handle them on church parade
without priming himself beforehand. I had been vaccinated by virtue of a
general order, and in a while my arm became swollen and very painful.
I stuck to duty as long as I could, and at last presented myself on
hospital parade to ask to be excused. The doctor, for some reason, was
absent, and, failing his order, I was compelled to join the ride in the
_manège_. It was a beastly morning, and the field was a mere bog. We
were splashed to the very buttons of our forage-caps, and the horses
were loaded with mud to the flaps of the saddles. I was tired and faint
enough before the ride was over, but my poor beast had to be groomed on
the return to stables, and I must needs set to work upon him. It was all
no good. I might as well have tried to carry him as to groom him, and I
represented my case to a non-commissioned officer, who straightway ran
me in. I passed the night in the guardroom, chilled and wet, and now
and then light-headed. Had I been at head-quarters the colonel would
undoubtedly have sent me to the infirmary, which was the proper place
for me. The lisping captain sent me to the cells.
'Ma-an,' he said, in a drawl which half the regiment used to loathe and
imitate, 'what have you to tha-ay?'
I explained my case, and whilst I did so he read something which lay on
the table before him. When I had done he said, with his finicking lisp,
'Seven days' cells, hard labour.' The old regimental sergeant happened
to be there, and for an instant arrested judgment.
'I beg your pardon, sir, the man is really unfit to perform hard
labour.'
'Then,' said the Solon, 'in that case let him have forty-eight hours'
solitary confinement.'
I ventured as respectfully as I could to protest. I represented that it
was hardly just to punish a man for not performing a heavy physical task
whilst admitting in the very terms of the sentence that he was unfit to
do it. The answer was, 'Right about face, march!' I went to cells. I had
my hair cut, and I spent thirty-six delirious hours alone. At the end
of that time my condition was reported and I was removed; but from
that hour I was sullen and rebellious, and whatever spirit of order and
discipline might have lived in me until then vanished completely.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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