19
THE BOY
So it was that, for the first time, he felt force used against his young body
— force, which he was to hate more than anything in this world his whole
life long. When he saw that he was the weaker, he submitted, dry eyed and
with clenched teeth.
On the journey those who had fetched him slept, but he sat alone, awake and upright, staring out of the window. The mountains receded, the countryside became flatter and flatter and his small heart became heavier and heavier. Was this the world? — It was not beautiful. On this long journey, the first of his new life, he took leave of the pure and unconscious happiness of his childhood and, without realizing it, began his struggle with Life. It was to be a long struggle. THE LARGE AND NOISY HOUSE which he now entered was strange to him, as were the people who lived in it: his step-brothers and step-sisters (the magistrate's children from his first marriage) who were already so grown up that they were preparing to leave; the magistrate's sister, a former lady-in- waiting, who kept house; and strangest of all was the man whom he was now supposed to call Father. They were to remain strange to him until four years later when, a child no longer, but now a youth of sixteen, he was allowed to turn his back on them. Everything here was different. Everything went its regulated and preordained course. Principles were what mattered, not Life. It was laid down precisely what was allowed and what was not; and the only yardstick was "respectability". The customs of society were the arbiter in all questions, and to go against them was a crime, indeed an impossibility. They lived well and securely on a large income, and superficially the boy was better off in every way than before. He was fed with foods he did not even know by name and wore clothes such as he had hardly ever seen. But none of this appealed to him. He had never before thought about what he ate, so long as his hunger was satisfied, and had never taken much interest in how he was dressed. He had been able to come home to his mother with a hole in his sleeve and never receive more than a gentle reproof. Now he had to treat his suits like heirlooms and protect them carefully from wear and tear. In the house by the lake the meals had been frugal and the ceilings low, but he had always had enough to eat. The meals had been seasoned with joy and happiness, and the small room had become a mansion, peopled by tales of fantasy. Here he was compelled to sit stiff and silent at the end of the long board, was allowed to speak only when spoken to; and the food stuck in his |