Tales of St. Austin's

by P. G. Wodehouse

  [12]

  THE PRIZE POEM

  Some quarter of a century before the period with which this storydeals, a certain rich and misanthropic man was seized with a brightidea for perpetuating his memory after death, and at the same timeharassing a certain section of mankind. So in his will he set aside aportion of his income to be spent on an annual prize for the best poemsubmitted by a member of the Sixth Form of St Austin's College, on asubject to be selected by the Headmaster. And, he added--one seems tohear him chuckling to himself--every member of the form must compete.Then he died. But the evil that men do lives after them, and each yearsaw a fresh band of unwilling bards goaded to despair by his bequest.True, there were always one or two who hailed this ready market fortheir sonnets and odes with joy. But the majority, being barely able torhyme 'dove' with 'love', regarded the annual announcement of thesubject chosen with feelings of the deepest disgust.

  The chains were thrown off after a period of twenty-seven years in thisfashion.

  Reynolds of the Remove was indirectly the cause of the change. He wasin the infirmary, convalescing after an attack of German measles, whenhe received a visit from Smith, an ornament of the Sixth.

  'By Jove,' remarked that gentleman, gazing enviously round thesick-room, 'they seem to do you pretty well here.'

  'Yes, not bad, is it? Take a seat. Anything been happening lately?'

  'Nothing much. I suppose you know we beat the M.C.C. by a wicket?'

  'Yes, so I heard. Anything else?'

  'Prize poem,' said Smith, without enthusiasm. He was not a poet.

  Reynolds became interested at once. If there was one role in which hefancied himself (and, indeed, there were a good many), it was that of aversifier. His great ambition was to see some of his lines in print,and he had contracted the habit of sending them up to variousperiodicals, with no result, so far, except the arrival of rejectedMSS. at meal-times in embarrassingly long envelopes. Which heblushingly concealed with all possible speed.

  'What's the subject this year?' he asked.

  'The College--of all idiotic things.'

  'Couldn't have a better subject for an ode. By Jove, I wish I was inthe Sixth.'

  'Wish I was in the infirmary,' said Smith.

  Reynolds was struck with an idea.

  'Look here, Smith,' he said, 'if you like I'll do you a poem, and youcan send it up. If it gets the prize--'

  'Oh, it won't get the prize,' Smith put in eagerly. 'Rogers is a cert.for that.'

  'If it gets the prize,' repeated Reynolds, with asperity, 'you'll haveto tell the Old Man all about it. He'll probably curse a bit, but thatcan't be helped. How's this for a beginning?

  "Imposing pile, reared up 'midst pleasant grounds, The scene of many a battle, lost or won, At cricket or at football; whose red walls Full many a sun has kissed 'ere day is done."'

  'Grand. Couldn't you get in something about the M.C.C. match? You couldmake cricket rhyme with wicket.' Smith sat entranced with hisingenuity, but the other treated so material a suggestion with scorn.

  'Well,' said Smith, 'I must be off now. We've got a House-match on.Thanks awfully about the poem.'

  Left to himself, Reynolds set himself seriously to the composing of anode that should do him justice. That is to say, he drew up a chair andtable to the open window, wrote down the lines he had already composed,and began chewing a pen. After a few minutes he wrote another fourlines, crossed them out, and selected a fresh piece of paper. He thencopied out his first four lines again. After eating his pen to a stump,he jotted down the two words 'boys' and 'joys' at the end of separatelines. This led him to select a third piece of paper, on which heproduced a sort of _edition de luxe_ in his best handwriting, withthe title 'Ode to the College' in printed letters at the top. He wasadmiring the neat effect of this when the door opened suddenly andviolently, and Mrs Lee, a lady of advanced years and energetic habits,whose duty it was to minister to the needs of the sick and wounded inthe infirmary, entered with his tea. Mrs Lee's method of entering aroom was in accordance with the advice of the Psalmist, where he says,'Fling wide the gates'. She flung wide the gate of the sick-room, andthe result was that what is commonly called 'a thorough draught' wasestablished. The air was thick with flying papers, and when calm atlength succeeded storm, two editions of 'Ode to the College' were lyingon the grass outside.

  Reynolds attacked the tea without attempting to retrieve his vanishedwork. Poetry is good, but tea is better. Besides, he argued withinhimself, he remembered all he had written, and could easily write itout again. So, as far as he was concerned, those three sheets of paperwere a closed book.

  Later on in the afternoon, Montgomery of the Sixth happened to bepassing by the infirmary, when Fate, aided by a sudden gust of wind,blew a piece of paper at him. 'Great Scott,' he observed, as his eyefell on the words 'Ode to the College'. Montgomery, like Smith, was noexpert in poetry. He had spent a wretched afternoon trying to hammerout something that would pass muster in the poem competition, butwithout the least success. There were four lines on the paper. Twomore, and it would be a poem, and capable of being entered for theprize as such. The words 'imposing pile', with which the fragment inhis hand began, took his fancy immensely. A poetic afflatus seized him,and in less than three hours he had added the necessary couplet,

  How truly sweet it is for such as me To gaze on thee.

  'And dashed neat, too,' he said, with satisfaction, as he threw themanuscript into his drawer. 'I don't know whether "me" shouldn't be"I", but they'll have to lump it. It's a poem, anyhow, within themeaning of the act.' And he strolled off to a neighbour's study toborrow a book.

  Two nights afterwards, Morrison, also of the Sixth, was enjoying hisusual during prep siesta in his study. A tap at the door roused him.Hastily seizing a lexicon, he assumed the attitude of the seeker afterknowledge, and said, 'Come in.' It was not the House-master, but Evans,Morrison's fag, who entered with pride on his face and a piece of paperin his hand.

  'I say,' he began, 'you remember you told me to hunt up some tags forthe poem. Will this do?'

  Morrison took the paper with a judicial air. On it were the words:

  Imposing pile, reared up 'midst pleasant grounds, The scene of many a battle, lost or won, At cricket or at football; whose red walls Full many a sun has kissed 'ere day is done.

  'That's ripping, as far as it goes,' said Morrison. 'Couldn't bebetter. You'll find some apples in that box. Better take a few. Butlook here,' with sudden suspicion, 'I don't believe you made all thisup yourself. Did you?'

  Evans finished selecting his apples before venturing on a reply. Thenhe blushed, as much as a member of the junior school is capable ofblushing.

  'Well,' he said, 'I didn't exactly. You see, you only told me to getthe tags. You didn't say how.'

  'But how did you get hold of this? Whose is it?'

  'Dunno. I found it in the field between the Pavilion and theinfirmary.'

  'Oh! well, it doesn't matter much. They're just what I wanted, which isthe great thing. Thanks. Shut the door, will you?' Whereupon Evansretired, the richer by many apples, and Morrison resumed his siesta atthe point where he had left off.

  'Got that poem done yet?' said Smith to Reynolds, pouring out a cup oftea for the invalid on the following Sunday.

  'Two lumps, please. No, not quite.'

  'Great Caesar, man, when'll it be ready, do you think? It's got to goin tomorrow.'

  'Well, I'm really frightfully sorry, but I got hold of a grand book.Ever read--?'

  'Isn't any of it done?' asked Smith.

  'Only the first verse, I'm afraid. But, look here, you aren't keen ongetting the prize. Why not send in only the one verse? It makes afairly decent poem.'

  'Hum! Think the Old 'Un'll pass it?'

  'He'll have to. There's nothing in the rules about length. Here it isif you want it.'

  'Thanks. I suppose it'll be all right? So long! I must be off.'

  The Headmaster, known to the world as
the Rev. Arthur James Perceval,M.A., and to the School as the Old 'Un, was sitting at breakfast,stirring his coffee, with a look of marked perplexity upon hisdignified face. This was not caused by the coffee, which was excellent,but by a letter which he held in his left hand.

  'Hum!' he said. Then 'Umph!' in a protesting tone, as if someone hadpinched him. Finally, he gave vent to a long-drawn 'Um-m-m,' in a deepbass. 'Most extraordinary. Really, most extraordinary. Exceedingly.Yes. Um. Very.' He took a sip of coffee.

  'My dear,' said he, suddenly. Mrs Perceval started violently. She hadbeen sketching out in her mind a little dinner, and wondering whetherthe cook would be equal to it.

  'Yes,' she said.

  'My dear, this is a very extraordinary communication. Exceedingly so.Yes, very.'

  'Who is it from?'

  Mr Perceval shuddered. He was a purist in speech. '_From whom_,you should say. It is from Mr Wells, a great College friend of mine.I--ah--submitted to him for examination the poems sent in for the SixthForm Prize. He writes in a very flippant style. I must say, veryflippant. This is his letter:--"Dear Jimmy (really, really, he shouldremember that we are not so young as we were); dear--ahem--Jimmy. Thepoems to hand. I have read them, and am writing this from my sick-bed.The doctor tells me I may pull through even yet. There was only one anygood at all, that was Rogers's, which, though--er--squiffy (tut!) inparts, was a long way better than any of the others. But the mosttaking part of the whole programme was afforded by the three comedians,whose efforts I enclose. You will notice that each begins with exactlythe same four lines. Of course, I deprecate cribbing, but you reallycan't help admiring this sort of thing. There is a reckless daringabout it which is simply fascinating. A horrible thought--have theybeen pulling your dignified leg? By the way, do you remember"--the restof the letter is--er--on different matters.'

  'James! How extraordinary!'

  'Um, yes. I am reluctant to suspect--er--collusion, but really herethere can be no doubt. No doubt at all. No.'

  'Unless,' began Mrs Perceval, tentatively. 'No doubt at all, my dear,'snapped Reverend Jimmy. He did not wish to recall the otherpossibility, that his dignified leg was being pulled.

  'Now, for what purpose did I summon you three boys?' asked Mr Perceval,of Smith, Montgomery, and Morrison, in his room after morning schoolthat day. He generally began a painful interview with this question.The method had distinct advantages. If the criminal were of a nervousdisposition, he would give himself away upon the instant. In any case,it was likely to startle him. 'For what purpose?' repeated theHeadmaster, fixing Smith with a glittering eye.

  'I will tell you,' continued Mr Perceval. 'It was because I desiredinformation, which none but you can supply. How comes it that each ofyour compositions for the Poetry Prize commences with the same fourlines?' The three poets looked at one another in speechlessastonishment.

  'Here,' he resumed, 'are the three papers. Compare them. Now,'--afterthe inspection was over--' what explanation have you to offer? Smith,are these your lines?'

  'I--er--ah--_wrote_ them, sir.'

  'Don't prevaricate, Smith. Are you the author of those lines?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Ah! Very good. Are you, Montgomery?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Very good. Then you, Morrison, are exonerated from all blame. You havebeen exceedingly badly treated. The first-fruit of your brain hasbeen--ah--plucked by others, who toiled not neither did they spin. Youcan go, Morrison.'

  'But, sir--'

  'Well, Morrison?'

  'I didn't write them, sir.'

  'I--ah--don't quite understand you, Morrison. You say that you areindebted to another for these lines?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'To Smith?'

  'No, sir.'

  'To Montgomery?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Then, Morrison, may I ask to whom you are indebted?'

  'I found them in the field on a piece of paper, sir.' He claimed thediscovery himself, because he thought that Evans might possibly preferto remain outside this tangle.

  'So did I, sir.' This from Montgomery. Mr Perceval looked bewildered,as indeed he was.

  'And did you, Smith, also find this poem on a piece of paper in thefield?' There was a metallic ring of sarcasm in his voice.

  'No, sir.'

  'Ah! Then to what circumstance were you indebted for the lines?'

  'I got Reynolds to do them for me, sir.'

  Montgomery spoke. 'It was near the infirmary that I found the paper,and Reynolds is in there.'

  'So did I, sir,' said Morrison, incoherently.

  'Then am I to understand, Smith, that to gain the prize you resorted tosuch underhand means as this?'

  'No, sir, we agreed that there was no danger of my getting the prize.If I had got it, I should have told you everything. Reynolds will tellyou that, sir.'

  'Then what object had you in pursuing this deception?'

  'Well, sir, the rules say everyone must send in something, and I can'twrite poetry at all, and Reynolds likes it, so I asked him to do it.'

  And Smith waited for the storm to burst. But it did not burst. Far downin Mr Perceval's system lurked a quiet sense of humour. The situationpenetrated to it. Then he remembered the examiner's letter, and itdawned upon him that there are few crueller things than to make aprosaic person write poetry.

  'You may go,' he said, and the three went.

  And at the next Board Meeting it was decided, mainly owing to theinfluence of an exceedingly eloquent speech from the Headmaster, toalter the rules for the Sixth Form Poetry Prize, so that from thenceonward no one need compete unless he felt himself filled with theimmortal fire.