School Days

by Ruskin Bond

  Well, it was the first I'd heard of it, but Pooh nudged me hard, so, I said nothing, and Auntie smiled and said, 'I think it would be very good for you two to try that. But you'd need an easel.' 'Oh,' said Pooh, 'we could have notebooks and hold them on our knees,' An easel would be better,' said Auntie. 'I have an old spare one at home. If you would like to visit my place some evening, I'll give it to you.' 'Oh, could we, sir?' said Pooh. 'That's very kind of you.' And before I could really take in what was happening, he had Auntie's private address written down on a piece of paper, and had agreed that he and I should call there one evening in the following week and collect the easel.

  I spoke crossly to Pooh when Auntie had moved on. 'Who said we wanted to draw churches?' I demanded. 'I never said I wanted to draw churches.' Pooh gave me a look I'd grown used to - it was the look he gave me when I said I couldn't come out walking because of homework, or when we were in our local woods and Pooh said we should go into a part that was sealed off with wire and I said obviously we weren't supposed to. Pooh was much bolder than I was. 'Haven't you ever wanted to draw churches, and ponds, and the trees in the woods?' he said. I said all right, but what was it going to be like visiting Auntie's house? What were we doing, visiting a master out of school hours? And Pooh looked very scornful and said it would be fun to see what Auntie was like at home. 'And he's going to give us a real artist's easel,' he said. Then he hit me hard on the arm, as he always did to end an argument, and I knew it was no use saying any more.

  And that happened to be the lesson when the headmaster came angrily into the hut. He'd been passing, and he'd heard the noise we were making, and he entered in his gown like a sudden bat, swooping and then standing there, quivering with rage. Just inside the door a boy called Bonzo - his real name was Baines - was down on all fours on the floor, barking; he did this sometimes, I suppose because his nickname had an effect on him now and then, but mostly because it made his friends laugh. Anyway, there he was, on all fours, barking, and the room fell suddenly silent and the barking noise he was making rang out horribly clear and powerful. Bonzo looked up, startled by the silence, and his eye travelled up the headmaster's trouser leg and so up to that angry face. Bonzo scrambled to his feet, trying weakly to look as though being on all fours and barking was a thoroughly proper part of an Art lesson, and the headmaster seized his ear, glared at him, and said: 'You'd better find your seat - at once, and I think, Master Baines, that you would better let me have five hundred fines by tomorrow morning, without fail. Now sit down, you wretched little boy.' Well, Bonzo slunk red-faced into his seat, and the headmaster glared at us and you could see him sorting out the angry words that filled his mind. Meanwhile, poor Auntie was advancing towards him, a kindly beam of welcome on his face. 'Headmaster,' he said 'what can I do for you?'

  'This won't do, Mr Searle,' said the headmaster. 'This chaos won't do. This noise won't do. These boys are being allowed too much freedom. I am seriously disturbed. I would like to speak to you about it after this lesson, please.' 'Meanwhile' - and he glared round at us again - 'who is captain of this wretched form?' Pooh got to his feet, and the headmaster looked him up and down so fiercely that Pooh said afterwards he had the distinct feeling that he'd forgotten to put his head on that morning, or perhaps he'd made an awful mistake in dressing and had put on doublet and hose, or a bathing costume. The headmaster's look was so disapproving, that is. 'You will bring me, young Master Bates,' said the headmaster, 'two hundred lines from each member of this class. I shall expect them on my desk by tomorrow morning.' Then, with a furious nod at Auntie, he stalked out, and for the rest of the lesson we sat in complete silence, trying very hard to get the shading right in the latest arrangement of cubes and cones, and feeling terribly guilty. Because Auntie had gone very white, and now he was sitting at his desk, saying nothing to us, his chin propped in one huge old hand, his eyes fixed on the wall. So bad did we feel that at the end of the lesson Pooh went up to Auntie and said, 'Sorry, sir,' and the old man nodded at him, but not as though he'd really heard what Pooh had said.

  Well, it's difficult for boys to go on feeling sorry, like that. By the time the evening came for us to fetch the easel, we'd half forgotten the headmaster's anger and poor Auntie's white face. He lived in a big old house on the edge of the town: it seemed rather a sad place, when we got there. I mean, the garden had obviously been splendid, once, but now it had gone to seed: the paths were weedy, the shrubs were tangled, the trees were untrimmed and made everything dark and damp. We rang the bell and after a time the door opened, and there, in a dark hallway, stood Auntie. He peered at us and then smiled and said, Ah, it's you two. Come for the easel. Come in, then. Come in.' We stood there wiping our boots for ages in our nervousness, and then we stepped in - and at once we saw the pictures.

  The house was as dark inside as out side, and from the walls great dark pictures were looking down. There were three in the hall, and more as we followed Auntie into a big living-room. At first we couldn't make out what the pictures were about, they were so dim, but then we saw that's what they mostly showed - I mean, dimness. They all seemed to be scenes at night, and mostly scenes on bridges, in some city or other - you could make out gloomy buildings in the distance - and there'd usually be a street-lamp, but not throwing much light, and standing near the lamp would be a pale-faced girl, or a sad-looking man, or someone in rags. That's all: just the dark scene and the sad person standing there, obviously thinking about throwing himself, or herself, in the river. There was usually a river, under the bridge: I mean, you could see the sad light of the street-lamp reflected in a ripple of water. And Pooh, being Pooh, said at once: 'All these pictures, sir, Did you paint them?' Auntie smiled, very cheerfully, and said, 'Yes. They're all mine.' Then he pointed to the one nearest to us - pale-faced girl on bridge - and said, 'I submitted that to the Academy in - oh, a great many years ago, now.' He saw we looked puzzled and said, 'You know, the Royal Academy. Artists submit their paintings to be judged and those that the Academy likes are hung in the annual Exhibition.' And did they hang that one in the Academy?' said Pooh. 'No, no, they didn't hang it,' said Auntie, quite cheerfully. 'And that one?' said Pooh, pointing to the next picture. 'I can't remember when I submitted that. Again quite a long time ago,' said Auntie. Pooh coughed and said carefully, 'They hung it, sir?' 'No, no,' said Auntie. 'I never did actually get a picture hung.'

  Then he walked across the room, which was terribly untidy, and tugged at a mass of things leaning against the wall. There were odd poles, and canvases, and one thing and another; but what he brought out at last was a fairly huge easel, much bigger than anything we'd expected, and very heavily made. 'There it is,' he said, and began to tell us how to use it. Pooh gave me a quick glance, and I knew him well enough by then to understand what it meant. 'It's going to be a job to get this home, and to find somewhere to keep it, and I don't know how we're ever going to lug it as far as the woods,' he was thinking, 'but what fun to have an artist's easel as big as this - all our own.'

  Well, Auntie had some lemonade ready for us, and as we stood drinking it, Pooh said, very delicately, 'Sir, why did the Academy never take your pictures?' Auntie beamed at us, exactly as though he were telling us about a success instead of a failure, and said, 'I suppose they didn't like them.' 'Oh,' said Pooh, and choked on his lemonade. 'Were they too dark, sir. . . or something?' Auntie looked puzzled. 'Too dark?' he said. Then he looked at us both a little less cheerfully, and said, 'I've always been interested in light and shade. Darkness and light. That's been my interest.' 'Like what you make us do with the. . . cubes and cones, sir?' said Pooh. 'That's the beginning of it,' said Auntie.

  Then Pooh said, 'I'm sorry, sir, about the noise we were making the other day - when the headmaster came in.' Whereupon Auntie looked tremendously cheerful again and said, 'Oh, that's all right.' And vaguely he added, 'Boys will be boys.'

  We'd finished our lemonade, and we got a grip on that huge easel - one at each end - and Auntie showed us out again into the
dark hall, past all the dark, sad pictures the Academy hadn't wanted, and he opened the front door. Suddenly he said, 'I don't think I shall be teaching you much longer. So I hope you'll enjoy using the easel. Remember - light and shade.' Pooh gulped - when we talked it over, we found we were both feeling queerly sad at that moment - and said, And keep our pencils sharp, eh, sir?' Auntie frowned, as if he'd been thinking of something else, and then he smiled in his old kind way and said, Ah, yes, Bates. Always keep your pencils sharp.'

  We were silent for a while as we went jogging through the streets with our immense easel; but after a time we were struck by the comic side of what we were doing - two boys carrying an easel of that size can't have been a common sight in the streets. People turned to stare at us and we began to trot, giggling as we went. By the time we'd got to my house, and had talked to my father and persuaded him to let us keep the easel in the garden shed, we'd almost forgotten the sadness we'd felt in Auntie's house, and the queer feeling all those pictures had given us. . . .

  Auntie left us at the end of the term: his place was taken by a very young teacher, who let us use paint galore, and we could draw battles and country scenes to our hearts' content. We saw the cubes and cones only once again - when the new teacher was clearing out Auntie's old cupboard, and came across those dreary objects and called a boy over to him. 'Take this rubbish and drop it in the dustbin, lad,' he said cheerfully. There was never much noise in the hut, after that - the new teacher was very jolly but very firm, and the banging of desk lids was over for ever. The headmaster came in once or twice and looked terribly pleased, and he even praised Bonzo for a painting he was at work on. Everybody said how much better Art was now than it had been with Auntie. But they didn't talk much about that - about the difference, I mean: on the whole, the boys didn't refer to Auntie a great deal. I think they felt a kind of sadness about him, in a vague way. Pooh and I made good use of the easel - it was fine for our drawing expeditions, in the woods and churchyards, and we always enjoyed the fun of trotting it through the streets, with people turning to stare. But, though we never talked about it, there was one thing Pooh and I never failed to do, despite the fact that under the new Art teacher we always used charcoal or drew direct with a brush. We always kept a little store of pencils in our pockets, their points as beautifully sharp as we could make them.

  The Children's Crusade

  Steven Runciman

  This account of a journey from which thousands of children never returned is taken from Sir Steven Runciman's History of the Crusades, published in 1954.

  ONE DAY IN MAY 1212, THERE APPEARED AT SAINT-DENIS, WHERE king Philip of France was holding his court, a shepherd-boy of about twelve years old called Stephen, from the small town of Cloyes in the Orleannais. He brought with him a letter for the king, which, he said, had been given to him by Christ in person, who had appeared to him as he was tending his sheep and who had bidden him go and preach the Crusade. King Philip was not impressed by the child and told him to go home. But Stephen, whose enthusiasm had been fired by his mysterious visitor, saw himself now as an inspired leader who would succeed where his elders had failed. For the past fifteen years preachers had been going round the countryside urging a Crusade against the Moslems of the East or of Spain or against the heretics of Languedoc. It was easy for a hysterical boy to be infected with the idea that he too could be a preacher and could emulate Peter the Hermit, whose prowess had during the past century reached a legendary grandeur. Undismayed by the king's indifference, he began to preach at the very entrance to the abbey of Saint-Denis and to announce that he would lead a band of children to the rescue of Christendom. The seas would dry up before them, and they would pass, like Moses through the Red Sea, safe to the Holy Land. He was gifted with an extraordinary eloquence. Older folk were impressed, and children came flocking to his call. After his first success he set out to journey round France summoning the children; and many of his converts went further afield to work on his behalf. They were all to meet together at Vendôme in about a month's time and start out from there to the East.

  Towards the end of June the children massed at Vendôme. Awed contemporaries spoke of thirty thousand, not one over twelve years of age. There were certainly several thousand of them, collected from all parts of the country, some of them simple peasants, whose parents in many cases had willingly let them go on their great mission. But there were also boys of noble birth who had slipped away from home to join Stephen and his following of 'minor prophets' as the chroniclers called them. There were also girls among them, a few young priests, and a few older pilgrims, some drawn by piety, others, perhaps, from pity, and others, certainly, to share in the gifts that were showered upon them all. The bands came crowding into the town, each with a leader carrying a copy of the Oriflamme, which Stephen took as the device of the Crusade. The town could not contain them all, and they encamped in the fields outside.

  When the blessing of friendly priests had been given, and when the last sorrowing parents had been pushed aside, the expedition started out southward. Nearly all of them went on foot. But Stephen, as befitted the leader, insisted on having a gaily decorated cart for himself, with a canopy to shade him from the sun. At his side rode boys of noble birth, each rich enough to possess a horse. No one resented the inspired prophet travelling in comfort. On the contrary, he was treated as a saint, and locks of his hair and pieces of his garments were collected as precious relics. They took the road past Tours and Lyons, making for Marseilles. It was a painful journey. The summer was unusually hot. They depended on charity for their food, and the drought left little to spare in the country, and water was scarce. Many of the children died by the wayside. Others dropped out and tried to wander home. But at last the little Crusade reached Marseilles.

  The citizens of Marseilles greeted the children kindly. Many found houses in which to lodge. Others encamped in the streets. Next morning, the whole expedition rushed down to the harbour to see the sea divide before them. When the miracle did not take place, there was bitter disappointment. Some of the children turned against Stephen, crying that he had betrayed them, and began to retrace their steps. But most of them stayed on by the sea-side, expecting each morning that God would relent. After a few days, two merchants of Marseilles, called, according to tradition, Hugh the Iron and William the Pig, offered to put ships at their disposal and to carry them free of charge, for the glory of God, to Palestine. Stephen eagerly accepted the kindly offer. Seven vessels were hired by the merchants and the children were taken aboard and set out to sea. Eighteen years passed before there was any further news of them.

  Meanwhile, tales of Stephen's preaching had reached the Rhineland. The children of Germany were not to be outdone. A few weeks after Stephen had started on his mission, a boy called Nicholas, from a Rhineland village, began to preach the same message before the shrine of the Three Kings at Cologne. Like Stephen, he declared that children could do better than grown men, and that the sea would open to give them a path. But, while the French children were to conquer the Holy Land by force, the Germans were to achieve their aim by the conversion of the infidel. Nicholas, like Peter, had a natural eloquence, and was able to find eloquent disciples to carry his preaching further, up and down the Rhineland. Within a few weeks an army of children had gathered at Cologne, ready to start out for Italy and the sea. It seems that the Germans were on an average slightly older than the French and that there were more girls with them. There was also a larger contingent of boys of the nobility, and a number of disreputable vagabonds and prostitutes.

  The expedition split into two parties. The first, numbering according to the chroniclers, twenty thousand, was led by Nicholas himself. It set out up the Rhine to Basle and through western Switzerland, past Geneva, to cross the Alps by the Mount Cenis pass. It was an arduous journey for the children, and their losses were heavy. Less than a third of the company that left Cologne appeared before the walls of Genoa, at the end of August, and demanded a night's shelter within
its walls. The Genoese authorities were at first ready to welcome the pilgrims, but on second thoughts they suspected a German plot. They would allow them to stay for one night only; but any who wished to settle permanently in Genoa were invited to do so. The children, expecting the sea to divide before them the next morning, were content. But next morning, the sea was as impervious to their prayers as it had been to the French at Marseilles. In their disillusion many of the children at once accepted the Genoese offer and became Genoese citizens, forgetting their pilgrimage. Several great families of Genoa later claimed to be descended from this alien immigration. But Nicholas and the greater number moved on. The sea would open for them elsewhere. A few days later they reached Pisa. There two ships bound for Palestine agreed to take several of the children, who embarked and who perhaps reached Palestine; but nothing is known of their fate. Nicholas, however, still awaited a miracle, and trudged on with his faithful followers to Rome. At Rome Pope Innocent received them. He was moved by their piety but embarrassed by their folly. With kindly firmness he told them that they must now go home. When they grew up they should then fulfil their vows and go to fight for the Cross.

  Little is known of the return journey. Many of the children, especially the girls, could not face again the ardours of the road, and stayed behind in some Italian town or village. Only a few stragglers found their way back next spring to the Rhineland. Nicholas was probably not amongst them. But the angry parents whose children had perished insisted on the arrest of his father, who had, it seems, encouraged the boy out of vainglory. He was taken and hanged.

  The second company of German pilgrims was no more fortunate. It had travelled to Italy through central Switzerland and over the Saint Gotthard and after great hardships reached the sea at Ancona. When the sea failed to divide for them they moved slowly down the east coast as far as Brindisi. There a few of them found ships sailing to Palestine and were given passages; but the others returned and began to wander slowly back again. Only a tiny number returned at last to their homes.