MY OWN CLASS-STRUGGLE
By S. E. MAINES
THE division of society into classes is a ridiculous, but I suppose, quite natural phenomenon. Although the classes are incapable of exact definition, and the boundaries between them are as hazy as that between sea and sky on a windy day, they are very real and tangible. Of their reality I can speak with certainty, because I am a hybrid creature, with my head in one class and my feet firmly held down in another. I am one of those people, who, by means of scholarships, have been educated out of their class. There would be no excuse for this article were it not for the fact that there are so many ideas and plans favoured not only by Socialists, but by other political parties, which, while sound from any coldly rational point of view, nevertheless carry with their successful operation in this human world, an undercurrent of pain and distress, which is in danger of being overlooked.
For writing an English essay and solving a few arith- metical sums I was rewarded with nine years at a great English public school, which is peculiar in that its proteges would not normally be able to afford a public school educa- tion. The majority of them were sons of impoverished gentlefolk ; others, like myself, were admitted under one scheme or another from elementary schools. It is interest- ing to look back and see by what infinitely small and quite absurd steps this bogey of class-consciousness was built up in me. One of the first questions the young boy animal asks at school is : " What is your father? " I replied, quite ingenuously, but with a slight trace of exhibitionism, that mine kept a sweet-shop. Some of the younger boy animals, with visions of unlimited access to confectionery, were frankly envious ; others, more discerning, seized upon it as a good joke, and I was subjected to a good deal of sneering contempt. I - learned my lesson, and in future maintained an unnatural silence about the activities of my parents. I often think now, in the light of popular contemporary fic- tion, that it was a pity my father wasn't a miner. It would have been so much more romantic, for one must admit there is something rather undignified about a sweet-shop.
My Cockney accent disappeared with far greater speed than did Eliza Doolittle's. When my dear father met me at the end of term his strident, uncultured voice filled me with discomfort, almost with horror, and for a moment I rediscovered him with eyes which were strangely cold, un- sympathetic and critical. I was a child ; I knew no better. The close bonds which had formerly joined us were now bruised and chafed. That was the first tragedy. Even when I arrived home and flung myself into the arms of my mother, a trace of this chilling reserve was still lurking in the back of my mind. It disappeared during the days spent in the warm, easy affection of the home. It came back, like a cold stranger, when my father saw me off by the school train. The realisation that my parents spoke a different tongue from the others who, engaged in animated conversation, were crowding the platform made me feel very uncomfortable. Every dropped " H " pierced me like a needle, and I was relieved to hear the shriek of the guard's whistle, but as the train moved slowly out of the station and I sank back into my seat, my eyes were brimming with tears.
As I grew older, I was able to think more rationally about everything, but no process of analysis or ratiocination could dispel this hard nucleus of self-consciousness about my social origin, which was lodged in one corner of my brain. I must be proud of my parents, I told myself. I was proud of them and I loved them, but it made no difference. It was a source of weakness in my character. This nucleus was like an isolated rock which deflects and breaks up the oncoming wave, throwing up a shower of spray and leaving behind a swirling mass of foam and water.
I made many acquaintances but few friends. I rarely " dared the final bound " which would lead to the complete intimacy of true friendship. Small questions like, " I say old boy, I shall be in London for a week during the holidays. Can I come and look you up? " would meet usually with a confused and guarded reply, to the effect that I should prob- ably be away during that week, and therefore unable to meet him. How I hated that reply. I've always wanted above anything else to entertain my friends during the holidays, but it was clearly impossible.
Then I went up to Oxford on a scholarship. It was a great chance, but in many ways it widened the gap between myself and my family. I was always eager to go home at the end of each term. Those first few days of relaxation, in an easy kind of atmosphere, meant a great deal to me. Then the absence of friends with the same interests and enthusiasms, the lack of stimulating conversation, and the colourless life of a London suburb would exert their deaden- ing effect, and I would fret and chafe, and long to get away. I no longer criticised my parents. I could only love the courage and breadth of character of my mother, and the unselfish industry of my father. It was myself I cursed for my own weakness and failings, and above all my inability to reconcile the two sides of my life.
At Oxford I fell in love, with a girl from Somerville (How absurd that sounds now!) Naturally I hadn't met mangy, girls in the social circle of my home, for whom I caul, have any interest. My attitude towards women at that um_ was a nice blend of Rupert Brooke, Godfrey Winn and D. H.
Lawrence. My love was probably a monstrous projection of everything I wanted, rather than a naturally inspired love, but the effect was the same, and it received considerable encouragement. With a great effort, I " dared the final bound " and told her everything. The result was a gradual cooling off of our relationship, which was worse than any sudden break. I took it very badly. I worried and brooded over it for a long time, but I was firmly resolved never to forsake my parents. Whoever accepted me would have to accept them.
Later I became ill. The illness may have been precipitated by my internal state of division. However I was rejected on medical grounds for a post in the Indian Civil Service. It was a pity, because the job would have given me a fresh start in a distant country, without hurting the amour-propre of my parents. I became a public schoolmaster. It is a profession in which the possession of a nice respectable bourgeois ancestry is an advantage, if not a necessity. Life in a common-room frequently leads to gossip, and a curiosity about other people's private affairs. By nature, I am open and friendly, and loathe and condemn this cold barrier which immediately rises up within me, when the conversation shows signs of being even a little inquisitive. One may condemn it, but it is difficult now to control a psychological reaction which has become instinctive and purely reflex. Life continues to be divided into term and holidays. My life, ever since I left my elementary school, has been one long series of term and holidays, and the difficulty of reconciling them still remains. Ever since that affair at Oxford I have been extremely reserved in my relations with women. If I felt that I was on the point of falling in love, I would metaphorically turn and run in the other direction. The idea of antagonism from excessively middle-class parents appalled me. It seemed unnecessarily hard to plunge a girl into a situation full of perplexities and difficulties.
But this time I haven't turned and run ; that is to say, I tried to, but she wouldn't let me. Her parents are showing great resistance. Sometimes I've felt like letting the whole business fall through. When I was home at Christmas, the tremendous gulf of speech, manners, customs and ideas which lay between her family and mine forced itself upon me with damnable persistence. Why should a dropped aitch, a cockney accent, and the fact that you have high tea instead of dinner make any difference at all? How absurd, irrational, ludicrous, and yet how strong, the conventions of class-distinction are! Being educated out of one's class brings with it a lot of difficulties. Nevertheless, most of mine have been of my own making. I've been a coward for the past ten years of my life. I shall be a coward no longer. I will turn and tear this nucleus of self-conscious- ness out of my brain and fling it away.
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