Latin Lessons and Life Lessons

Courtesy amazon.com

At the tender age of eleven, I was locked up in boarding school and exposed, among other things, to an odd combination of Roman History, Latin and Divinity classes twice a week under the tutelage of a demanding Latin master.   In a perverse way, I enjoyed those classes because they contained many surprising life lessons.

Roman History was definitely a good introduction to life in general and its vicissitudes in particular.  We got to read about wars, slave revolts, murder, incest, religious intolerance, corruption, and other outrageous happenings which inflamed our young minds.  It also seemed that Christians should stay well away from lions. Admittedly, we did all yawn when we first started reading an early chapter about Augustus in De Vita Caesarum (better known as "The Twelve Caesars” by Suetonius) but thanks to Blakely, the class swat, we were soon informed that some of the later chapters were “really dirty”.

Ultimately, a dog-eared copy of said book (in translation, thank goodness) was passed around and read under the bed covers at night.  Suetonius was more or less our primer on sex, violence, various forms of perversion and other delights.  The weird antics of Nero, Caligula and Tiberius were hungrily devoured and discussed at great length by an excitable group of increasingly depraved eleven-year olds who had little knowledge of the real world.  Of course, we later learned that some of this stuff was still going on long after the Romans had left Britain.  Roman History was, therefore, a welcome distraction from the dull slog of 6 lessons a day, soccer and rugby (winter), cricket (summer) and endless hours of homework, not to mention “recreational” woodwork after Chapel on Sundays.

I have to admit that Latin was not quite so captivating.  However, it was made bearable by our rather eccentric Latin master, Dudley Percival Chumley, who also taught us Roman History and Divinity. Mr. Dudley (I have no idea why we did not call him Mr Chumley) was probably more than eccentric (a little mad?); but he somehow managed to instill into his young pupils a reluctant tolerance for this strange and sometimes useful language.  Talk about life lessons being captured in pithy Latin tags: carpe diem, caveat emptor, in vino veritas, homo homini lupus, errare humanum est, among other things--or should I say inter alia?

In time, and as were were passed on to other Latin masters as we grew older, we could read large chunks of Cicero, Caesar and Cato (the "3 C’s” as they were called) with very little trouble.  We were always being told by others that Latin was a “dead” language; but it certainly seemed to contain a lot of wisdom and was a lot more interesting than French which was very much “alive" and evidently still used by people living in an area formerly called Gaul.

Divinity (actually, the study of the Old Testament) had the same effect upon us as Roman History.  It was a series of fabulous stories seemingly centered on prophets, fire, flood, brimstone, lots of sex and violence and a cast of characters who are still vividly lodged in my mind today.  It was no coincidence that Mr. Dudley taught us Roman History and guided us through the Old Testament during Divinity lessons.  We firmly believed that the two were linked in terms of subject matter and stuffed full of interesting facts that eleven-year old boys should be aware of for a more fulfilling future life.

Dear old Dudley would read from the Old Testament (in no particular order) and we would immediately be given a written test.  I excelled at Divinity because many of those Biblical stories set my brain on fire.  While the passages Mr. Dudley read out in class were quite tame, the real scholars (deviants?) would read further passages in their own time. They then directed us lesser mortals to the more fascinating and puzzling parts of the Old Testament.  In this way, we moved rapidly on from the ecstatic vision of the Chariot of Yaweh in Ezekiel that Mr. Dudley read to us in class to a private and furtive viewing of the astounding tales of Oholah the elder and her sister Oholibah in later chapters of Ezekiel’s enthralling book.  Good stuff!  (Unfortunately, we did not know how to pronounce “whores” properly and called them “wars” for many years thereafter).

As one of the older masters, Mr. Dudley had his classroom in Big School 1.  This needs a little explanation.  The Big School was one huge wing of the Main School and comprised a vast meeting hall where concerts, plays, public floggings, examinations, Speech Day and Parents Day events were held.  It also comprised six class rooms which ran along the side of this wing where different masters, in strict order of seniority, held sway.  Big School 1 belonged to Mr. Dudley.  Big School 2 belonged to the English Master, Henry Fife (nicknamed Old Strife).  Big School 3 housed our then Math teacher, Cush Thompson, and so on.

The class rooms looked out over the tennis courts and beyond them the playing fields--Top Field reserved for cricket and soccer, and Lower Field reserved for rugby when you were a bit older and could be subjected to more brain damage.  The Big School was on a bit of a slope.  If you opened a window in  Big School 1 you would look down onto a gravel path, about 5 feet below, which ran along side the tennis courts.  By the time you got to Big School 6, if you opened a window you would look down on the same gravel path but it would be about 10 feet below you.

We much preferred the Big School classrooms because they were large, airy and quite ancient.  You did not have to trudge outside in all weathers to get to the New School which was an awful “modern” school building up near the golf course and the fields where the cows roamed.  The New School was hideous with lots of glass, fluorescent lighting and those fake-looking creamy bricks which were most often used in public lavatories in the early sixties in Britain.

Mr. Dudley would sweep into Big School 1, look around the class room and invariably pick up the chalk duster and hurl it at anyone who was not seated.  Boys scattered and came to order pretty quickly.  Wherever the chalk duster landed, it was picked up by the nearest boy and returned to the little shelf below the big green chalk board.

“Good morning, boys,” he intoned without really looking at us.  Having been made to sit down by the flying chalk duster, we would now all stand up with a lot of screeching of chairs and respond as loudly and as enthusiastically as possible: “Good morning, sir”.  If he felt that we had not made a sufficient effort, he said he could not hear us and our “Good morning, sir” became a roar such as might have been heard in the Roman Coliseum.

Mr. Dudley must have been in his late sixties or possibly early seventies.  We had little idea of age but he certainly looked like an “old” man.  He was always impeccably dressed, usually in a natty sports jacket, his black trousers were well-pressed and he wore a “loud” tie and equally outrageous socks. We looked like street urchins in comparison.  He had a good head of thinning, grey, well-groomed hair, which was swept straight back.  If you want to have a mental image of him, the nearest I can get is John Houseman in “The Paper Chase”.  (I chose this picture because he even has a green chalk board behind him)!

Mr. Dudley had his favorites but Dai Johns, a short, chaotic and hilarious Welsh boy, was definitely not his favorite.  I was a quieter, more studious and very fat Welsh boy but Mr. Dudley had not warmed to me either.  Did Mr. Dudley have something against the Welsh?  On the day I am going to tell you about, I was relegated to the back row because Mr. Dudley thought I was playing silly buggers by refusing to read what he had written on the chalk board.  Unfortunately, he had the most minute scrawl and the truth was I could not see his wretched writing even if I sat at the front.  I would be 13 before anyone (myself included) understood that I was short-sighted.

If you upset Mr. Dudley, he had a number of punishments to dissuade you from further bad behavior.  Being sent to the back of the class or a slap around the back of the head were his preferred methods of imposing discipline.  If you really upset him, he would give you between 100 to 1,000 “lines” depending upon the severity of his upset.  This meant writing out the following sentence in your best handwriting: “I am a worm and must give up the unequal struggle against nature” 100 to 1000 times!  Those words are forever burnt into my memory.

Believe me, “lines” took forever and had to be done outside of lessons, games, homework and all the other activities that were crammed into your day.  You could usually speed up the process by taping together a maximum of five ball-point pens (called Biros in those days) but you could not pull that trick on Mr. Dudley.  He could easily tell that the writing looked odd and, if discovered, the “lines" were doubled.  “Lines” ate into your own precious private time and had be avoided at all costs.  Sadly, I often strayed from Mr. Dudley’s vision of perfect behavior and could sometimes be found under the bed covers at night, small torch in mouth, writing out those wretched words.  After writing them 100 or 200 times or whatever, you really did understand that life at school was an unequal struggle. It came as a shock to discover that life continued on in that manner long after school was over.

Mr. Dudley never flogged anybody, a comparative oddity at school.  However, he reserved one punishment for the really wicked boys and it was a corker.  He would open one of the windows of Big School 1, stand there and yell, “Out, worm”.  The culprit would clamber up onto a desk, mount the stone window sill and, as directed, jump out.  A wild yell would always follow as we all screamed “Man Overboard!” which infuriated Mr. Dudley and caused more shouting and abuse.  It was incidents like this that made Latin lessons just as lively as Roman History and Divinity for us.  Bad behavior was far less in these two subjects because we were usually engaged.  Latin lessons could drag somewhat and, in spite of our best efforts, lead to lack of concentration, paper planes flying around, books dropping on the floor with a satisfying thump and, the oldest diversion of all, falling off your chair.

I only had to jump out of the window on one occasion.  I had a fear of heights and even being five feet up was not much fun.  If you were a little overweight like me, it hurt your feet when you landed and sent shock waves through your legs.  The real bore was that you had to make your way around the whole Main School building to get back to Big School 1 and that meant missing most of the class which in turn meant that you had to find someone who would lend you his notes and tell you what the homework was.  Such help and information was not normally forthcoming and might only be obtained by writing out somebody’s “lines” for them or having to give up a precious lollipop or other “sweetie” that had been hidden away in your dormitory locker.  That hurt too.

One winter, we had had a lot of rain and some snow and the ceiling of Big School 1 first exhibited an expanding damp patch and then began to drip.  A bucket was placed beneath the drip.  It became a  major distraction during class and, naturally, the bucket always went “missing” at some point which infuriated poor Mr. Dudley because precious time was wasted looking for it.  In due course, Mr. Dudley and his classes were moved to Big School 6, which was usually unoccupied and more a store room for the Drama Department because it was right next to the stage at the far end of the Big School.

We were undergoing a particularly dreary Latin class in Big School 6 one day, surrounded by an odd assortment of theater props, costumes and other items which distracted us from our gerundives and past pluperfect verbs.  Each of us in turn had to stand up and read out aloud a paragraph from Book IV or V of  Caesar’s “The Gallic Wars” (concerning, in part, the invasion of Britain) and then translate it as best we could.  This was based upon homework that we were supposed to have done the night before so it very soon became obvious who had done their homework and who had not.

One of those unfortunates was Dai Johns.  Not only had he not done his homework, he did not even have his own copy of  the text and had to borrow one.  He started reading and very soon there were sniggers and grins around the room as his translation took on some rather strange twists and turns.  He was making up some really ludicrous stories and we were endlessly amused and impressed by his daring.

Mr. Dudley got fed up and slapped poor Dai around the back of the head.  If Dai had accepted his richly deserved whack, all would have been well.  However, Dai was a contentious little guy and always had a quick answer for anything.  “Oh sir, I was reading the wrong paragraph. Can I read the one I did last night?”.  Mr. Dudley was no fool and knew that Dai would probably make up yet another stupid translation.  Mangling Caesar was unforgivable; but deliberately making fun of Caesar and the phrase his castris positis (the mind boggles) was beyond the pale.  Without another word, Mr. Dudley proceeded to the nearest window, opened it and shouted, “Out, worm”.  Grinning, Dai dutifully got up, climbed on the desk and onto the window sill.

Dai hesitated, went a little pale and then turned around and said, “But sir....”.  “Out, worm, out” and an enraged Mr. Dudley pointed more violently at the window.  Dai disappeared.  We were all about to scream the ritual “Man overboard” when there was a piercing scream from below.  Dai was shouting and making a hell of a noise about something.  This was unheard of and Mr. Dudley paced to the window to remonstrate with this wretched little Welsh boy.  He leaned out and uttered the words that went down into school history: “Oh no, what has he done?” and rushed from the class room.

Those nearest the window leaped up and it only then became clear what the fuss was all about.  We were not in Big School 1 but in Big School 6!!  Poor Dai had leapt out of a window that was some 10 feet high and was now lying on the ground screaming that he had broken his leg.  Chaos and confusion.  We all ran out of the class room and were heading off to give aid and succor to our fallen comrade.  We headed for the so-called “Big Door” which was actually a large wooden door which led out onto the terraces leading down to the playing fields.  Boys were strictly forbidden to use this door but it was never locked.  This was the quickest way to get to Dai.  Mr. Dudley was not in evidence.  As it turned out, he had run all the way down the Main Corridor of the school to alert Matron to the “accident”.

Being a bit plump and easily winded by the mildest exercise, I was more or less the last on the scene. Dai was lying on the ground screaming, clutching his leg but, in the absence of adults, indicating that he had hurt his ankle but had not broken his leg.  This caused great laughter and mirth until we saw, quite some time later, the stumpy figure of Matron rounding the corner followed by a stumbling Mr. Dudley who looked like he had just done a 5-mile steeplechase.   When Matron arrived we were all screaming in unison, “He’s broke his leg, Matron, he’s broke his leg”.

Matron pushed us all aside and bent down to look at the screaming Dai who was putting on a great show.  She looked down at him.  “Stop that, now,” Matron yelled and made as though to whack Dai with the back of her hand.  Dai calmed down a bit, obviously unnerved that not much sympathy was apparent in Matron’s quick diagnosis.  She grabbed hold of the offending leg that he had continued to clutch and somewhat abruptly stretched it out.  “There’s no broken leg here,” she said to Mr. Dudley who was standing there puffing and panting and generally looking like he had been thrown out of a window himself.  Matron was now looking at Dai’s ankle and said a little more kindly, “Well, he has broken an ankle.  You two, help him up”.

Two of the boys got hold of Dai under the arms and lifted him up.  Now he really did scream in earnest when he put any weight on his ankle and I have to say that we were all a bit horrified.  We started to look up at the window from which he had involuntarily descended and it dawned upon us rather belatedly that he was lucky to have got away with just a broken ankle.  Naturally, it got around the school in double quick time that Dai had been thrown out of Big School 6 window by Mr. Dudley, and that he had broken both legs, possibly his neck, and worse.  This was made all the more credible when an  ambulance came roaring down the main driveway, at least an hour later, with its bell clanging like all the demons of hell had been let loose at once.

Dai Johns was a hero.  He was always in trouble but this was definitely one of his biggest moments. He would later earn more notoriety when we had to attend a documentary film on the dangers of smoking on one of our Film Nights, followed by a question an answer session with some doctor whom we had never seen before. We were all incensed because this was our Film Night. Imagine “African Queen” or "The Third Man” being supplanted by a documentary and some rotten lecture on smoking.  We all smoked so what was the big deal?  When the doctor had ended his long peroration, he asked if anyone had any questions.  There was a sullen silence--until Dai stood up with his hand raised.  It was well known that the diminutive Dai was an inveterate smoker and had often been caught having a quick drag in the outdoor “bogs” (lavatories) down by the playing fields.

 “Doctor," he asked in a high-pitched voice with his pronounced Welsh accent, “is there any truth in the rumor that smoking can stunt your growth?”  We all fell about laughing and hooting and even the unknown doctor cracked a smile.  But not Mr. Sutton, the master who was in charge of  Film Night.  “Sit down, Johns, sit down” he yelled.

And then some smart Alec piped up, “Out, worm!”.  The cry was taken up by all the frustrated and disillusioned Film Nighters.  “Out, worm, out worm!” was chanted until Mr. Sutton stormed out, followed by a very puzzled doctor.  “Out, worm!” had also gone down in school folklore.

We never knew what was said to Mr. Dudley or if he was disciplined in any way.   However, we did notice that he never threw the chalk duster at us any more and rarely whacked us across the head.  We had always liked Mr. Dudley but we liked him even more now that he was somewhat kinder to us.

We continued to tolerate Latin; but without the prospect of someone being forced to jump out of the window, it did lose some of its allure.  After all, Latin had always been the lesson that produced the most surprises and diversions.  In honor of the past, paper planes still swooped across the classroom, books did go thump on the floor and I continued to be relegated to the back of the classroom for not reading what was on the board.  Against all odds, Dai Johns became one of our most proficient Latin scholars and was treated very considerately by Mr. Dudley.  Would wonders never cease?

Little Dai’s unfortunate defenestration had obviously re-focused his mind.  It also taught him that Latin, just like Roman History and the Old Testament, had certain life lessons to impart. Caveat jumpor might have been one of them!