Tono Bungay

I was left, I say, as part of the lock, stock, and barrel, at Wimblehurst with my new master, a Mr. Mantell; who plays no part in the progress of this story except in so far as he effaced my uncle’s traces.  So soon as the freshness of this new personality faded, I began to find Wimblehurst not only a dull but a lonely place, and to miss my aunt Susan immensely.  The advertisements of the summer terms for Cough Linctus were removed; the bottles of coloured water—­red, green, and yellow—­restored to their places; the horse announcing veterinary medicine, which my uncle, sizzling all the while, had coloured in careful portraiture of a Goodwood favourite, rewhitened; and I turned myself even more resolutely than before to Latin (until the passing of my preliminary examination enabled me to drop that), and then to mathematics and science.

There were classes in Electricity and Magnetism at the Grammar School.  I took a little “elementary” prize in that in my first year and a medal in my third; and in Chemistry and Human Physiology and Sound, Light and Heat, I did well.  There was also a lighter, more discursive subject called Physiography, in which one ranged among the sciences and encountered Geology as a process of evolution from Eozoon to Eastry House, and Astronomy as a record of celestial movements of the most austere and invariable integrity.  I learnt out of badly-written, condensed little text-books, and with the minimum of experiment, but still I learnt.  Only thirty years ago it was, and I remember I learnt of the electric light as an expensive, impracticable toy, the telephone as a curiosity, electric traction as a practical absurdity.  There was no argon, no radium, no phagocytes—­at least to my knowledge, and aluminium was a dear, infrequent metal.  The fastest ships in the world went then at nineteen knots, and no one but a lunatic here and there ever thought it possible that men might fly.

Many things have happened since then, but the last glance I had of Wimblehurst two years ago remarked no change whatever in its pleasant tranquillity.  They had not even built any fresh houses—­at least not actually in the town, though about the station there had been some building.  But it was a good place to do work in, for all its quiescence.  I was soon beyond the small requirements of the Pharmaceutical Society’s examination, and as they do not permit candidates to sit for that until one and twenty, I was presently filling up my time and preventing my studies becoming too desultory by making an attack upon the London University degree of Bachelor of Science, which impressed me then as a very splendid but almost impossible achievement.  The degree in mathematics and chemistry appealed to me as particularly congenial—­albeit giddily inaccessible.  I set to work.  I had presently to arrange a holiday and go to London to matriculate, and so it was I came upon my aunt and uncle again.  In many ways that visit marked an epoch.  It was my first impression of London at all.  I was then nineteen, and by a conspiracy of chances my nearest approach to that human wilderness had been my brief visit to Chatham.  Chatham too had been my largest town.  So that I got London at last with an exceptional freshness of effect, as the sudden revelation of a whole unsuspected other side to life.

I came to it on a dull and smoky day by the South Eastern Railway, and our train was half an hour late, stopping and going on and stopping again.  I marked beyond Chiselhurst the growing multitude of villas, and so came stage by stage through multiplying houses and diminishing interspaces of market garden and dingy grass to regions of interlacing railway lines, big factories, gasometers and wide reeking swamps of dingy little homes, more of them and more and more.  The number of these and their dinginess and poverty increased, and here rose a great public house and here a Board School and there a gaunt factory; and away to the east there loomed for a time a queer, incongruous forest of masts and spars.  The congestion of houses intensified and piled up presently into tenements; I marveled more and more at this boundless world of dingy people; whiffs of industrial smell, of leather, of brewing, drifted into the carriage; the sky darkened, I rumbled thunderously over bridges, van-crowded streets, peered down on and crossed the Thames with an abrupt eclat of sound.  I got an effect of tall warehouses, of grey water, barge crowded, of broad banks of indescribable mud, and then I was in Cannon Street Station—­a monstrous dirty cavern with trains packed across its vast floor and more porters standing along the platform than I had ever been in my life before.  I alighted with my portmanteau and struggled along, realising for the first time just how small and weak I could still upon occasion feel.  In this world, I felt, an Honours medal in Electricity and magnetism counted for nothing at all.

Afterwards I drove in a cab down a canon of rushing street between high warehouses, and peeped up astonished at the blackened greys of Saint Paul’s.  The traffic of Cheapside—­it was mostly in horse omnibuses in those days—­seemed stupendous, its roar was stupendous; I wondered where the money came from to employ so many cabs, what industry could support the endless jostling stream of silk-hatted, frock-coated, hurrying men.  Down a turning I found the Temperance Hotel Mr. Mantell had recommended to me.  The porter in a green uniform who took over my portmanteau, seemed, I thought, to despise me a good deal.