Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [76]
Thaw entered last and found the only seat left was the undesirable one in the front row in front of the teacher, who sat behind a tall desk with his hands clasped on the lid. When everyone was seated he looked from left to right along the rows of faces before him, as if memorizing each one, then leaned back and said casually, “Now well divide you into classes. In the first year, of course, the only real division is between those who take Latin and those whos take … a modern language. At the end of the third year you will have to choose between other subjects: Geography or History, for instance; Science or Art; for by then you will be specializing for your future career. Hands up those who don’t know what specializing means. No hands? Good. Your choice today is a simpler one, but its effects reach further. You all know Latin is needed for entrance to university. A number of benevolent people think this unfair and are trying to change it. As far as Glasgow University is concerned they haven’t succeeded yet.” He smiled an inward-looking smile and leaned back until he seemed to be staring at the ceiling. He said, “My name’s Walkenshaw. I’m senior Classics master. Classics. That’s what we call the study of Latin and Greek. Perhaps you’ve heard the word before? Who hasn’t heard of classical music? Put your hand up if you haven’t heard of classical music. No hands? Good. Classical music, you see, is the best sort of music, music by the best composers. In the same way the study of Classics is the study of the best. Are you chewing something?”
Thaw, who had been swallowing nervously, was appalled to find this question fired at himself. Not daring to take his gaze from the teacher’s face he stood slowly up and shook his head.
“Answer me.”
“No sir.”
“Open your mouth. Open it wide. Stick your tongue out.”
Thaw did as he was told. Mr. Walkenshaw leaned forward, stared, then said mildly, “Your name?”
“Thaw, sir.”
“That’s all right, Thaw. You can sit down. And always tell the truth, Thaw.”
Mr. Walkenshaw leaned back and said, “Classics. Or, as we call it at university, the Humanities. I say nothing against the study of modern languages. Naturally half of you will choose French. But Whitehall Senior Secondary School has a tradition, a fine tradition of Classical scholarship, and I hope many of you will continue that tradition. To those without enough ambition to go to university and who can’t see the use of Latin, I can only repeat the words of Robert Burns:’ Man cannot live by bread alone.’ No, and you would be wise to remember it. Now I’m going to read your names again and I want you to shout Modern and Classics according to choice.”
He read the list of names again. Thaw was depressed to hear all the people he knew choose Latin. He chose Latin.
The Latin students queued at the door of another classroom opening out of the hall. The girls who had chosen Latin were already there, giggling and whispering. It took Thaw a second to notice and fall in love with the loveliest of them. She was blond and wore a light dress, so he looked loftily round the hall with an absent-minded frown hoping she would notice his superior indifference. The hall was like an aquarium tank, the light slanted into it from windows in the roof. On a wall at one end a marble tablet showed a knight in Roman armour and the names of pupils killed in the first world war. Photographs of headmasters hung between surrounding doors: shaggy bearded