to the sordid discomforts of her own rooms, and yet displayed in her own person, despite the shabby evidence of her clothes, a fastidiousness, and in her bearing a quality which fitted with absolute harmony into the cultivated home she shared with her sister. I never knew her well enough to find the solution to this contradiction. I leave her in the picture as I saw her for six years, keen-eyed, weather-beaten, good-humoured yet irascible, with a face like one of Rembrandtâs women, as wrinkled as a stored apple.
Miss Gerrard, the third member of the triumvirate, was a tall, severe, fine-looking woman, a âhandsomeâ woman, with blue eyes of the most piercing quality I have ever seen. Her hair was a golden-brown, rather stiff â almost en brosse â but at least it was not an Eton crop, and indeed she was not masculine. But neither was she truly feminine. She looked a woman, but somehow every ounce of femininity had been drained out of her and left her a splendid shell, animated by a fierce devotion to work and duty. I never knew her well. Some children were fond of her, but most of us feared her too much for affection. She left when I was about fourteen, and I never saw her again. I have often wondered why she went, and suspect (with no grounds whatever) that there was in her adamant nature a righteousness and high principle which could not in the end countenance the regime forwhich she was expected to work. We called her the Rock, and she was one of the very few women at Bampfield for whom I felt and still feel an honest respect.
When Miss Gerrard left, her place in the triumvirate was taken by Miss Murrill. She was mildly attractive, with curly hair and a small neat figure. She was lively, and, when in good humour, very charming. When I arrived at Bampfield she was not more than twenty-seven and engaged at the time in a fervent love affair with a local man, of which she later told me some most unsuitable details. Even after her affair came to nothing, she made some effort to retain her femininity. She never got as far as make-up, but she sometimes wore frocks. In keeping with the masculine principle of the place, Chief had christened her Georgie, her Christian name being Georgina.
Mrs Watson, Miss Gerrard and Miss Murrill were house-mistresses. I knew only one of them, therefore, at all well, my contact with the other two being limited to the classroom. Though we all lived under one roof, different parts of the building were sacred to different houses; there were house colours and house mascots, and separate dining-rooms. The combined influence of the triumvirate was weaker, therefore, because it was diffused. It reached us in small draughts, in the history lesson, or the house match. Chiefâs influence, however, reached us wherever we were. Though she seldom met us in the classroom, dormitory or games field, she was present in those places where we were most vulnerable â the chapel and big hall â and she wandered the passages ceaselessly, so that we were always aware of her physical presence. She was not spying on us. It would be unfair to suggest this. She had a beautiful and melodious whistle and this she used as she walked the corridors, towarn us of her coming. She once told me that she had deliberately cultivated the art of whistling for this purpose. Because of this, I do not think I ever feared her as a remote, God-of-vengeance figure. I did fear her, but my fear was something far more subtle. I feared the idea of headship, the immanent power of which she was a manifestation. With her actual presence I was often on the best of terms. Yet I knew always that no matter how good-humouredly she fell in with my wildest schemes, no matter how flattering her warm interest in anything I wrote, I was subject to her pervasive will, by a process I was half-conscious of, yet incapable of rebelling against, for a part of my nature enjoyed and was gratified by it. If I am honest, I must admit
Miss Gerrard, the third member of the triumvirate, was a tall, severe, fine-looking woman, a âhandsomeâ woman, with blue eyes of the most piercing quality I have ever seen. Her hair was a golden-brown, rather stiff â almost en brosse â but at least it was not an Eton crop, and indeed she was not masculine. But neither was she truly feminine. She looked a woman, but somehow every ounce of femininity had been drained out of her and left her a splendid shell, animated by a fierce devotion to work and duty. I never knew her well. Some children were fond of her, but most of us feared her too much for affection. She left when I was about fourteen, and I never saw her again. I have often wondered why she went, and suspect (with no grounds whatever) that there was in her adamant nature a righteousness and high principle which could not in the end countenance the regime forwhich she was expected to work. We called her the Rock, and she was one of the very few women at Bampfield for whom I felt and still feel an honest respect.
When Miss Gerrard left, her place in the triumvirate was taken by Miss Murrill. She was mildly attractive, with curly hair and a small neat figure. She was lively, and, when in good humour, very charming. When I arrived at Bampfield she was not more than twenty-seven and engaged at the time in a fervent love affair with a local man, of which she later told me some most unsuitable details. Even after her affair came to nothing, she made some effort to retain her femininity. She never got as far as make-up, but she sometimes wore frocks. In keeping with the masculine principle of the place, Chief had christened her Georgie, her Christian name being Georgina.
Mrs Watson, Miss Gerrard and Miss Murrill were house-mistresses. I knew only one of them, therefore, at all well, my contact with the other two being limited to the classroom. Though we all lived under one roof, different parts of the building were sacred to different houses; there were house colours and house mascots, and separate dining-rooms. The combined influence of the triumvirate was weaker, therefore, because it was diffused. It reached us in small draughts, in the history lesson, or the house match. Chiefâs influence, however, reached us wherever we were. Though she seldom met us in the classroom, dormitory or games field, she was present in those places where we were most vulnerable â the chapel and big hall â and she wandered the passages ceaselessly, so that we were always aware of her physical presence. She was not spying on us. It would be unfair to suggest this. She had a beautiful and melodious whistle and this she used as she walked the corridors, towarn us of her coming. She once told me that she had deliberately cultivated the art of whistling for this purpose. Because of this, I do not think I ever feared her as a remote, God-of-vengeance figure. I did fear her, but my fear was something far more subtle. I feared the idea of headship, the immanent power of which she was a manifestation. With her actual presence I was often on the best of terms. Yet I knew always that no matter how good-humouredly she fell in with my wildest schemes, no matter how flattering her warm interest in anything I wrote, I was subject to her pervasive will, by a process I was half-conscious of, yet incapable of rebelling against, for a part of my nature enjoyed and was gratified by it. If I am honest, I must admit
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