The Go-Between by L. P. Hartley

Bragging about the wealth and grandeur of one’s
parents was not unknown, but Maudsley was not one of those who did
it. In some ways he was precociously sophisticated; his corners
must have been rubbed off before he came to school. I never
understood him very deeply; perhaps there was little to understand,
except an instinctive responsiveness to public opinion, a
savoir-faire
that enabled him to be, without appearing to
seek it, on the winning side.
      During the diary episode he had remained neutral,
which was all that one could hope for from one’s friends. (This is
not cynicism; belonging to a lower age group, they could have done
nothing for me effectively. ) But when I was the winning side he
made no secret of his pleasure at my success and, I afterwards
learned, he told his family about it. He took lessons from me in
magic and I remember drawing up for him, free, certain curses that
he could use if he was in a tight place—though I never thought he
would be in one. He looked up to me and I felt that his esteem was
decidedly worth having. Once in an expansive moment he confided to
me that he was going to Eton, and he was like a premature Etonian,
easy, well-mannered, sure of himself.
      The last weeks of the Easter term were the happiest
of my schooldays so far, and the holidays were irradiated by them.
For the first time I felt that I was someone. But when I tried to
explain my improved status to my mother she was puzzled. Success in
work she would have understood (and happily I was able to report
this also) or success in games (of this I could not boast, but I
had hopes of the cricket season). But to be revered as a magician!
She gave me a soft, indulgent smile and almost shook her head. In a
way she was religious: she had brought me up to think about being
good, and to say my prayers, which I always did, for our code
permitted it as long as it was done in a perfunctory manner;
soliciting divine aid did not count as sneaking. Perhaps she would
have understood what it meant to me to be singled out among my
fellows if I could have told her the whole story; but I had to edit
and bowdlerize it to such a degree that very little of the original
was left, and least of all the intoxicating transition from a
trough of persecution to a pedestal of power. A few of the boys had
been a little unkind; now they were all very kind. Because of
something I had written in my diary which was rather like a prayer,
the unkind boys had hurt themselves and of course I couldn’t help
being glad about it. “But ought you to have been glad?” she asked
anxiously. “I think you ought to have been sorry, even if they were
a little unkind. Did they hurt themselves badly?” “Rather badly,” I
said, “but you see they were my enemies.” But she refused to share
my triumph and said uneasily: “But you oughtn’t to have enemies at
your age.” In those days a widow was still a figure of desolation;
my mother felt the responsibility of bringing me up and thought
that firmness should come into it, but she never quite knew when or
how to apply it. “Well, you must be nice to them when they come
back,” she sighed; “I expect they didn’t mean to be unkind.”
      Jenkins and Strode, who had had some bones broken,
did not in fact return until the autumn. They were very much
subdued, and so was I, and we had no difficulty in being nice to
each other.
      My mother was mistaken if she thought that I gloated
over their downfall; it was the rise in my own stock that enlarged
my spirit. But I was sensitive to atmosphere, and under my mother’s
half-hearted sympathy my dreams of greatness did not thrive. I
began to wonder if they were something to be ashamed of, and when I
went back to school it was in a private capacity, not as a
magician. But my friends and clients had not forgotten; to my
surprise they were as eager as ever to profit by my proficiency in
the Black Arts. I was still the vogue, and any scruples of
conscience I retained