Short Story Sunday: "Such, Such Were the Joys..." by George Orwell

Soon after I arrived at Crossgates (not immediately, but after a week or two, just when I seemed to be settling into the routine of school life) I began wetting my bed.

George Orwell was sent to Crossgates school at the age of eight. A scholarship boy, away from home for the first time and in the care of others, when he began wetting his bed they punished him, more so each time he did it, culminating in his first caning. The adults in charge told him bed-wetting was a sin, that he was a bad boy for doing so. He stopped wetting the bed after the second caning, but, some thirty years later when he wrote "Such, Such Were the Joys...", he still held a grudge. He stayed at Crossgates through the primary grades, up to age 13, and looking back, he had nothing nice to say about the experience.

"Such, Such Were the Joys..." is an essay, not a short story, but Mr. Orwell's best work is really in his non-fiction. If you know him only from 1984 or Animal Farm you've not read his good stuff. Reading his memoir of growing up in an English public school it's easy to see why he fought for the communist side in Spain; it's a wonder even more British schoolboys didn't. Young Orwell regularly faced severe punishment, beatings included, for infractions that earned his wealthy, titled peers a wink and a nod from the school's staff. (Boys will be boys was an attitude that applied only to wealth.)

None of the boys were allowed to keep their pocket money. Instead of shopping for themselves, each boy was given a certain amount of candy, according to the position their father's held. Orwell got only two cents worth per week, while the wealthy boys got six or eight. Wealthy boys got a birthday cake large enough for everyone to share--Orwell did not. Aristocratic boys got "extras" like shooting and horseback riding. Scholarship boys like Orwell did not even get their own cricket bats. These sound like minor things today, but to a child of nine or ten, a child who is constantly told that he is already getting more than he deserves, minor things like this matter. Imagine being one of a handful of nine and ten-year-old boys who does not get a birthday cake. Imagine being told, "Your people aren't rich. You must learn to be sensible. Don't get above yourself!" each time you asked for your own money. Years later, Orwell learned that his parents had sent the school money to pay for a new cricket bat .

There is no Mr. Chips waiting in the wings to come and rescue young Orwell. He survives primary school, of course, and goes on to great success, but Crossgates deserves none of the credit, and he gives it none. "Such, Such Were the Joys..." is a cautionary tale, but a useful one. A look at the past with all hint of rose-tinting removed from the glasses.

If you'd like to participate in the July round of Short Story Sunday, whether you read an actual short story or a non-fiction essay, please feel free to use Mr. Linky below to post a link to your review. If you don't see Mr. Linky, then please leave a link in a comment. Mr. Linky has not been feeling well lately. I'll post a list of everyones stories next Sunday.