On the following day I left the school for good. Malley accompanied me to Totnes railway station to see me off. As we parted — I remember it was pouring with rain — he said something which I've never forgotten but which, perhaps, he said to all his long-term pupils: "We don't often get students like you," he said. About ten years later I went to visit him in Cambridge where he was then living and though he was friendly enough, he barely remembered me. That, I realised, was the way it went with teachers and pupils: individual teachers are uniquely important in pupils' lives, while in a teacher's life past pupils more often than not form a kind of blur.
I discovered something else about Malley which was faintly disillusioning. All his insights into literature, all his interpretations and appraisals of poems and novels which I had found so inspiring, turned out to derive, more or less verbatim, from the books of the renowned Cambridge lecturer and critic F.R. Leavis. Malley had been one of Leavis's most ardent disciples. Meanwhile, I had married a writer and critic, John Gross, who devoted many pages of his book The Rise and Fall of the Man of Letters to arguing — convincingly, in my view — that Leavis, for all his powers of discernment, was a damaging and constricting influence on students of literature — a tyrannical layer — down of literary laws. None of this, though, detracts from Malley's wonderful qualities as a teacher, or as a man.
I was very sad on my final train journey back from Devon to London — partly because of my failure to get into Cambridge, and partly because of saying goodbye to Malley; mostly, though, because I was leaving behind a place which, for eight years, had become an alternative home. Though I had resented the school's "do it yourself" educational philosophy and disliked the general laxity of the atmosphere, I had nevertheless been very lucky to be a pupil at Dartington. All its teachers and staff had been unfailingly kind and welcoming — they had acted as role-models for fair-mindedness and unsnobbishness, for civilised behaviour in general. I was only dimly aware, for example, that racial prejudice had not withered away at least in England or that the English class system was still going strong. (I was to discover it the following year, when I went to Oxford; I had applied, at the last moment, to St Anne's College and been accepted.)
Dartington had given me a sense of belonging — the feeling of being part of a group, or a community, which, it seems to me, is one of the greatest sources of human happiness. By contrast, a friend of mine, a girl of the same age and from a similar background, who had been sent to a traditional girls' public school, had been made to feel slightly inferior by one or two of the girls there. At that age, even slight condescension can have long-lasting effects. This could never have happened at Dartington, where we were at all times treated as equals.
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