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Gods and Mr Perrin

<h2> CHAPTER VIII—THE BATTLE OP THE UMBRELLA; CAMPS ARE FORMED—ALSO SOME SKIRMISHING </h2> <h3> I. </h3> ISABEL DESART heard about it early on the afternoon of the same day. Traill himself told her as he stood with her for a moment outside the school gates before he went down to football. She saw it at once more seriously than he did; his attitude had been that it was a pity, above all that it was indecorous, that he had, in a way, made a fool of himself—that to struggle in that fashion with a man like Perrin before an audience was a pity. But to her it was a great deal more than this. In many ways she was older than Archie Traill, and her feminine intuition helped her now; she saw Perrin as something to be feared and also something to be pitied, and she did not know which of these feelings was the stronger. She had always seen Perrin as someone to be pitied—that was the reason of her kindness to him—and now that he was ludicrous, now that his climax had made him prominent, her pity for him was increased. But she was also afraid. She guessed suddenly a great deal more than she could actually see; she felt the miserable years that he had been through, she felt his hatred of his own position, and she knew that he would not be likely to forgive the man who had brought all this to a climax. They were all at such terribly close quarters. It would be easy enough to get away from that sort of incident if they all of them were, as she put it to herself, “spread out”; but halfterm was only just over and she did not know what the next six weeks might bring. Traill's feeling, she saw, was mainly one of disgust—the same kind of sensation that he would have had if he had not been able to have his bath in the morning. About Perrin he only felt contempt, a man who could make that kind of disturbance about so small a thing.... Traill's final opinion, in fact, about it all was that “it wasn't done” and that Perrin was therefore an “outsider,” and that there the thing ended. Isabel, in the few words that he had time to say to her, saw all this and knew that his attitude would not make the whole affair any easier. But she was wise enough to leave it all where it was for the moment and simply to tell him that she was sorry. “One thing, you know,” she said, smiling at him and blushing a little. “We must let them all know about us, at once, to-day.” “Oh! must we?” he said, shrinking back a little. “Why, of course. You don't suppose there isn't going to be talk about all this business. Of course, there is, heaps—and you must let me do my share of standing up for you. I must have the right, you know.” He had not figured the talk that there would be—he saw it all now in an instant, that there would be sides and discussions, and, looking further still, he had some idea of all the issues that were to be involved; but he was much too simple a person to think this further vision anything but fantastic: people simply didn't fight to that extent about umbrellas.... He left her with a smiling consent to the announcement of their engagement, and, for the moment, the thought of that swallowed all the Perrin affair. He went down to his football cheerfully. <h3> II. </h3> Meanwhile, in the Senior common room, during that interval between chapel and dinner, things had occurred. The news of the morning struggle had been brought, of course, by the eager witnesses, Comber and Birkland, much earlier in the day; but the school day was a very busy one—one hour followed another with terrible swiftness, and then there were boys to see and games to play and all the accumulated details to fill in any odd moments that there might be,—so that, with the exception of short sentences and exclamations and a general air of pleasurable surprise pervading everything, no real movement was possible until this evening hour. The room, lighted by gas, was more ugly and naked than ever—although it was close and stuffy, the spirit of it was cold and chill. Comber was in the chair of honor, the only arm-chair in the room; Birkland and Pons, White and Dormer, and the little science master, West, were also there. Little West was so obvious and striking an example of his type that it seemed as though he had been especially created to stand to the end of time as an example of what a Board School education and a pushing disposition can do for a man. He was short and square, with a shaggy, unkempt mustache and that sallow, unhealthy complexion that two generations of ill-fed progenitors tend to produce. He was a little bald on the top of his head, wore ready-made clothes, and spoke slowly and with great care. He had worked exceedingly hard all his youth and was the only master at Moffatt's whose ambitions were unimpaired and his optimism (concerning his own future) unchecked. His most striking feature were his hard, burning, little eyes, and it was with these that he kept order in class. He disliked all the other members of the staff, but he hated Birkland. Birkland had, from the first, laughed at him; he had laughed at his clothes, at his accent, at his pretensions to being a gentleman (to do Birkland justice, if West had never pretended to be a gentleman at all, he would have admired and liked him). In fact he made him his chief and principal butt; and West, being slow of speech and (outside his own subject) slow of brain, could never reply anything at all to Birkland's sallies, and was left helpless and fuming. Comber was reciting for the hundredth time what it was that he had seen. The whole affair gave him very particular pleasure; he thought Traill a conceited, insufferable young man, who had come in and taken the football out of his hands and supplanted him completely—whenever he thought of it he boiled over with rage; but he had never been able to do anything, because Traill had never given himself away. He played football a great deal better than Comber even in his palmiest days had ever played it. Traill had given him no opportunity until now; but now at last Comber glowed with the thought of the things that he would be able to do. He intended it in no way maliciously—it was simply that the younger generation should be taught its place; let Traill once submit to Comber's rule in the football world and Comber would be pleasant enough. Then Comber did not like Birkland's sharp tongue any more than the rest of the staff did, and Birkland was a friend of Traill's. Of course, on the other side, Comber did not like Perrin either. Perrin was a pompous, pretentious fool, but in this case it was clearly Comber's duty to uphold the senior staff. He was leaning back in his arm-chair, with his chest out and one finger impressively in the air. “There they were, you know, rolling—positively rolling—on the floor. And all the breakfast things broken to bits and the coffee streaming all over the floor—you never saw anything like it. And then up they both got and looked at each other, and went out of the room without a word, brushing past Birkland and me as though we weren't there; didn't they, Birkland?” Birkland was sitting in his chair with a sad, rather cynical, smile on his face, as though he were saying, “This is their kind of life. Look at Comber there, now—how pleased he is with things! Will be happy for a month at least, and all their little private hates and jealousies are being fed just as you feed the snakes at the Zoo. And am I not just as bad as the rest? Am I not pleased, because it will give me a chance of having a hit at the rest of them?... What a set we are!” But he didn't say anything—he just sat there listening, with his contemptuous smile, to Comber. “An awful noise, you know, they made,” Comber went on. “And anything funnier than Perrin when he got up you never saw, with his hair all tousled and pulled about, and dust all over his back, and his cheek bleeding where the coffee-pot had hit him. My word, it was funny!” “At all events,” said Birkland dryly, “we ought all to be glad that you got such amusement out of it, Comber. That's something to be thankful for, at any rate.” “Oh, it's all very well, Birkland,” Comber answered angrily; “you were amused enough yourself, really—you know you were. In any case,” he went on importantly, “the thing can't go on, you know. We can't have junior masters flinging themselves at the throats of senior ones. That sort of thing must be stopped.” So it was at once apparent on whose side Comber was, and everyone trimmed their sails accordingly. If one disliked Comber sufficiently and was not afraid of him, one would, of course, for the moment, side with Traill; and supposing one wished to get into Comber's good graces (no easy thing to do), here would be an excellent opportunity. M. Pons, for instance, thought so. “It is—dégoûtant,” he cried, waving his hands in the air, “that a young man, that is here one month, two months, should catch the throat of his senior. These things,” he added with the air of one who waves gloriously the flag of the Republic, “are not done in my country.” “Well, when they are, perhaps you 'll be able to judge of them better, Pons,” said Birkland. “Until then, I should recommend silence.” M. Pons flushed angrily, but made no reply, and then looked appealingly at Comber. “Of course, Birkland,” said Comber, “if you are going to encourage that sort of spirit in the staff, one has nothing to say. I daresay you would like all the boys to be springing at one another's throats in the same way; if that's what you want, well—“; and he waved his hands expressively. “It's absurd,” said Birkland quietly, “of Perrin to have made such a fuss. As if a man mayn't borrow another man's umbrella without being struck in the face. It's more than absurd, it's childish. It's just the sort of thing that Perrin would do.” “Very well,” said Comber; “let Perrin treat you in the way that Traill's treated him, and you see what you'd say and do. All I know is that you would n't stand it for a minute, you of all men, Birkland.” “What do you mean by that?” Birkland said hotly. “Oh, well, we all know you haven't got the sweetest of tempers, old man,” Comber said laughing. “You can't lay claim to good temper whatever else you may have.” West laughed also and seemed to enjoy the joke immensely. “Of course, you 're on the side of authority, West,” Birkland said. “You naturally would be.” West was all the more annoyed because he didn't in the least understand what Birkland meant. The atmosphere began to get warm. But Comber despised West as an ally and did not think very much of M. Pons, so he turned round to White. White was sitting, as he always did, quietly in the background, without saying anything. He was so quiet that people often forgot that he was there at all. The effect of many years' bullying by Moy-Thompson was to make him agree eagerly with the opinion of the last speaker, and therefore Comber hadn't any doubt about the support that he would receive. But White had never forgotten that handclasp that Traill had given him, and now, to everyone's intense surprise, he said, “I think Birkland's perfectly right. A man oughtn't to lose his temper because another man's borrowed his umbrella. I think Traill's been very hardly used—at any rate, we all know what Perrin must be to live with.” Everyone was surprised, and Comber so astonished that for some time he could find no words at all. At last he broke out, “Well, all I can say is that you people don't know what you 're in for; if you go on encouraging people like Traill to go about stealing people's things—” “Look here, Comber,” Birkland broke in. “You've no right to say stealing. You may as well try and be fair. Traill never stole anything; you'd better be more careful of your words.” “Well, I call it stealing anyhow,” said Comber hotly. “You can call it what you like, Birkland. I daresay you've got pet words of your own for these things. But when a man takes something that is n't his and keeps it—” “He didn't keep it,” Birkland said angrily. “You 're grossly prejudiced, just as you always are.” “What about yourself?” West broke in. “People in glass houses—” At this point the temperature of the room became very warm indeed. Comber was pale with rage; he had never been so insulted before—not that it very much mattered what a wretched creature like Birkland said. He began to explain in a loud voice that some people weren't fit to be in gentlemen's society, and that though, of course, he wouldn't like to mention names, nevertheless, if certain persons thought about it long enough, they would probably find that the cap fitted, and that if only people could occasionally see themselves as others saw them—well, it might be better for everyone concerned, and then perhaps there would be a chance of their behaving decently in decent society, although of course, if one's education had been neglected.... Meanwhile, M. Pons was explaining to West that whether you went in for science or modern languages one's opinion of this sort of affair must be the same, there was no question about it. Birkland was sitting back, white and stiff in his chair and wishing that he might take all their heads and crash them together in one big debacle. Then suddenly, when another two minutes might have been dangerous for everyone concerned, the door was flung open, and Clinton entered. He was excited, he was stirred; it was obvious that he had news. “I say!” he cried, and then stopped. All eyes were upon him. “What do you think?” he cried again, “Traill has just told me. He 's engaged to Miss Desart.” At that there was dead silence—for an instant nobody spoke. Then Comber got up from his chair. “Well, I'm damned!” he said. This was a new development; it is hard to say whether he saw at once then the domestic complications into which it would lead him. Miss Desart had stayed with them again and again; she was their intimate friend. His wife was devoted to her and would, of course, at once espouse her cause. But this piece of news made him, Comber, even angrier than he had been before. His feeling about the engagement defied analysis, but it rested in some curious, hidden way on some strange streak of vanity in him. He had always cared very especially for Miss Desart; he had given her, in his clumsy, heavy way, little attentions and regards that he gave to very few people. He had always thought that she had very great admiration and reverence for himself, and now she had engaged herself without a word to him about it to someone whom he disliked and disapproved of. He was hurt and displeased, he knew that his wife would be delighted—more trouble at home. Here was White openly insulting him in the common room; he was called names by Birkland; a nice, pleasant girl had defied him (it had already come to that); his wife would probably defy him also in an hour or two—with a muttered word or two, he left the gathering. For the others, this engagement was a piquant development that lent a new color to everything. They had all noticed that Mr. Perrin cared for Miss Desart, and now this sudden dramatic announcement was another knock in the face for that poor, battered gentleman. Of course, she would never have accepted him; but, nevertheless, it was rather hard that she should be handed over to his hated rival. “Does Perrin know?” was West's eager question. “No,” said Clinton smiling, “I'm just going to tell him.” <h3> III. </h3> Meanwhile, there is our Mr. Perrin sitting very drearily and alone in front of his somber fire. As he sat there it was n't that he was so much depressed by the morning's affair as that he was so frightened by it—not frightened because of anything that Traill could do, or indeed of anything that anyone could very especially say: he was long past the terror of tongues—but rather afraid of himself and the way that he might be going to behave. He had long ago, when he was a very young man indeed, recognized that there were two Mr. Perrins; indeed, in all probability, more than two. He knew that when he had been quite a boy he had had ideas of being a hero—a hero, of course, just as other young things meant to be heroes, with a great deal of recognition and trumpets and bands and one's face in the papers. He had, moreover, in those days, a stern and ready belief in his own powers and judged, from a comparison of himself with other boys, that he was really promising and had a future. He had heard some preacher in a sermon—he went to sermons very often in those days—say that every man had, once at any rate during his lifetime, his chance, and that it was his own fault if he missed it; that very often people did not know that it had ever come, because they had not been looking out for it, and then they cursed Fate when it was really their own fault—all this Perrin remembered, and he would lie awake at nights on the watch for this chance—this splendid moment. That was one Mr. Perrin; rather a fine one, with a great desire to do the right thing, with a very great love for his mother, and with rather a pathetic anxiety to have friends and affection and to do good. Then there was the other Mr. Perrin—the ill-tempered, pompous, sarcastic, bitter Mr. Perrin. When Perrin No. 1 was uppermost, he recognized and deeply regretted Perrin No. 2; but when Perrin No. 2 was in command, he saw nothing but a spiteful and malignant world trying, as he phrased it, to “do him down.” Now, as he sat sadly by his fire, he saw them both. That Mr. Perrin this morning had, of course, been Perrin No. 2, and Perrin No. 2 very fierce and strong and warlike. Perrin No. 1 was afraid. If this sort of thing continued, then Perrin No. 1 would disappear altogether. This term had been worse than ever, and he had begun it with so strong a determination to make a good thing of it! This young Traill—and then Perrin No. 2 showed his head again, and the room grew dark and there was thunder in the air. But, oh! if he could only have his chance! If he could only prove the kind of man that he could be! If he could only get out of this, away from it—if someone would take him away from it: he did not feel strong enough, after all these years, to go away by himself. And then, suddenly, he thought of Miss Desart. He saw her as his shining light, his beacon. There was his salvation; he would make her love him and care for him. He would show her the kind of man that he could be; and then at the thought of it he began to smile, and a little color crept into his pale cheeks, and he felt that if only that were possible, he might be quite pleasant to Traill and the rest. Oh! they would matter so little! He nodded humorously to the little man on the mantelpiece and fell into a delicious reverie. He forgot the quarrel of the morning, the insults that he had received, all the talk that there would be, all the opportunities that it would give to his enemies to say what they thought about him. And then, perhaps, with her by his side, he might rise to great things: he would have a little house, there would be children, he would be his own master, life would be free, splendid, above all, tranquil. He could make her so fond of him—he was sure that he could; there were sides of him that no one had ever seen—even his mother did not know all that was in him. Perrin No. 1 filled the dingy room with his radiance. There was a knock on the door. Clinton came in, a pipe in his mouth, a book in his hand. “Oh! here's your Algebra that you lent me. I meant to have returned it before.” “Oh, thanks!” Perrin was always rather short with Clinton. “Won't you sit down?” “No thanks, I'm taking prep.” Nevertheless, Clinton lingered a little, talking about nothing in particular; he stood by the mantelpiece, fingering things—a practice that always annoyed Perrin intensely,—then he took up the little china man and looked at him. “Rum chap that,” he said. “Well, chin-chin—” He moved off; he stood for a moment by the door. “Oh, I say!” he said, half turning round, his hand on the handle; “have you heard the news? Traill's engaged to Miss Desart. He's just told me.” He looked at Perrin for a moment, and then went out, banging the door behind him. Perrin did not move; his hands began to shake; then suddenly his head fell between his shoulders, and his body heaved with sobs. He sat there for a long time, then he began to pace his room; his steps were faster and faster—he was like a wild animal in a cage. Suddenly he stopped in front of the little china man. His face was white, his eyes were large and staring; with a wild gesture he picked the thing up and flung it to the ground, where it lay at his feet, smashed into atoms.... <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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