Kitabı oku: «The Gods and Mr. Perrin», sayfa 3

Also she forgot sometimes that they were playing and broke into sentences that had to be instantly checked—as, for instance: “Oh, I saw Mrs.– I’m so sorry, it ‘s my lead.”

“I believe this term.... Oh! I beg your pardon.... What are trumps?”

Every now and again she gazed at the peacock screen, and the clock, and the dark corner of the room where there was a little water-color in a gilt frame, and they gave her comfort.

The end of the rubber came, and Mrs. Dormer refused to play any more; they had had magnificent cards, but she had lost three shillings. She wouldn’t look at Mr. Perrin. He stood nervously moving one foot against the other, pulling his mustache.

“No, really I’m afraid we must go. You ‘ve finished your rubber, Mrs. Comber? Yes, we ought to have won.... No, I can’t think how it was.”

“Considering the way my wife’s been playing,” said Freddie Comber brutally, “I think it is just as well to stop.”

Mrs. Comber chattered with amazing confusion as she helped Mrs. Dormer to get her cloak. In her eyes something bright was shining, and every now and again she put up her band to push back some of her black hair (always on the edge of a perilous descent) with a little, desperate action.

“Good night. I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed it. We meet to-morrow, of course, although I can’t think why they aren’t going to play golf—there’s going to be such a storm in an hour or two, isn’t there?—probably because it’s football to-morrow afternoon. Yes, good-by.” Everyone departed. Mr. Perrin stood desperately with something going up and down in his throat. He had a sentence in his head: “Please, Miss Desart, do let me see you back to the lodge.” (Mrs. Comber had had to plant her out there to sleep because there was no room in their own tiny house.) He meant to say it, he wanted to say it. He clutched his mortar-board frantically in his band. Then suddenly be beard Traill’s voice:

“Oh! please, Miss Desart—of course, I’ll see you back. Good night, Mrs. Comber. Thank you so much—I’ve loved it. Good night, Comber. Night, Perrin. Look out, Miss Desart, it’s dark.”

Perrin felt his band just touched by Miss Desart’s, and her voice, “Good night, Mr. Perrin.”

He was left alone on the step.

VI

I don’t suppose that at this stage of things Isabel bad the very slightest idea of all the emotions that had been in play that evening. Her bead, as they walked away down the dark gravel path, was full of her hostess.

“Poor Mrs. Comber,” she said, and then checked herself as though there were some disloyalty in talking about her. “I hate Mrs. Dormer,” she added quietly.

“I don’t like her,” Traill said. “And Dormer’s such a jolly little man. I don’t envy; him.”

“Oh! I don’t suppose it’s her fault any more than it’s anyone’s fault here about anything they do. It’s all a case of nerves.”

There was going to be a storm soon. Already that little preparatory whisper of the wind, the ominous, frightened rustle of the leaves down the path, was about them. It was all very dark, with a curious white light on the horizon, and the dark buildings of the Lower School huddled against it in sharp, black outline like the broad backs of giants bending to the soil.

The scent of trees—vague and uncertain in the daytime, but now clear and pungent—was borne through the air, and the voice of the sea, rolling in long, mournful cadences far below the hills, came up to them. The wind’s whisper grew into a furious, strangled cry; little eddies of it swept about their feet, and cascades of withered leaves fell wildly against them and were blown, sweeping, streaming away.

They were silent. Traill was thinking of her voice. It was so grave and assured and restful. He thought that he could trust her tremendously. But there was reserve in it too, and he felt, a little hopelessly, that he might never perhaps get to know her better.

When they got to the lodge gates, they stopped and stood for a moment silently.

Then she said, looking very gravely in front of her at the dark bend of the road, “There must be such a storm coming up. I feel it all through me. It was depressing to-night, was n’t it?”

“Just a little,” he said.

“Anyhow, I’m glad you like it—being here. Mind you always do. I don’t want to be pessimistic when you are just beginning; but—well, you don’t mean to stay here for ever, do you?”

“I should think not,” he answered eagerly. “Only a term or two at the most, and then I hope to go back to Clifton, my old school.”

“That’s right—because—really it isn’t a very good place to be—this.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“It’s difficult to explain without maligning people and making things out worse than they really are.” She paused a moment, and then she went on: “Do you know, at the bottom of the hill, just before you get into the village, a melancholy orchard? One always passes it. You will see at the right time of the year lots of green apples on the trees, but they never seem to come to anything. And such blossoms in the spring! I ‘ve seen men working there sometimes. I don’t know what it is, but nothing ‘s any good there. They call it in the village ‘Green Apple Orchard.’… Well, I’ve stayed here a great deal, and there’s an obvious comparison.”

“That’s cheerful,” he said, laughing. “It would, I suppose, be awful if one had to stay here for ever like Perrin and Dormer and the rest of them; but this time next year will see me somewhere better, I hope.”

“Mind you stick to that,” she said eagerly. “I have a horrible kind of feeling that they all meant to go very soon; but here they are still—soured, disappointed. Oh! it doesn’t bear thinking of.”

“One must have ambition,” he answered her confidently.

She smiled at him, and took his hand, and said good night.

He went, smiling, to his room. As he climbed into bed, the storm broke furiously.

CHAPTER IV—BIRKLAND LOQUITUR

I

AT the end of his first month young Traill looked back, as it were from the top of a hill, and thought that it all had been very pleasant. How much of this pleasantness was due to Isabel (although he had seen her during that period extremely seldom) and how much of it was due to his agreeable acceptance of things as they were without any very definite challenge to them to be different, it is impossible to say.

The crowded day had of course something to do with it: the fact that there was never from the first harsh clanging of the bell down the stone passages at half-past six to the last leap into bed, jumping as it were from a heap of Latin exercises and the cold challenge of Perrin’s voice as he went round the dormitories turning lights out—never a moment’s pause to think about anything extra at all. But he was in no way a reflective person. He saw that his own small boys in their untidy, scrambling kind of way liked him and that the bigger boys of the Upper Fourth, to whom he taught French twice a week, revered him because of his football.

The masters at the Upper School seemed pleasant fellows, although he might, had he thought about it, have perceived dimly an atmosphere of unrest and discomfort in their common room.

With Moy-Thompson as yet he had had no dealings at all. He had been to supper there once on Sunday night, had been appalled by the dreariness of the whole affair, the shrivelled ill-temper of Moy-Thompson’s parents (aged about ninety apiece), the inadequacy of the food, the melancholy inertia of Mrs. Moy-Thompson; but he had had no nearer relations with him.

He had, indeed, already begun to perceive that in his own common room things were not quite as they should be. He was always an exceedingly equable and easy-tempered person, and he had been surprised at himself on several occasions for being irritated at very unimportant and insignificant details. There were, for instance, the incidents of the bath and the morning papers. Both of these incidents derived their irritation from their original connection with Perrin, and this might have led him, had he thought about it, to the discovery that he did not like Perrin and that Perrin did not like him. But he never dwelt upon things—he was always thinking of the matter immediately in hand, and where there was an empty reflective quarter of an hour his eyes were on Isabel.

The incident of the bath was, it might have been thought, inconsiderable.

Perrin’s bedroom was next to Traill’s. Opposite their doors, on the other side of the passage, was a bathroom containing two baths. In this bathroom Traill always arrived some minutes after Perrin. Try as he might, he never succeeded in arriving first. Perrin always filled both baths, one with hot and one with cold, and stood moodily, his naked body gaunt and bony in the gray light, watching them whilst they filled. Traill was forced to wait until Perrin had had both his baths before he could have his. At first it had seemed a small matter. Gradually as the days passed the irritation grew. There was something in Perrin’s complacent immobility as he stood above his bath that was of itself annoying. Why should a man wait? One morning they rushed out together. There were words.

“I say, Perrin, why not have hot and cold in the same bath?”

“Really, Traill, it isn’t, I should have thought, quite your place....”

Traill sometimes dreamt early in the morning of French exercises, of the midday mutton, of Perrin’s bony, ugly body watching the bath. If Traill had thought about it, he would have seen that Perrin did not like him.

The incident of the morning paper was equally trivial. Dormer always had breakfast in his own house, and that left therefore three of them. They clubbed together and provided three newspapers—the Morning Post, the Daily Mail, and a local affair. It was obvious that the person who came in last was left with the local paper. Perrin generally came in last, because he took early prep, in the Upper School, and he expected that the Morning Post should be left for him. But Traill, as he paid the same subscription as Perrin, did not see why this should be. Clinton always took the Daily Mail, and therefore Perrin had to be contented with the Cornish News. There was at last an argument. Traill refused to give way. The rest of the meal was eaten in absolute silence. Perrin came no more to Traill’s room for an evening chat—a very small matter.

But at the end of the first month Traill did not see these things as in any way ominous. He could keep his boys in order. He liked his game of football; he was in a glow because he was in love—moreover, he had never quarreled with anyone in his life. He did not know that he had made any progress with Isabel. It was very difficult to see her. She came down sometimes to watch them play football; after Chapel in the evening, he had walked up the little dark lane with her, the stars above the dark, cloudy trees, and the leaves a carpet about their feet—and at every meeting he loved her more. When he had spare hours in the afternoon he liked to walk to the Brown Wood or down to the sea. Once or twice he bicycled over to Pendragon and had tea with the Trojans. Sir Henry Trojan was a man who had appealed to him immensely. In spite of his size and strength and simplicity, his air of a man who lived out of doors and read little, he had a tremendous poetic passion for Cornwall. He showed Traill a great many things that were new to him. He began to feel a sense of color; he saw the Brown Wood, the twisting, gray-roofed village, the sweeping, striving sea with fresh vision. He stopped sometimes in his walks and drew a deep breath at the way that the lights and colors were hung about him. Of course the contrast of his school life drove these other things against him—and also his love for Isabel.

These little things would have no importance were it not that they all helped to blind him to his true relations with Perrin. He did not think about Perrin at all; he did not think about his life even in any very definite way.

He never analyzed things; he took things and used them.

And then at the end of that first month Birkland talked in the most amazing way....

II

Traill had been attached to Birkland from the first. The man had definite personality—aggressive in its influence—and contempt of the rest of the common room, but they justified it to some extent by their own terror of his tongue and their eager criticism of him behind his back.

He had treated Traill like the rest, but then Traill never noticed it. He was not afraid of Birkland, he never resented his criticism, and he appreciated his humor.

And then suddenly one evening Birkland asked him to come and see him. His room was untidy—littered with school-books, exercise-books, stacks of paper to be corrected; but behind this curtain of discomfort there were signs of other earlier things: some etchings, dusty and uncared for, sets of Meredith and Pater, some photographs, and a large engraving of Whistler’s portrait of his mother. The latticed window was open, and from the night outside, blowing into the gusty candles, there were the scent of decaying leaves and a faint breath of the distant sea.

Birkland was thin—sticks of legs and arms; a short, wiry mustache; heavy, overhanging eyebrows; thin, straight, stiff hair turning a little gray. He gave Traill a drink, watched him fill a pipe; and then, huddled in his armchair, his legs crossed under him, his eyes full on the open window and the night sky, he asked Traill questions.

“And so you like it?”

“Yes—immensely!”

“Why?”

“Well—why not? After all, it gives a fellow what he wants. There’s plenty of exercise—the hours are healthy—the fellows are quite nice fellows. I like teaching.”

Traill gave a sigh of satisfaction, and, after all, he had omitted his principal reason.

“Yes. How long do you mean to stay here?”

“Oh! a year, I suppose. Then I ought to get to Clifton.”

“Yes. You’d better not tell the Head that, though. How do you like the other men?”

“Oh, I think they ‘re very good fellows. Dormer’s splendid.”

“Yes—and Perrin?”

“Oh! he’s all right. He seems to get annoyed pretty easily. As a matter of fact, I have felt rather irritated once or twice.”

“Yes—everyone’s wanted to cut Perrin’s throat some time or other. As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t wonder if it was n’t the other way round—one day.”

There was a pause, and then Birkland said, “And so you like it.”

“Yes, of course; don’t you?”

Birkland laughed. There was a long pause. Then Traill said again, rather uncertainly, “Don’t you?”

He had never thought of Birkland as an unhappy man—as a matter of fact he never thought of people as being definite kinds of people, and he scarcely ever read novels.

Then Birkland spoke: “You had better not ask me that, young man, if you want an encouraging answer.”

Then very slowly, after another pause, the words came out: “I’m going to speak the truth to you to-night for the good and safety of your soul, and I haven’t cared for the good and safety of anyone’s soul for—well!—I should be afraid to say how long. I’m afraid—I don’t really care very much about the safety of yours—but I care enough to speak to you; and the one thing I say to you is—get out—get away. Fly for your life.” His voice sank to a whisper. “If you don’t, you will die very soon—in a year perhaps. We are all dead here, and we died a great many years ago.”

Traill moved uncomfortably in his chair. He smiled across the flickering candles at Birkland.

“Oh! I say,” he said, “that’s a bit of exaggeration, isn’t it? I suppose one is tired sometimes, of course; but, after all, there are a good many men in the country who make a pretty good thing out of mastering and are n’t so very miserable.”

It was evident that he thought that it was all a kind of joke on Birkland’s part. He pulled contentedly at his pipe.

But the other man went on: “I shouldn’t have said this at all if I hadn’t meant it, and if I hadn’t got twenty years of experience behind me to prove what I say. I don’t know why I’m bothering you, I’m sure; but now I’ve begun I’m going on, and you’ve got to listen. You can’t say you haven’t been given your chance. Have you ever looked round the common room and seen what kind of men they are?”

“Of course,” said Traill; “but,” he added modestly, “I’m not observant, you know. I’m not at all a clever kind of chap.”

“Well, you would have seen what I’m telling you written in their faces right enough. Mind you—what I’m saying to you doesn’t apply to the first-class public school. That’s a different kind of thing altogether. I’m talking about places like Moffatt’s—places that are trying to be what they are not—to do what they can’t do—to get higher than they can reach. There are thousands of them all over the country—places where the men are underpaid, with no prospects, herded together, all of them hating each other, wanting, perhaps, towards the end of term, to cut each other’s throats. Do you suppose that that is good for the boys they teach?”

He paused and relit his pipe, and his voice was, too, measured, but showing in its tensity his emotion.

“It’s a different thing with the bigger places. There, there is more room; the men don’t live so close together; they are paid better; there is a chance of getting a house; there is the esprit de corps of the school… but here, my God!”

Birkland bent forward, his face white, over the candles.

“Get out of it, Traill, you fool! You say, in a year’s time. Don’t I know that? Do you suppose that I meant to stay here for ever when I came? But one postpones moving. Another term will be better, or you try for a thing, fail, and get discouraged… and then suddenly you are too old—too old at thirty-three—earning two hundred a year… too old! and liable to be turned out with a week’s notice if the Head doesn’t like you—turned out with nothing to go to; and he knows that you are afraid of him and he has games with you.”

Traill stared at the little man’s burning eyes. How odd of Birkland to talk like this!

“You think you will escape, but already the place has its fingers about you. You will be a different man at the end of the term. You will be allowed no friends here, only enemies. You think the rest of us like you. Well, for a moment perhaps, but only for a moment. Soon something will come… already you dislike Perrin. You must not be friends with the Head, because then we shall think that you are spying on us. You must not be friends with us, because then the Head will hear of it and will immediately hate you because he will think that you are conspiring against him. You must not be friends with the boys, because then we shall all hate you and they will despise you. You will be quite alone. You think that you are going to teach with freshness and interest—you are full of eager plans, new ideas. Every plan, every idea, will be immediately killed. You must not have them—they are not good for examinations—you are trying to show that you are superior.”

Birkland paused. Traill moved uneasily in his chair.

“Wait! You must hear me out. It all goes deeper than these things. It is murder—self-murder. You are going to kill—you have got to kill—every fine thought, every hope, that you possess. You will be laughed at for your ambitions, your desires. You will not even be allowed any fine vices. You must never go anywhere, because you are neglecting your work. You have no time. Here we are—fifteen men—all hating each other, loathing everything that the other man does—the way he eats, the way he moves, the way he teaches. We sleep next door to each other, we eat together, we meet all day until late at night—hating each other.”

“After all,” said Traill, still smiling, “it is only a month or two, and there are holidays.”

“If term lasted another week or two,” went on Birkland quietly, “murder would be committed. The holidays come, and you go out into the world to find that you are different from all other men—to find that they know that you are different. You are patronizing, narrow, egotistic. You realize it slowly; you see them shunning you—and then back you go again. God knows, they should not hate us—these others! they should pity us. If you marry, see what it is—look at Mrs. Dormer, Mrs. Comber, Mrs. Moy-Thompson. Look at their husbands, their life. There is marriage—no money, no prospects, perhaps in the end starvation! And gradually there creeps over you a dreadful and horrible inertia: you do not care—you do not think—you are a ghost. If one of us dies, we do not mind—we do not think about it. Only, towards the end of the term, when the examinations come, there creeps about the place a new devil. All our nerve is gone; our hatred of each other begins to be active. It is the end-of-termy devil.... Another week or two, and there is no knowing what we might do. We are all tired, horribly tired. Be careful then what you do and what you say.”

“My word!” said Traill, filling his pipe, “what a horrible picture of things! You must be out of sorts. Why, it’s hysteria!”

Birkland had crawled back into his chair again. He puffed at his pipe.

“Oh! of course you don’t see it!” he said. “After all, why should you? But it’s true, every word of it. Oh! I’m resigned enough now. Besides, it’s the beginning of the term. I’m inclined to think it’s untrue, myself, just now. Wait and see. Watch White after he’s had an interview with the Head—see Perrin and Comber together later on—study Mrs. Comber. But don’t you bother. You won’t listen to me—why should you? Only, in ten years’ time you ‘ll remember.”

After that they talked of other things. Birkland was rather amusing in his sharp, caustic way.

“I say,” said Traill as he stood by the door on the way out, “that was all rot; was n’t it?”

“What was?” asked Birkland.

“Why, about the place—this place.”

“All rot!” said Birkland gravely.

III

But of course one dismisses these things very soon—especially, and immediately, if the person in question is Archie Traill.

Why think about a problematic and depressing forty? Take these men that Birkland so gloomily points to as disappointing and unsatisfactory exceptions. Life is like that. There are always the riders who collapse into ditches and sit there mumbling, wishing for the company, down in the dirt and the grime, of their fellow-horsemen.

Meanwhile there is this fine autumn weather. Birkland remains a crabbed shadow; life is sharp, pungent—formed with faint blue skies, dim and shining like clear glass with a hard yellow sun stuck like a tethered balloon between saucer-clouds.

Archie Traill, on a free afternoon—an early frost had made the ground too hard for football—in the week after that Birkland evening, stood in the village street as the church clock struck half-past three, and he thanked God for a half-holiday.

The air was so still that the distant mining stamps and the breaking sea had it for the plain of their unceasing war, cannon against cannon, and the withdrawing rattle of their rival shot echoing against the blue horizon and the stiff side of the Brown Hill. The village cobbles shone and glittered; the gray roofs lay like carpets spread to dry. The brown church tower seemed to sway—so motionless was the rest of the world—with the clatter of its chiming clocks.

Suddenly Isabel Desart turned the corner. “Good afternoon, Mr. Traill,” and the clasp of her hand was strong and clean as all the rest of her movements. She smiled at him as she always smiled, a little ironically and also a little seriously, as though she found the world a strange place, ought to think it a solemn one, but couldn’t help finding it funny.

Three old women, their skirts kilted about them, their eyes fixed on vacancy, flung their voices into the silence like balls against a board.

“And she only sixteen—what a size!”

“Only sixteen!—to think of it!”

“With her great legs and all!”

“Only sixteen…!”

The man and woman moved up the road together. She was usually so full of things to say that her silence surprised him. The thought that his presence could possibly be agitating to her, and therefore responsible, drove the blood to his head, and then he rebuked himself for a presumptuous fool. But if he had spoken, he would have had to tell her that he loved her—and it was n’t time yet.

But at last he broke against the silence very quietly. “We must talk, one of us—it is so wonderfully quiet that it’s alarming.”

She turned round to him, and suddenly, so that he stopped in the road and looked at her, she put her hand on his arm.

“We are both so frightfully young,” she said.

“Why, yes,” he said, laughing at her; “but why not?”

“Why, for the things that we ‘ll have to do. You for the boys, and I for my poor Mrs. Comber. I had thought when I saw you first that you were going to be old enough, but I don’t think you are.”

“I know that I can’t—” he began.

“Oh! it isn’t for anything that you can’t do!” she broke in. “It’s just because you don’t see it—why should you? You ‘re too much in the middle—I suppose it’s only outsiders who can really understand. But I get so depressed sometimes with it all that I think that I will leave it and go back to London and never come here again. One doesn’t seem to be any use—no use at all. And it all seems worse in the autumn somehow. Poor Mr. Traill! I always happen to be gloomy when you catch me, and I’m not gloomy really in the least.”

“But what is it all about? And don’t go to London, please. You mustn’t think of it.”

He was so much in earnest that she turned and looked at him. “Why?” she said gravely. “Do you like my being here?” And then, before he could say anything, she added, reflectively, “Well, that’s one, at any rate.

“I have to go in here,” she said, stopping before a gate with a drive behind it. “Tea, you understand.” Then she gave him her hand. “Although you don’t in the least know what I mean, you ‘re a help,” she said; “and I shall look across the chapel floor in the evening and know that I have a friend. Sometimes when I’m down here—out of it—and everything’s so fresh and clear, like to-night, I think that it can’t be true—the things that go on. Oh! I’m so sorry for them, all of them.” She went through the gate and looked back at him. “But I don’t want to have to be sorry for you as well—please,” she added, and was lost in the trees.

But he, in his triumphant, buoyant sensation of things having moved a step—or even a good many steps further—was ready that she should be sorry or have any sensation whatever so long as she thought of him. Her claiming Chapel-time as a meeting-ground made that somewhat irritating and so swiftly recurrent a ceremonial a thrice-blessed moment to which he might eagerly look forward throughout the day. But it is not my intention to give you all his symptoms—his passion is in no way the chief point; it was simply one of the things that helped in the culminating issue.

Isabel, meanwhile, found that throughout the tea-party her little conversation with Traill ran in her head. It was not a very interesting tea-party—three old ladies who regarded her as something very dangerous and alarming and offered her cake as though they expected it to turn into a bomb in her hands. She looked at their comfortable fire, their dark, cozy drawing-room, their caps and shawls, with the eye of someone whose passage through that country was very swift and whose language was not theirs. The dancing glow of the firelight, the tinkle of the tea-things, the softness of the rugs at her feet, were not the expression of her idea of life, and she flung them away from her and thought of Moffatt’s and the night outside. Throughout their soft and courteous speech her mind was with Traill. He had said, “Don’t go to London, please,” and he had meant it—it was almost as though he had appealed to her from a sudden vision that he had of all that was in front of him. She knew, of course—she had seen it happen so very often before; and perceived that for this man, too, with his bright, eager challenge of life, his absurdly young notion of the way that things would be certain to be simple when they were never simple at all, grim, baffling disappointment was at hand. To her those red walls of Moffatt’s were alive, moving—crushing, as in some story that she had once read, relentlessly the victims that were hidden within. Perhaps he had suddenly seen or understood something of that—there had come to him some forewarning. Her cheek reddened at the thought and her breath came quickly. She liked him—she had liked him from the first—she liked him very much; and if he wanted her to help him, she would do all that she could. She said good-by to the three old ladies and left them behind her with a little humorous laugh. It was right that there should be three old ladies living like that, so cozily and comfortably, with their fires and their carpets, at the very foot of Moffatt’s. How little people realized! These old ladies with their park gates and long drive! How they would roll up in their carriage!… and the Moffatt’s!

It was dark, and the long hill that stretched above her was black and ominous. The lights of Moffatt’s showed, to the right at the top, and the darker shape of its buildings cut the lighter gray of the sky. There was a lamp-post at the corner of the road, and as she closed the gates behind her with a clang she heard a voice say, “Good evening, Miss Desart,” and saw that Mr. Perrin was at her side. Mr. Perrin always made her feel nervous, and now, in the dark, she instinctively shrank back, but it was only for an instant, and she was immediately ashamed of her fears. She could not see his face, but she fancied that his voice trembled–he seemed troubled about something; and then that feeling of pity that she had for him before came upon her again, and her voice was softer and more tender.

“It was—um—a great piece of good fortune for me that I should be passing just when you were coming out—a great piece of good fortune.”

He seemed very nervous.

“And for me too,” she said; “this hill grows extraordinarily dark, and I stayed on longer than I ought to have done. Have you been paying calls, too?”

“Oh, no! I—um—never pay calls—merely a stroll down to the village to buy some tobacco—merely that—nothing more… yes, merely that… simply some tobacco.”