Kitabı oku: «The Gods and Mr. Perrin», sayfa 6

CHAPTER VII—THE BATTLE OP THE UMBRELLA; THEY OPEN FIRE

I

BUT, during the week that followed, Traill’s good-temper slowly reasserted itself once more. After all, it was really impossible to be angry with anyone when the world was alight and trembling with so wonderful an adventure. They had each of them written to those in authority. Isabel had a complacent father who knew something of young Traill’s family and, answering at once, said that he would come down to see them and made it his only stipulation that the engagement should last for at least a year, until they were both a little older. Traill’s mother was delighted with anything that could give her son such happiness. It had all been very sudden of course; but then, was not true love always like that? Had not she, a great many years ago, fallen in love with Archie’s father “all in a minute,” and was not that the beautiful incautious way that the new practical generation seemed so often to forget? So, she sent him her blessing and also wrote a little note to Isabel.

But they still kept their secret from the others. They meant every day to reveal it, but they shrank, as each morning came, from all the talk and chatter that would at once follow. It would mean an end, Isabel knew, to any easy and pleasant relations that she might have with anyone at the school. She never understood the reason, but she knew that they would feel that she had acted in a conceited, presuming manner. It would not be pleasant.

So their meetings were, during these days, few and difficult. They met in the wood and at the sea, and their eyes crossed over the chapel floor, and they even wrote to one another and posted them elaborately in the letter-box.

But on any morning the secret might be revealed. Traill told Isabel about his quarrel with Perrin, and she urged him to make it up.

“When we ourselves are so happy,” she said, “we can’t quarrel with anyone—and, poor man, no wonder his temper is irritable. He’s a miserably disappointed man, and I don’t think he’s very well either. He looks dreadfully white and strained sometimes. We can afford to put up with some ill-temper from other people, Archie, just now. When we are so happy and he is so unhappy, it is a little unfair, isn’t it?”

And so he kissed her and went back resolved to be pleasant and agreeable. But Perrin gave him no opportunity. They spoke to each other a little at meals for appearance’ sake, but any advances that Traill made were cut short at once without hesitation.

Perrin passed about the passages and the class-rooms during this week heavily, with a white face and a lowering brow—he had headaches, bad headaches; and his form suffered.

II

And so it was suddenly, without warning or preparation, that the storm broke—the storm that was to be remembered for years afterwards at Moffatt’s: the great Battle of the Umbrella, about which strange myths grew up, that will become, doubtless, in later centuries at Moffatt’s a strange Titanic contest, with gods for its warriors and thunderbolts for their weapons; the great battle that involved not only the central combatants, not only Traill and Perrin and their lives and fortunes, but also others—the Combers, the matrons, the masters, the whole world of that place seized by the Furies… and, in the corner, in that umbrella-stand by the hall door, underneath the stairs, that faded green umbrella—now, we suppose, passed into that limbo into which all umbrellas must eventually go, but then the gage, the glove, the sign token of all that was to come.

Let, moreover, no one imagine that these things are not possible. This Battle of the Umbrella stands for more, for far more, than its immediate contest. Here is the whole protest and appeal of all those crowded, stifled souls buried of their own original free-will beneath fantastic piles of scribbled paper, cursing their fate, but unable to escape from it, seeing their old age as a broken, hurried scrambling to a no-man’s grave, with no dignity nor suavity, with no temper nor discipline, with nerves jangling like the broken wires of a shattered harp—so that there is no comfort or hope in the future, nothing but disappointment and insult in the past, and the dry, bitter knowledge of failure in the present—this is the Battle of the Umbrella.

It was Monday morning, and Monday morning is worse than any other day of the week.

There has been, in spite of many services and the reiteration of religious stories concerning which a shower of inconvenient questions are flung at the uncertain convictions of authority, a relief in the rest and repose of the preceding day.

Sunday was, at any rate, a day to look forward to in that it was different from the other six days of the week, and although it might not on its arrival show quite so pleasant a face as earlier hours had given it, nevertheless it was something—a landmark if nothing else.

And now on this dark and dreary Monday—with the first hour a tedious and bickering discussion on Divinity, and the second hour a universal and embittered Latin exercise—that early rising to the cold summoning of the hell was anything but pleasant.

Moreover, on this especial Monday the rain came thundering in furious torrents, and the row of trees opposite the Lower School wailed and cried with their dripping, naked boughs, and all the brown leaves on the paths were beaten and flattened into a miserable and hopeless pulp.

Monday was the only morning in the week on which Traill took early preparation at the Upper School, and he had noticed before that it nearly always rained on Mondays. He was in no very bright temper as he hurried down the cold stone passages, pulling on his gown and avoiding the bodies of numerous small boys who flung themselves against him as they rushed furiously downstairs in order to be in time for call-over.

He heard the rain beating against the window-panes and hurriedly selected the first umbrella that he saw in the stand and rushed to the Upper School.

That preparation hour was unpleasant. M. Pons, the French master, was in the room above him, and the ceiling shook with the delighted stamp of twenty boys blessed with a sense of humor and an opportunity of power. M. Pons could be figured with shaking hands in the middle of the room, appealing for quiet. And, as was ever the case, the spirit of rebellion passed down through the ceiling to the room beneath. Traill had his boys well under control; but whereas on ordinary occasions it was all done without effort and worked of its own accord, on this morning continual persistence was necessary, and he had to make examples of various offenders.

A preparation hour always invited the Seven Devils to dance across the two hundred of open books, and the tweaking of boys’ bodies and the digging of pins into unsuspecting legs was the inevitable result. Traill rose at the end of the hour, cross, irritable, and already tired. He hurried down to the Lower School to breakfast and forgot the umbrella.

The rain was driving furiously against the window-panes of the Junior common room. The windows were tightly closed, and still the presence of yesterday’s mutton was felt heavily, gloomily, about the ceiling. The brown and black oilcloth contained numberless little winds and draughts that leapt out from under it and crept here and there about the room.

A small fire was burning in the grate—a mountain of black coal and stray spirals of gray smoke, and little white edges of unburnt paper hanging from the black bars. Beyond the side door voices quarreling in the kitchen could be heard, and beyond the other door a hum of voices and a clatter of cups.

It was all so dingy that it struck even the heavy brain of Clinton, who was down first. Perrin was taking breakfast in the big dining-room, and Traill was not yet hack from the Upper School.

Clinton seized the Morning Post and, with a grunt of dissatisfaction at the general appearance of things, sat down. He never thought very intently about anything, but, in a vague way, he did dislike Monday and rain and a smoking fire. He helped himself to more than his share of the breakfast, ate it in large, noisy mouthfuls, found the Morning Post dull, and relapsed on to the Daily Mail. The rain and the quarreling in the kitchen were very disturbing.

Then Traill came in and sat down with an air of relief. He had no very great opinion of Clinton, but they got on together quite agreeably, and he found that it was rather pleasanter to have an entirely negative person with one—it was not necessary to think about him.

“My word,” said Clinton, his eyes glued to the Daily Mail, “the London Scottish fairly wiped the floor with the Harlequins yesterday—two goals and a try to a try—all that man Binton—extraordinary three-quarter—no flies on him! Have some sausages? Not bad. I wonder if they ‘ll catch that chap Deakin?”

“Deakin?” said Traill rather drearily, looking up from his breakfast. How dismal it all was this morning! Oh, well—in a year’s time!

“Yes, you know—the Hollins Road murder—the man who cut his wife and mother into little bits and mixed them up so that they couldn’t tell which was which. There’s a photograph of him here and his front door.”

“I think,” said Traill, shortly, “following up murder trials like that is perfectly beastly. It isn’t civilized.”

“All right!” said Clinton, helping himself to the remaining sausages. “Perrin’s having breakfast in there, isn’t he? He won’t want any more.”

“He sometimes does,” said Traill, feeling that at the moment he hated Clinton’s good-natured face more than anything in the whole world. “He’s awfully sick if he comes in hungry and doesn’t find anything.”

Clinton smiled. “He’s rather amusing when he’s sick,” he said. “He so often is. By the way, has the Head passed those exam, questions of yours yet?”

“No,” said Traill, frowning. “He ‘s made me do them five times now, and last time he crossed but a whole lot of questions that he himself had suggested the time before. I pointed that out to him, and he called me, politely and gently, but firmly, a liar. There’s no question that he’s got his knife into me now, and I’ve got friend Perrin to thank for it!”

“Yes,” said Clinton, helping himself to marmalade, “Perrin does n’t love you—there’s no question of that. Young Garden Minimus has been helping the feud.”

“Garden? What’s he got to do with it?”

“Well, you know that he was always Old Pompous’ especial pet—well, Pompous has riled him, kept him in or something, so now he goes about telling everybody that he’s transferred his allegiance to you. That makes Pompous sick as anything.”

“I like the kid especially,” Traill said. “He ‘s rather a favorite of mine.”

“Yes,” said Clinton. “Well, look out for trouble, that ‘s all. There ‘ll be open war between you soon if you are not careful.”

At that moment Perrin came in. He was continuing, as he entered, a conversation with some small boy whose head just appeared at the door for a moment and revealed Garden Minimus.

“Well, a hundred times,” Perrin was saying, “and you don’t go out till you ‘ve done it.”

Garden displayed annoyance, and was heard to mutter under his breath. Perrin’s face was gray; his hair appeared to be unbrushed, and there was a good deal of white chalk on the back of his sleeve.

“Really, it’s too bad,” he said to no one in particular and certainly not to Traill. “I don’t know what’s come over that boy—nothing but continuous impertinence. He shall go up to the Head if he isn’t careful. Such a nice boy, too, before this term.”

At this moment he saw that Traill was reading the Morning Post and Clinton the Daily Mail. He looked as though he were going to say something, then by a tremendous effort controlled himself. He stood in front of the dismal fire and looked at the other two, at the dreary window-panes and the driving rain, at the dusty pigeon-holes, the untidy heap of books, the torn lists hanging from the wall.

He had slept badly—had lain awake for hours thinking of Miss Desart, of his own miserable condition, of his poor mother—and then, slumbering at last, in an instant he had been pulled, dragged wide-awake by that thundering, clamoring bell.

He had been so tired that his eyes had refused to open, and he had sat stupidly on the edge of his bed with his head swaying and nodding. Then he had been late for preparation, and he knew that they had been “playing about” and had rubbed Somerset-Walpole’s head in the ink and had stamped on his body, because, although it was so early, Somerset-Walpole’s eyes were already red, his back a horrible confusion of dust and chalk, his hair and collar ink and disaster.

He was sorry for Somerset-Walpole, whose days were a perpetual tragedy; but as there was no other obvious victim, he selected him for the subject of his wrath, expatiated to the form on the necessity of getting up clean in the morning, and sent the large, blubbering creature up to the matron to be cleansed and scolded. Verily the delights of some people’s school days have been vastly exaggerated!

Then Garden Minimus had been discovered sticking nibs into the fleshy portion of his neighbor, and, although he had vehemently denied the crime, had been heavily punished and had therefore sulked during the rest of the hour. At breakfast-time Perrin had called him up to him and had hinted that if he chose to be agreeable once again the punishment might be relaxed; but Garden did not please, and sulked and muttered under his breath, and Perrin thought he had caught the word “Pompous.”

All these things may have been slight in themselves, but combined they amounted to a great deal—and all before half-past eight in the morning. Also he had had very little to eat.

He had been brought a small red tomato and a hard, rocky wedge of bacon with little white eyes in it, and an iron determination to hold out at all costs, whatever the consumer’s appetite and determination. He smelt, when he came into the common room, sausages, and he saw, with a glance of the eye, that there were sausages no longer.

“I really think, Clinton,” he said, “that a little less appetite on your part in the early morning would be better for everyone concerned.”

Clinton was always perfectly good-tempered, and all he said now was, “All right, old chap—I always have an awful appetite in the morning. I always had.”

Perrin drew himself to his full height and prepared to be dignified.

Clinton said, “I say, old man, you ‘ve got chalk all over your sleeve.”

And Perrin, finding that it was indeed true, could say nothing and feebly tried to brush it off with his hand.

Traill had not spoken since Perrin had come in. He disliked intensely the atmosphere of restraint in the room. He had never before been on such bad terms with anyone, and now at every turn there were discomforts, difficulties, stiffnesses. At this moment he loathed the term and the place and the people as he had never loathed any of them before; he felt that he could not possibly last until the holidays.

Perrin was going to the Upper School for first hour. He was going to teach Divinity, the lesson that he loathed most of all. He gathered his. books up and his gown, and went out into the hall to find his umbrella. The rain was falling more heavily than before, and lashed the panes as though it had some personal grievance against them.

Robert, the general factotum—a long, pale man with a spotty face and a wonderful capacity for dropping china—came in to collect the breakfast things. He passed, clattering about the table. Traill was still deep in the Morning Post.

Perrin came in with a clouded brow. “I can’t find,” he said, “my umbrella.”

The rain beat upon the frames, Robert clashed the plates together, but there was no answer. Clinton’s head was in his pigeonhole, looking for papers.

“Robert, have you seen my umbrella?”

No, Robert had not seen any umbrella. He might have seen an umbrella last week, somewhere upstairs, in Miss Madder’s room—an umbrella with lace, pink—Oh! of course, a parasol. There were three umbrellas in the stand by the hall door. Perhaps one of those was the one. No? Mr. Perrin had looked? Well, he didn’t know of anywhere else. No—perhaps one of the young gentlemen.... There was nothing at all to be got out of Robert.

“Clinton!” No answer. “Clinton!”

At last Clinton turned round.

“Clinton, have you seen my umbrella?”

“No, old man—why should I? Isn’t it outside?”

It was getting late, the rain was pelting down, and Perrin was quite determined that he would not under any circumstances use anyone else’s umbrella.

He went out again and looked in the hall. He was beginning to get very angry. Was not this the last straw sent by the little gods to break his humble back? That it should be raining, that he should be late, and that there should be no umbrella! He stormed about the hall, he looked in impossible places, he shook the three umbrellas that were there; he began to mutter to himself—the little red and yellow china man was creeping down the stairs. He was shaking all over, and his hands were trembling like leaves.

He came into the common room again. “I can’t think—” he said, with his trembling hand to his forehead. “I know I had it yesterday—last night. Clinton, you must have seen it.”

“No,” said Clinton in that abstract voice that is so profoundly irritating because it shows that the speaker’s thoughts are far away. “No—I don’t think I’ve seen it. What did I do with that Algebra? Oh! there it is. My word! is n’t it raining!”

The Upper School bell began, far in the distance, its raucous clanging. Perrin was pacing up and down the room; every now and again he flung a furtive glance at Traill. Traill had paid, hitherto, no attention to the conversation. At last, hearing the Upper School bell, he looked up.

“What’s the matter?” he said.

“Really, Robert,” said Perrin, turning round to the factotum, “you must have seen it somewhere. It’s absurd! I want to go out.”

“There are the other gentlemen’s,” said Robert, looking a little frightened of Perrin’s twitching lips and white face.

It dawned upon Traill slowly that Perrin was looking for an umbrella. Then on that it followed that possibly the umbrella that he had taken that morning might be Perrin’s umbrella.

Of course it must be Perrin’s umbrella. It was just the sort of umbrella, with its faded silk and stupid handle, that Perrin would be likely to have. However, it was really very awkward—most awkward.

He stood up and stayed with a hand nervously fingering the Morning Post.

Perrin rushed once more into the hall and then came furiously back. “I must have my umbrella,” he said, storming at Robert. “I want to go to the Upper School.”

He had left the door a little open.

“I am very sorry,” Traill began; the paper crackling beneath his fingers.

Perrin wheeled round and stared at him, his face very white.

“I’m very sorry,” said Traill again, “but I’m afraid I must have taken it—my mistake. I wouldn’t have taken it if I had dreamed—”

“You!” said Perrin in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes,” said Traill, “I’m afraid I took the first one I saw this morning. I’m afraid it must have been yours, as yours is missing. I assure you—”

He was smiling a little—really it was all too absurd. His smile drove Perrin into a trembling passion. He took a step forward.

“You dared to take my umbrella?” he said, “without asking? I never heard such a piece of impertinence. But it’s all of a piece—all of a piece!”

“But it’s really too absurd,” Traill broke in. “As though a man mightn’t take another man’s umbrella without all this disturbance. It’s too absurd.”

“Oh! is it?” said Perrin, his voice shaking. “That’s all of a piece—that’s exactly like the rest of your behavior here. You come here thinking that everything and everyone belongs to you. Oh, yes! we’ve all got to bow down to everything that your Highness chooses to say. We must give up everything to your Highness—our clothes, our possessions—you conceited—insufferable puppy!”

These words were gasped out. Perrin was now entirely beside himself with rage. He saw this man here before him as the originator of all his misfortunes, all his evils. He had put the other masters against him, he had put the boys against him, he had taken Garden away from him, he had been against him at every turn.

All control, all discipline, everything had fled from Mr. Perrin. He did not remember where he was, he did not remember that Robert was in the room, he did not remember that the door was open and that the boys could hear his shrill, excited voice. He only knew that here, in this smiling, supercilious, conceited young man, was his enemy, the man who would rob and ruin him.

“Really, this is too absurd,” said Traill, stepping back a little, and conscious of the startled surprise on the face of Robert—he did not want to have a scene before a servant. “I am exceedingly sorry that I took your umbrella. I don’t see that that gives you any reason to speak to me like that. We can discuss the matter afterwards—not here.”

“Oh, yes!” screamed Perrin, moving still nearer his enemy. “Oh! of course to you it is nothing—nothing at all—it is all of a piece with the rest of your behavior. It you don’t know how to behave like a gentleman, it’s time someone taught you. Gentlemen don’t steal other people’s things. You can be put in prison for that sort of thing, you know.”

“I didn’t steal your beastly umbrella,” said Traill, beginning in his anger to forget the ludicrousness of the situation. “I don’t want your beastly things—keep them to yourself.”

“I say”—this from Clinton—“chuck it, you two. Don’t make such a row here—everyone can hear. Wait until later.”

But Perrin heard nothing. He had stepped up to Traill now and was shaking his fist in Traill’s face.

“It’s beastly, is it?” he shouted. “I ‘ll give you something for saying that—I ‘ll let you know.” And then, in a perfect scream, “Give me my umbrella! Give me my umbrella!”

“I haven’t got your rotten umbrella,” shouted Traill. “I left it somewhere. I’ve lost it. I’m jolly glad. You can jolly well go and look for it.”

And at this moment, as Clinton afterwards described it, “the scrap began.” Perrin suddenly flung himself upon Traill and beat his face with his fist. Traill clutched Perrin’s arm and flung him back upon the breakfast-table. Perrin’s head struck the coffee-pot, and as he rose he brought with him the tablecloth and all the things that Robert had left upon the table. With a fearful crash of crockery, with the odors of streaming coffee, with the cry of the terrified Robert, down everything came. Afterwards there was a pause whilst Perrin and Traill swayed together, then with another crash, they too came to the floor.

Clinton and Robert rushed forward. Two Upper School masters, Birkland and Comber, surveyed the scene from the doorway. There was an instant’s absolute silence.

Then suddenly Traill and Perrin both rose from the floor. Traill’s lip was cut and bleeding—coffee was on Perrin’s collar; their faces were very white.

For a moment they looked at each other in absolute silence, then they passed, without a spoken word, through the open door.

In such a way, and from such a cause, did this Battle of the Umbrella have its beginning.

Let us credit the gods with interest sufficient, and we see that it had been their pleasant amusement to beguile those tedious Olympian hours with a game; and to the onlooker, here is comedy enough, for about what simpler can mortals dispute than this green umbrella? But for others, more nearly concerned, there is some question of tragedy involved.