The King’s School at Tercanbury, to which Philip went when he was
thirteen, prided itself on its antiquity. It traced its origin to an
abbey school, founded before the Conquest, where the rudiments of
learning were taught by Augustine monks; and, like many another
establishment of this sort, on the destruction of the monasteries it
had been reorganised by the officers of King Henry VIII and thus
acquired its name. Since then, pursuing its modest course, it had given
to the sons of the local gentry and of the professional people of Kent
an education sufficient to their needs. One or two men of letters,
beginning with a poet, than whom only Shakespeare had a more splendid
genius, and ending with a writer of prose whose view of life has
affected profoundly the generation of which Philip was a member, had
gone forth from its gates to achieve fame; it had produced one or two
eminent lawyers, but eminent lawyers are common, and one or two
soldiers of distinction; but during the three centuries since its
separation from the monastic order it had trained especially men of the
church, bishops, deans, canons, and above all country clergymen: there
were boys in the school whose fathers, grandfathers,
great-grandfathers, had been educated there and had all been rectors of
parishes in the diocese of Tercanbury; and they came to it with their
minds made up already to be ordained. But there were signs
notwithstanding that even there changes were coming; for a few,
repeating what they had heard at home, said that the Church was no
longer what it used to be. It wasn’t so much the money; but the class
of people who went in for it weren’t the same; and two or three boys
knew curates whose fathers were tradesmen: they’d rather go out to the
Colonies (in those days the Colonies were still the last hope of those
who could get nothing to do in England) than be a curate under some
chap who wasn’t a gentleman. At King’s School, as at Blackstable
Vicarage, a tradesman was anyone who was not lucky enough to own land
(and here a fine distinction was made between the gentleman farmer and
the landowner), or did not follow one of the four professions to which
it was possible for a gentleman to belong. Among the day-boys, of whom
there were about a hundred and fifty, sons of the local gentry and of
the men stationed at the depot, those whose fathers were engaged in
business were made to feel the degradation of their state.
The masters had no patience with modern ideas of education, which they
read of sometimes in The Times or The Guardian, and hoped fervently
that King’s School would remain true to its old traditions. The dead
languages were taught with such thoroughness that an old boy seldom
thought of Homer or Virgil in after life without a qualm of boredom;
and though in the common room at dinner one or two bolder spirits
suggested that mathematics were of increasing importance, the general
feeling was that they were a less noble study than the classics.
Neither German nor chemistry was taught, and French only by the
form-masters; they could keep order better than a foreigner, and, since
they knew the grammar as well as any Frenchman, it seemed unimportant
that none of them could have got a cup of coffee in the restaurant at
Boulogne unless the waiter had known a little English. Geography was
taught chiefly by making boys draw maps, and this was a favourite
occupation, especially when the country dealt with was mountainous: it
was possible to waste a great deal of time in drawing the Andes or the
Apennines. The masters, graduates of Oxford or Cambridge, were ordained
and unmarried; if by chance they wished to marry they could only do so
by accepting one of the smaller livings at the disposal of the Chapter;
but for many years none of them had cared to leave the refined society
of Tercanbury, which owing to the cavalry depot had a martial as well
as an ecclesiastical tone, for the monotony of life in a country
rectory; and they were now all men of middle age.
The headmaster, on the other hand, was obliged to be married and he
conducted the school till age began to tell upon him. When he retired
he was rewarded with a much better living than any of the under-masters
could hope for, and an honorary Canonry.
But a year before Philip entered the school a great change had come
over it. It had been obvious for some time that Dr. Fleming, who had
been headmaster for the quarter of a century, was become too deaf to
continue his work to the greater glory of God; and when one of the
livings on the outskirts of the city fell vacant, with a stipend of six
hundred a year, the Chapter offered it to him in such a manner as to
imply that they thought it high time for him to retire. He could nurse
his ailments comfortably on such an income. Two or three curates who
had hoped for preferment told their wives it was scandalous to give a
parish that needed a young, strong, and energetic man to an old fellow
who knew nothing of parochial work, and had feathered his nest already;
but the mutterings of the unbeneficed clergy do not reach the ears of a
cathedral Chapter. And as for the parishioners they had nothing to say
in the matter, and therefore nobody asked for their opinion. The
Wesleyans and the Baptists both had chapels in the village.
When Dr. Fleming was thus disposed of it became necessary to find a
successor. It was contrary to the traditions of the school that one of
the lower-masters should be chosen. The common-room was unanimous in
desiring the election of Mr. Watson, headmaster of the preparatory
school; he could hardly be described as already a master of King’s
School, they had all known him for twenty years, and there was no
danger that he would make a nuisance of himself. But the Chapter sprang
a surprise on them. It chose a man called Perkins. At first nobody knew
who Perkins was, and the name favourably impressed no one; but before
the shock of it had passed away, it was realised that Perkins was the
son of Perkins the linendraper. Dr. Fleming informed the masters just
before dinner, and his manner showed his consternation. Such of them as
were dining in, ate their meal almost in silence, and no reference was
made to the matter till the servants had left the room. Then they set
to. The names of those present on this occasion are unimportant, but
they had been known to generations of school-boys as Sighs, Tar, Winks,
Squirts, and Pat.
They all knew Tom Perkins. The first thing about him was that he was
not a gentleman. They remembered him quite well. He was a small, dark
boy, with untidy black hair and large eyes. He looked like a gipsy. He
had come to the school as a day-boy, with the best scholarship on their
endowment, so that his education had cost him nothing. Of course he was
brilliant. At every Speech-Day he was loaded with prizes. He was their
show-boy, and they remembered now bitterly their fear that he would try
to get some scholarship at one of the larger public schools and so pass
out of their hands. Dr. Fleming had gone to the linendraper his
father—they all remembered the shop, Perkins and Cooper, in St.
Catherine’s Street—and said he hoped Tom would remain with them till he
went to Oxford. The school was Perkins and Cooper’s best customer, and
Mr. Perkins was only too glad to give the required assurance. Tom
Perkins continued to triumph, he was the finest classical scholar that
Dr. Fleming remembered, and on leaving the school took with him the
most valuable scholarship they had to offer. He got another at Magdalen
and settled down to a brilliant career at the University. The school
magazine recorded the distinctions he achieved year after year, and
when he got his double first Dr. Fleming himself wrote a few words of
eulogy on the front page. It was with greater satisfaction that they
welcomed his success, since Perkins and Cooper had fallen upon evil
days: Cooper drank like a fish, and just before Tom Perkins took his
degree the linendrapers filed their petition in bankruptcy.
In due course Tom Perkins took Holy Orders and entered upon the
profession for which he was so admirably suited. He had been an
assistant master at Wellington and then at Rugby.
But there was quite a difference between welcoming his success at other
schools and serving under his leadership in their own. Tar had
frequently given him lines, and Squirts had boxed his ears. They could
not imagine how the Chapter had made such a mistake. No one could be
expected to forget that he was the son of a bankrupt linendraper, and
the alcoholism of Cooper seemed to increase the disgrace. It was
understood that the Dean had supported his candidature with zeal, so
the Dean would probably ask him to dinner; but would the pleasant
little dinners in the precincts ever be the same when Tom Perkins sat
at the table? And what about the depot? He really could not expect
officers and gentlemen to receive him as one of themselves. It would do
the school incalculable harm. Parents would be dissatisfied, and no one
could be surprised if there were wholesale withdrawals. And then the
indignity of calling him Mr. Perkins! The masters thought by way of
protest of sending in their resignations in a body, but the uneasy fear
that they would be accepted with equanimity restrained them.
“The only thing is to prepare ourselves for changes,” said Sighs, who
had conducted the fifth form for five and twenty years with
unparalleled incompetence.
And when they saw him they were not reassured. Dr. Fleming invited them
to meet him at luncheon. He was now a man of thirty-two, tall and lean,
but with the same wild and unkempt look they remembered on him as a
boy. His clothes, ill-made and shabby, were put on untidily. His hair
was as black and as long as ever, and he had plainly never learned to
brush it; it fell over his forehead with every gesture, and he had a
quick movement of the hand with which he pushed it back from his eyes.
He had a black moustache and a beard which came high up on his face
almost to the cheek-bones, He talked to the masters quite easily, as
though he had parted from them a week or two before; he was evidently
delighted to see them. He seemed unconscious of the strangeness of the
position and appeared not to notice any oddness in being addressed as
Mr. Perkins.
When he bade them good-bye, one of the masters, for something to say,
remarked that he was allowing himself plenty of time to catch his
train.
“I want to go round and have a look at the shop,” he answered
cheerfully.
There was a distinct embarrassment. They wondered that he could be so
tactless, and to make it worse Dr. Fleming had not heard what he said.
His wife shouted it in his ear.
“He wants to go round and look at his father’s old shop.”
Only Tom Perkins was unconscious of the humiliation which the whole
party felt. He turned to Mrs. Fleming.
“Who’s got it now, d’you know?”
She could hardly answer. She was very angry.
“It’s still a linendraper’s,” she said bitterly. “Grove is the name. We
don’t deal there any more.”
“I wonder if he’d let me go over the house.”
“I expect he would if you explain who you are.”
It was not till the end of dinner that evening that any reference was
made in the common-room to the subject that was in all their minds.
Then it was Sighs who asked:
“Well, what did you think of our new head?” They thought of the
conversation at luncheon. It was hardly a conversation; it was a
monologue. Perkins had talked incessantly. He talked very quickly, with
a flow of easy words and in a deep, resonant voice. He had a short, odd
little laugh which showed his white teeth. They had followed him with
difficulty, for his mind darted from subject to subject with a
connection they did not always catch. He talked of pedagogics, and this
was natural enough; but he had much to say of modern theories in
Germany which they had never heard of and received with misgiving. He
talked of the classics, but he had been to Greece, and he discoursed of
archaeology; he had once spent a winter digging; they could not see how
that helped a man to teach boys to pass examinations, He talked of
politics. It sounded odd to them to hear him compare Lord Beaconsfield
with Alcibiades. He talked of Mr. Gladstone and Home Rule. They
realised that he was a Liberal. Their hearts sank. He talked of German
philosophy and of French fiction. They could not think a man profound
whose interests were so diverse.
It was Winks who summed up the general impression and put it into a
form they all felt conclusively damning. Winks was the master of the
upper third, a weak-kneed man with drooping eye-lids, He was too tall
for his strength, and his movements were slow and languid. He gave an
impression of lassitude, and his nickname was eminently appropriate.
“He’s very enthusiastic,” said Winks.
Enthusiasm was ill-bred. Enthusiasm was ungentlemanly. They thought of
the Salvation Army with its braying trumpets and its drums. Enthusiasm
meant change. They had goose-flesh when they thought of all the
pleasant old habits which stood in imminent danger. They hardly dared
to look forward to the future.
“He looks more of a gipsy than ever,” said one, after a pause.
“I wonder if the Dean and Chapter knew that he was a Radical when they
elected him,” another observed bitterly.
But conversation halted. They were too much disturbed for words.
When Tar and Sighs were walking together to the Chapter House on
Speech-Day a week later, Tar, who had a bitter tongue, remarked to his
colleague:
“Well, we’ve seen a good many Speech-Days here, haven’t we? I wonder if
we shall see another.”
Sighs was more melancholy even than usual.
“If anything worth having comes along in the way of a living I don’t
mind when I retire.”