MR. FLAGGON PAYS A VISIT
The election of Mr. Flaggon was followed immediately by the resignation
of Mr. Cox. Mr. Cox was in the habit of resigning whenever his
proposals were voted down or his advice neglected. Dr. Gussy had,
at various times, received twelve such communications from him and,
on each occasion, had found no difficulty in persuading Mr. Cox to
reconsider his decision. There is every reason to suppose that Mr. Cox
expected a similar issue to his thirteenth act of protest. But he had
chosen his time badly. Dr. Gussy merely said, “_I_ no longer count,”
and forwarded the letter to the headmaster elect. And the headmaster
elect, unfamiliar with Mr. Cox’s idiosyncrasies and much impressed
by his age, which was seventy-five, accepted the resignation in a
courteous and gracious spirit.
Mr. Cox had so long regarded himself as an integral and necessary part
of Chiltern and the Lanchester tradition that he was mortified to find
how calmly his departure was taken. His colleagues, indeed, were most
sympathetic, and said that his going would be a terrible break with
the past, and that they would miss him increasingly. But they added
that they thought he had acted very wisely in choosing this particular
moment to leave them; and this was not the sort of consolation that
Mr. Cox expected or desired. It is said that he still regards himself
as the first and most notable victim of the new régime, and speaks
contemptuously of “poor old Gussy, who couldn’t play a winning hand
even when he held all the trumps.” How exactly the hand _should_
have been played is not clear; but the implication is that Mr. Cox’s
resignation was the ace of trumps, and that, rightly used, it would
have brought the Council to its senses and prevented untold calamities.
But, if Mr. Cox’s resignation was taken calmly, Mr. Flaggon’s
appointment continued to stir Chiltern to its lowest depths. Articles
were disinterred from the back numbers of magazines, educational or
otherwise, in which Mr. Flaggon had spoken slightingly of the public
schools and public school methods; and the press was deplorable. The
Liberal dailies hailed the appointment as the beginning of a new
era and the death-blow to an antiquated tradition. Even a leading
Conservative journal, which should have known better, described the
election as a daring but interesting experiment, and proceeded to
sketch an ideal curriculum, for the benefit of the new headmaster, in
which Greek was abolished and its place taken by compulsory military
drill. The Council blushed uneasily at finding itself suddenly in the
van of progress, and began to say harsh things about its Chairman; and
its Chairman was only partially comforted by an assurance from the
distinguished person behind the scenes that they had chosen the best
man in, “a man who will think before he acts and who will go far.” For
to the Chairman the ideal headmaster was rather a man who would mark
time decorously than an explorer of untrodden ways.
To the masters the suggestion that Chiltern needed reforming--“turning
inside out,” they called it--was, to say the least, unpalatable.
As practical men they despised the theorist; and, of all forms
of theorist, the one that they most disliked was the educational
enthusiast--the innovator, the impostor. Mr. Pounderly went about with
a scared face and mysterious air, whispering “lamentable, lamentable”
to his colleagues; and Mr. Woburn, the scientist, who affected
metaphors and frequently mixed them, declared that, though the Classics
were undoubtedly overdone at Chiltern, he hated the idea of a man who
would always be trying experiments and pulling them up by the roots to
see how they were shaping.
The idea of petitioning the Council against the appointment had been
abandoned, partly on the advice of the moderates, but chiefly for lack
of support from the juniors. For, on second thoughts, the juniors
discovered that they did not want the new headmaster to be a nominee
and creature of the veterans. The senior masters at Chiltern were
famous for their longevity and for the tenacious way in which they
clung to the posts of vantage; and, if change meant only a gradual
shifting of the senior masters, there was something to be said in
favour of change. But it was clearly understood that, if Mr. Flaggon
attempted to drive his staff along new and unfamiliar ways, he would
find them a most awkward and intractable team to handle.
Amid the babel of tongues there was one man who maintained what was,
for him, an attitude of unusual reserve. This was Mr. Chowdler,
the strong man of Chiltern. Mr. Chowdler owed his reputation for
strength, not to any breadth of view or depth of sympathetic insight,
but to a sublime unconsciousness of his own limitations. Narrow but
concentrated, with an aggressive will and a brusque intolerance of all
who differed from him, he was a fighter who loved fighting for its own
sake and who triumphed through the sheer exhaustion of his enemies;
and a Term in which he did not engage in at least one mortal combat
was to him a blank Term. A tall man, with broad shoulders, round head,
thin sandy hair, and full lips, he caught the eye in whatever company
he might be, and his resonant voice arrested attention. At golfing
centres, in the holidays, he was not always a very popular figure. But
his confident manner impressed parents, and his was considered _the_
house at Chiltern. People often wondered why he had never stood for
headmasterships or sought a wider scope for the exercise of power. In
reality he had never felt the need. He had so completely identified
himself with Chiltern that it never even occurred to him to leave
it; and his had for many years been the master mind that shaped the
destinies of the school.
In saying this we are not forgetting the existence of Dr. Gussy. But
Dr. Gussy, though he had been the titular chief for nearly a quarter of
a century, had long ceased to be the ruling spirit. In vulgar phrase,
he had allowed Mr. Chowdler to “run him,” and it was generally supposed
to be weariness of bondage rather than of power which had induced him
to resign before the completion of his twenty-fifth year of office. In
appearance he was a complete contrast to his formidable lieutenant.
Small and rather fragile, with silver-white hair and a refined,
delicately moulded face that suggested Dresden china, he was the type
of the old-fashioned scholar. Though there was nothing commanding in
his personality it was none the less distinguished, and the thinness
of a high-pitched, and sometimes almost squeaky, voice was atoned for
by the perfection of his articulation. In his younger days he had
taken a prominent place among the champions of the Oxford Movement,
and, if he had not become a headmaster, he might have been notorious
as a theologian; indeed, his commentary on the Epistle of St. Clement
is admitted by all to be a remarkable work. Fathers of Chiltern boys
loved to hear him read the lessons, and mothers frequently remarked,
“What a lovely face!” But he was by nature too refined and sensitive to
cope successfully with the robust methods of Mr. Chowdler, and, after
struggling fitfully for some years, he had purchased comparative peace
by an irritable submission. Mrs. Chowdler, an obtuse little woman who
worshipped her husband and imagined that everybody at Chiltern shared
her admiration, used to say that “Harry” was the headmaster’s better
self. She had herself always been ready and willing to be a sister
to Mrs. Gussy; but after a long series of pointed rebuffs she had
abandoned the attempt, and the relations between the two families were
official rather than cordial.
It was not likely that Mr. Chowdler would approve of the new
appointment; indeed, he seldom approved of any arrangement that was not
of his own making. But his attitude was one of amused banter rather
than of fierce hostility, and he spoke with a good-natured smile of the
“Empty Flaggon.” “Wait and see” was his advice. “You will find that
the place and its traditions are too strong for the empty one. He may
froth and he may fume, but he can’t hurt us. We are strong enough to
assimilate a whole cellarful of Flaggons.”
These and similar remarks made it clear to the initiated that Mr.
Chowdler proposed to run the new headmaster, as he had run his
predecessor.
In the middle of July Mr. Flaggon paid his first visit to Chiltern.
The position of a headmaster elect is a delicate one, and he wisely
declined to be introduced formally to the school. If omens count for
anything, the circumstances of this visit were inauspicious; for it
coincided with a period of four-and-twenty hours of continuous rain.
Mr. Flaggon carried away a general impression of gloom and dripping
umbrellas; but one incident, trivial in itself, left a permanent
record on his memory. During one of the brief pauses in the downpour,
he was walking with Dr. Gussy across Colonus towards the Lanchester
workshops, and, on the way, met three of the bigger boys who were
sauntering slowly in the opposite direction. There was something
about their gait and manner which, if not exactly insolent, at least
suggested a complete absence of anything like awe in the presence of
their headmaster. They gave a perfunctory salute; and, before they
passed out of earshot, a voice, which made no attempt to lower itself,
remarked:
“Is that the new Gus?”
“Looks like it,” replied a second voice, in the same
devil-take-me-if-_I_-care tone, “unless it’s his shuvver.”
Mr. Flaggon, who with the principles of a democrat combined all the
instincts of a despot, lifted his eyebrows in surprise and his fingers
tightened unconsciously round the handle of his umbrella. But Dr. Gussy
appeared to be quite unconcerned and made no comment.
Under the depressing climatic conditions the hours passed rather
slowly. Dr. Gussy was courtesy itself, but he found it impossible to
be cordial or communicative to a man who was the last person he would
have chosen as his successor; and Mr. Flaggon felt it a relief when
Mrs. Gussy carried him off to inspect the house and talk fixtures.
Dr. Gussy had wisely left all the business arrangements in the hands
of his wife, a capable woman with all the capable woman’s contempt
for the supposed ignorance of a young man and a bachelor; and it soon
became evident that Mrs. Gussy intended to take full advantage of her
superior knowledge. With a happy mixture of adroitness and authority
she forced upon the incoming tenant the oldest carpets and the least
successful bits of furniture; and, with equal skill, she secured a
tacit permission to carry off some of the more desirable fixtures.
“We are taking the tiles with us to the Deanery,” she would say,
pointing to a fireplace; “but, of course, we shall leave you the
linoleum and that very useful deal cupboard. They were both made for
the room.”
Mr. Flaggon had no desire to haggle, but he had the Northerner’s
dislike of being done; and, before the round was over, he found
himself in revolt. Mrs. Gussy described him afterwards as “close”;
and Mr. Flaggon, in relating his experiences to his mother, said that
if Mrs. Gussy had been a little less autocratic, she would have made
an excellent saleswoman. The youngest Miss Gussy, a girl of seventeen
and the only other member of the family who was at home, did not put
in an appearance. She could not bring herself to shake hands with
the supplanter of her father, the “horrid man” who was going to live
in _their_ house and enjoy _their_ garden. If Mr. Flaggon had been an
angel from Heaven, she would have hated him with equal fervour. So she
withdrew for the day to the Pounderlys’ and contented herself with a
glimpse of “the man” from a window; which glimpse confirmed her in her
worst forebodings. Mrs. Chowdler, who had a talent for saying the wrong
thing, remarked that it would be “a very happy coincidence” if Mr.
Flaggon and Miss Gussy took a fancy to each other, as it would give a
continuity to life at Chiltern and make the impending change “so much
less felt.” With the object of promoting such a match she spoke warmly
to the youngest Miss Gussy of the new headmaster’s personal appearance,
and was dismayed at the violent outburst which her eulogy provoked.
In the evening, after dinner, Mr. Chowdler called by arrangement and
carried off his new chief, nominally to introduce him over a quiet
pipe to a few colleagues, but really to take his measure and begin the
training of which he was supposed to be in need.
Mr. Flaggon did not smoke, neither did he drink; but he was placed
in the easiest of the study chairs, next to the fireplace, and the
colleagues lit their pipes and arranged themselves in a semicircle
round the empty grate. There is always something singularly dispiriting
about an empty grate on a wet summer evening, and a semicircular
formation round it emphasises its forlornness. The colleagues were
conscious of a feeling of constraint. After all that they had been
saying and thinking about him in the past week, they were shy of being
over-cordial to their new chief, and some of them felt a little as
if they were taking part in a conspiracy, engineered by Chowdler, to
exploit the inexperience of the new man.
Mr. Flaggon, for his part, did not possess the easy manner and command
of small talk which put strangers at their ease. Though anxious
to be friendly, he was by nature reticent, one of those who, in
new surroundings, are more disposed to receive impressions than to
create them. So, after a little desultory talk about the golf links,
and several ineffective openings that led into blind alleys, the
conversation suddenly expired, and the colleagues found themselves
gazing desperately at three iron bars and some unhealthy-looking green
and yellow paper behind them.
This was the psychological moment for Mr. Chowdler. Hitherto he had
been busy pouring out whisky-and-sodas and struggling with a refractory
pipe; but he now sat down opposite the guest of the evening and opened
the main attack.
“I suppose,” he began, “that you have been hearing a good deal to-day
about our great headmaster Dr. Lanchester. Have you ever studied his
life?”
“I have indeed,” replied Mr. Flaggon; “in fact, it was one of the first
books that excited my interest in public school education. It might, no
doubt, have been better written; but it is, in its way, I think, one of
the most suggestive books in the English language.”
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear you say that!” cried Mr. Chowdler. “I’m so
glad to hear you say that; because you know, we cling very, _very_
faithfully here to our past and our great Conservative tradition.”
“Aren’t you forgetting,” said Mr. Flaggon quickly, “that Dr. Lanchester
was always considered a Radical?”
Mr. Chowdler _had_ forgotten; all Chiltern was in the habit of
forgetting this unpleasant fact. But he would not own to any lapse of
memory, and his voice took on a note of challenge as he replied:
“Oh, a name doesn’t frighten _me_; there’s nothing in a name; names
are only the coinage of the foolish. Lanchester was a man of very
Conservative instincts. He was not one of those who love change for
change’s sake. He was a restorer, not a destroyer.”
“It must be difficult to be the one without the other,” remarked Mr.
Flaggon quietly; “and I have always heard that Dr. Lanchester was both.”
Antipathies are often physical as well as moral, and the two men
suddenly became conscious of a kind of physical distaste for one
another. In Chowdler’s fleshy limbs, broad shoulders, bullet head, and
aggressive manner, Mr. Flaggon saw for the moment the personification
of that narrow but confident prejudice which blocks progress and
strangles reform; while Mr. Chowdler realised acutely that “the man
Flaggon” would easily get on his nerves. There was an awkward pause
which Mr. Beadle filled by remarking:
“You must have found it very interesting work tutoring a foreign
prince.”
But Mr. Chowdler, though momentarily disconcerted, was not to be
diverted from his main purpose; and, before Mr. Flaggon could frame a
reply, he interposed again with:
“Talking of princes reminds me of something that happened to me a
little while ago.”
Mr. Chowdler had a large stock of anecdotes with which his colleagues
were painfully familiar, for he was never afraid of repeating himself.
In theory Mr. Chowdler scorned sentimentality and even sentiment, but
in practice his stories were nearly all of the sentimental order and
related how small boys had looked up at him wistfully, or old boys had
grasped his hand with manly tears in their eyes. And both wistful small
boys and manly old boys had nearly always contrived to say something
illuminating about the Lanchester tradition.
When once Mr. Chowdler was started, he passed from one story to another
without a halt. Mr. Flaggon was conscious that the anecdotes were being
related not _to_ him but _at_ him. However, he smiled when a smile
seemed to be expected, and looked impressed where it was obviously
the right thing to look impressed. But, when his host concluded the
fifteenth story with the remark, “And I think it’s such a splendid idea
that the old traditions are being planted, with the old flag, far away
over the water, in Saskatchewan,” he could not help saying:
“Don’t you think it would be better, perhaps, if the Colonies were
allowed to create their own traditions and their own ideals? If there
is to be development, there must be new forms; and I always hope that
the colonies will have something new to teach _us_ some day.”
Mr. Chowdler did not agree, and he said so in words which produced
another awkward pause; and Mr. Beadle once more came to the rescue by
remarking:
“I suppose that they are very keen about education in Wales?” Which
showed that Mr. Beadle had been making a study of the new headmaster’s
previous history.
When the marble clock on the mantelpiece pointed to eleven, Mr. Flaggon
rose to go. A day with Dr. Gussy, and an evening spent in the company
of Mr. Chowdler, had induced an unusual feeling of weariness. He and
his host shook hands at parting with every outward appearance of
friendliness; but, as he walked home under the dripping trees to the
Prætorium, as Dr. Gussy’s house was called, he was conscious that,
amongst the many problems that he would have to face at Chiltern, Mr.
Chowdler would almost certainly be one of the most difficult.