EXIT DR. GUSSY
The last fortnight of the Term was largely devoted to saying good-bye
to Dr. Gussy. It was traditional at Chiltern for a headmaster to be
received with curses and dismissed with blessings; and an unwritten
law required that, as his last Term drew to a close, words of ill-omen
should become few and fewer. During the last fortnight, even Mr.
Chowdler gave up speaking of “silly old Fussy” and substituted “poor
old Gussy,” or, more rarely, “_dear_ old Gussy.”
Dr. Gussy had never identified himself very closely with the life
of the school, nor allowed himself to become absorbed in its daily
happenings; his youngest daughter probably knew far more about the
inner life of Chiltern than he did, and could address by their
nicknames boys of whom her father had some difficulty in recalling the
surname. Outside interests had taken him frequently from Chiltern,
and the branch line (like all branch lines) made it easier to leave
Chiltern than to get back to it. He had often missed important matches,
his place had frequently been empty at Sunday chapels, and he had been
known to confuse the identity of important people. A current story,
of which there were many variations, made him address the senior fag
of Mr. Cox’s house as the junior master on the staff. But his rule
was mild and his nature unsuspicious; so he had always enjoyed a
fair measure of popularity, and, during his last fortnight, he was
positively worshipped.
Dr. Gussy himself was quite unconscious of any sins of omission. He was
fond of boasting that Chiltern was a school that “ran itself”; and,
as a proof of its good discipline and high moral tone, he would say,
proudly, “For the last seven years I haven’t had to expel a single
boy--not a single boy.”
This record greatly impressed anxious parents, and had attracted to
the school several sons of the titled plutocracy, whose sensitive
natures required considerate and tactful handling rather than the
rough and ready methods in vogue elsewhere. Dr. Gussy was proud of the
distinguished names that figured on his school lists, and never had
Chiltern been more popular or more prosperous than during the last
seven years of his reign.
Needless to say, the Doctor received an incredible number of presents.
It was like a second wedding. Each division of the school gave its
separate gift, and, at the earnest request of Mrs. Gussy, who valued
spontaneity above all things, the boys were left to make their own
choice without prompting from their elders. The Lower School gave a
Tantalus, big enough to blast the reputation of the most saintly Dean;
the Removes, a telescope of immense power, because, in Dr. Gussy’s
sermons, there were frequent allusions to the stars; the Fifths, an
invalid’s chair of elaborate mechanical cunning, and the Prefects a
complete set of engravings of Chiltern from its earliest days, of
which Dr. Gussy already had duplicates in a portifollo. Only the Old
Boys, instead of giving anything to Dr. Gussy personally, presented
his picture to the library (none might hang in the Great Hall save Dr.
Lanchester only), and, by a happy thought, entrusted the painting of it
to an Old Chilternian whom Nature had intended for a caricaturist, but
who had elected to win fame as a portrait-painter.
And to each division separately Dr. Gussy made one of the felicitous
little speeches for which he was famous. To the Lower School he said
that, whenever he saw that splendid Tantalus on his sideboard, for he
should give it the place of honour on his sideboard (those who knew
Mrs. Gussy best thought otherwise), he should remember the kind thought
of the givers and be with them again in the spirit. (Cheers, but no
laughter, the Lower School being in too solemn a mood to anticipate
a jest.) To the Removes he said that he would now be able, from his
peaceful Deanery, to watch the Removes, through his telescope, studying
their lessons with the zeal and enthusiasm for which they had always
been famous. (Laughter and applause.) To the Fifths he said that,
whenever he reclined in that luxurious chair--and he hoped that he
would have time and leisure at last to recline, occasionally, in an
easy-chair (suppressed amusement)--he should always think of the happy,
strenuous days which he had lived amongst them and for them; for they
had always been, and always would be, very near to his heart. (Emotion,
and a murmur at the back of “Good old Gussy.”) To the Prefects he said
that, whenever he looked at those beautiful and interesting prints--and
he should look at them daily, for they would be hanging on his walls
(cheers)--he would see the dear old place repeopled again with the
faces that he had now before him, and take courage in the thought of
the simple, manly, unostentatious, but whole-hearted devotion to duty
which had always been characteristic of the Prefects at Chiltern, and
which had given its high moral tone to the school that they loved so
well. (Prolonged sensation.)
But it is unnecessary to quote further. It is enough to say that
there was a general atmosphere of mutual good-will and esteem, in
which impositions were daily remitted (except by Mr. Black, who
lacked imagination), and everybody felt that he was an integral part
of a great institution, bound by ties of personal devotion to the
headmaster, and doing yeoman’s work.
One of the most successful functions of this epoch was the farewell
dinner, given by the junior masters in Common Room to their chief.
Though the masters at Chiltern lived in lodgings or in private houses
of their own, it was part of the Lanchester tradition that the
bachelors amongst them should dine together once a week in Common Room.
A spinster lady, distantly connected with the school, had bequeathed
funds for this purpose; and, though the cooking was not recherché
nor the conversation of much general interest, the weekly dinner was
valued as a picturesque ceremony in keeping with the atmosphere of the
place, and was hedged in with a rigorous etiquette. Thus, when any
member of the community succumbed to matrimony, he was expelled with
a quaint and time-honoured ritual. Some awkwardness had arisen when
Mr. Flyte, after being formally “inhibited” from “bread, beef, and
trencher,” was thrown over by his fiancée at the eleventh hour; for
the inhibition had always been regarded as final and irrevocable, and
there was no precedent to serve as a guide. Mr. Flyte, however, solved
the difficulty with great tact, by never applying for readmission as a
bachelor and allowing himself to be reckoned, for dining purposes, as
an honorary widower.
But, though the etiquette was formal and the Common Room dinner sacred
to bachelors, it was decided, unanimously, that a point might be
stretched in favour of a departing chief. Dr. Gussy was invited, and
Dr. Gussy accepted.
The preparations were on an unusual scale and were in the hands of
Mr. Rankin, who was good at that kind of thing and proud of his
_savoir faire_. An ice-pudding was ordered from Smith’s, the school
confectioner; the library attendant and the under ground-man, who
waited, were put into dress clothes for the occasion; and Mr. Grady’s
sister kindly arranged the flowers. Mr. Chase, the senior member and
president, provided a special brand of champagne from his private
cellars, and there were three savouries and no less than six liqueurs.
Dr. Gussy was placed at the head of the table, with Mr. Chase on his
right and the newest appointment to the school on his left. Dr. Gussy
was but little known personally to the younger members of his staff,
and his conduct had not always escaped criticism; for, when he had
been suffering much at the hands of Mr. Chowdler, he was in the habit,
to use a vulgar phrase, of “taking it out of” the juniors whom he
did not fear. But, on this occasion, he was not only courteous but
anecdotal and intimate. For the first time, Dr. Gussy and his junior
masters discovered each other; and the discovery only added to the pain
of separation. The party broke up at a late hour and everybody went
home murmuring “dear old Gussy”; except, of course, dear old Gussy
himself, who had been plied generously with the ice-pudding and the six
liqueurs, and who, after a restless night, woke up next morning with
something of a liver.
On the last night but two of Term there was another and a more
questionable display of feeling. At the witching hour of eleven P.M.
a considerable portion of the school (estimates of the exact numbers
varied) picturesquely clad in bed-clothes and pyjamas, and armed with
sackbuts, psalteries, dulcimers and all kinds of music, appeared
suddenly on the headmaster’s front lawn and proceeded to serenade
their chief with a topical song, of which the chorus ran as follows:
“Young sir, do not answer at random,
No boy should be seen on a tandem.”
Oh, whatever we think of the Badger or Mink,[1]
De Gussibus non disputandum.
A remnant of sanity kept the headmaster from appearing in person, but
his wife and the youngest Miss Gussy, who were not insensible to such
attentions, showed themselves at the open windows of the drawing-room
and were acclaimed uproariously--especially the youngest Miss Gussy.
It was felt, however, amongst the staff, that things were going a
little farther than was wise. Loyalty is all very well, but loyalty
should be tempered by discretion; and the housemasters came in for some
criticism on account of their supposed connivance. Even Mr. Plummer,
the most confirmed of optimists, had misgivings, and observed next day
in Common Room:
“It really does look as if some of the housemasters had been a
little slack; unless, of course, the whole thing has been very much
exaggerated.”
“It has, as you say,” replied Mr. Bent, “been very much exaggerated.
There were, in reality, no boys, no music, no song, no Miss Gussy. The
whole thing was a phantasm of the living, an allegory, an unsubstantial
pageant that fades and leaves not a wrack behind. I know it for a fact.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Plummer.
“I have questioned each of the housemasters separately,” replied Mr.
Bent, “and each has assured me, in tones of the deepest conviction,
that his own Prefects can be trusted absolutely, and that it is,
moreover, physically and structurally impossible for any boy to
leave that particular house after dark without the knowledge of his
housemaster. Each has further informed me that, if only the other
housemasters would take the same simple and common-sense precautions,
such scenes as the one we are deploring to-day would be impossible.
Now, what do you say to that, Plummer? You are surely not such a cynic
as to doubt the word of a housemaster?”
Mr. Chowdler treated the matter in a more serious spirit. He
had watched the unexpected apotheosis of Dr. Gussy without
enthusiasm--“sentiment run mad” he called it--and the official
countenance given to the serenade by Mrs. and Miss Gussy filled him
with indignation. He felt that it was high time for somebody to speak
to the “silly old man.” When duty called, Mr. Chowdler was not the
man to shirk an unpleasant task, and his sense of duty was sharpened
by a strong personal dislike of Mrs. and the youngest Miss Gussy. He
therefore appeared in the headmaster’s study after lunch, wearing the
particular expression which Dr. Gussy had learned to associate with
some of the unpleasanter moments of his own life.
Now, Dr. Gussy had been as much surprised as anybody at the sudden
blaze of popularity of which he had been the centre; but, being naïve
and not addicted to self-analysis, he had thoroughly enjoyed it.
Moreover, the days of his bondage were almost accomplished, and he no
longer felt afraid of any man. So he did what he had not done for many
a long day, namely, snapped his fingers in Mr. Chowdler’s face, and
even told him not to be an old woman--at least, so Mrs. Gussy told her
friends, and a Dean’s wife must be supposed to speak the truth.
Mr. Chowdler gave a somewhat different version of the encounter, in
which the honours were made to rest with himself rather than with his
chief. But even he could not conceal the fact that he had received
a diplomatic rebuff. He relieved his feelings by calling together
his house Prefects and giving them one of his straight manly talks.
“Things,” he said, “are shaky--you would probably call them ‘dicky’;
but I shall call them shaky--and with anxious times ahead of us next
Term, we can’t afford to be playing ducks and drakes with our best
traditions; and, what with weakness at the top and giddy heads at the
bottom, that’s just what some folks are beginning to do. You know what
I am referring to--that ridiculous scene last night. I know what you
think about it. You and I understand each other, and we know where the
blame lies. We needn’t dot the i’s, but there are certain houses, not
a hundred miles from here, which would be better for a taste of our
friend Archie’s strong arm.” Here “our friend Archie,” who was head
of the eleven, fidgeted uncomfortably. “Now, I want you to remember,”
continued Mr. Chowdler impressively, “that your influence ought not
to end with the house. I want you to talk sense to giddy heads and
to strengthen feeble knees. I want you to set your candles on a hill
where the whole school can see them. I want you, when everybody else is
failing, to be the pillars and the props of our grand old Lanchester
tradition.”
The Prefects in Mr. Chowdler’s house were genuinely afraid of Mr.
Chowdler, though they had long learnt how to manage him. They now
looked portentously solemn, confessed that they _had_ heard rumours of
the impending “rag” beforehand, but had not taken them seriously, and
admitted that Mr. Cox’s house was not as good as it had once been. But
they were much too tactful and considerate to let out that, as holders
of the cricket trophy, they had themselves headed the procession in a
body.
The upshot of it all was that people were just a little anxious as to
what might happen at the school concert on the last night of Term. Even
Dr. Gussy confessed privately that he would be glad when the concert
was over. For a great many Old Chilternians were expected for the
occasion, and, when Old Boys get together and become excited, they are
sometimes--not rowdy, of course, but, perhaps, a little boisterous;
and then the school catches the excitement and loses its sense of
proportion. Still, the boys at Chiltern were all gentlemen; and, if
you treat gentlemen _as_ gentlemen, they may be trusted to behave as
gentlemen. Everybody at Chiltern believed that, except, perhaps, Mr.
Bent, who was a cynic and believed nothing, and Mr. Grady, the science
master, whose face always had a hunted expression and who sometimes
came out of school with mice in his pockets and his hair full of flour.
However, in spite of forebodings, the concert was not much more noisy
than concerts usually were at Chiltern. Dr. Gussy was cheered to the
echo, and, though he had taken his official farewell of the school
only half an hour before, he was obliged to come on to the platform
and make another speech. Mrs. Gussy smiled her acknowledgments from
her place, and the youngest Miss Gussy was in tears. As for the
school song, it went with a roar that nearly lifted the roof off the
Great Hall. The song of Chiltern is not essentially different from
other school songs. Without ever lapsing into poetry, it maintains,
throughout, a fair rhythm and a high level of imbecility. Its opening
verse has served as a model to many imitations:
John Buss was a farrier bold,
And he turned his sweat into drops of gold;
He fought hard battles, and when he died
He left a school for his country’s pride,
The best of schools, that has won renown
From Chiltern chimes to the frontier town.
_Chorus_: John Buss, John of Us,
Played good cricket and made no fuss.
To realise the full possibilities of the song, you must go to Chiltern
and hear it sung: especially the chorus, where, after the trebles have
piped “John Buss,” the whole school joins in with “John of Us.” The
effect is electrical and intensely moving.
When the concert was over, the Old Chilternians played a game of
football in Colonus by moonlight, and afterwards paraded the town, arm
in arm, singing school songs. There were more than a hundred of them,
and they sang in different keys; so that the townspeople did not have
a very tranquil night.
And in the second week of the holidays, when everybody had gone
away and the whole place was in confusion, Mr. Flaggon came down
unexpectedly and insisted on making a more detailed inspection of the
school than had been possible during his first visit; much to the
annoyance of the porter, whose mind was not as clear on that day as he
could have wished, though his face was more solemn than ever. Amongst
the buildings visited was Mr. Cox’s old house, which was undergoing
extensive repairs for its new proprietor, Mr. Chase; and there, on
certain walls, Mr. Flaggon found writing which, though he did not
fully understand it, made him glad that he had accepted Mr. Cox’s
resignation.