THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN
A Tragi-Comedy
By Hugh Walpole
Author Of “Fortitude,” “The Prelude To Adventure,” Etc.
New York George H. Doran Company
1911
“The Way Here Also Was Very Wearisome Through Dirt And Shabbiness: Nor
Was There On All This Ground So Much As One Inn Or Victualling-House
Wherein To Refresh The Feebler Sort.”—Pilgrim's Progress
TO PUNCH
My Dear Punch,
There are a thousand and one reasons why I should dedicate this book to
you. It would take a very long time and much good paper to give you them
all; but here, at any rate, is one of them. Do you remember a summer day
last year that we spent together? The place was a little French town,
and we climbed its high, crooked street, and had tea in an inn at the
top—an inn with a square courtyard, bad, impossible tea, and a large
black cat.
It was on that afternoon that I introduced you for a little time to Mr.
Perrin, and you, because you have more understanding and sympathy than
anyone I have ever met, understood him and sympathized. For the good
things that you have done for me I can never repay you, but for the good
things that you did on that afternoon for Mr. Perrin I give you this
book.
Yours affectionately, HUGH WALPOLE.
Chelsea, January 1911.
CONTENTS
THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN
CHAPTER I—MR. VINCENT PERRIN DRINKS HIS TEA AND GIVES MR. TRAILL SOUND
ADVICE
CHAPTER II—INTRODUCES A CONFUSING COMPANY OF PERSONS, WITH SPECIAL
EMPHASIS ON MRS. COMBER
CHAPTER III—CONCERNS ALL THE WONDERFUL THINGS THAT MAY HAPPEN BETWEEN
SOUP AND DESSERT
CHAPTER IV—BIRKLAND LOQUITUR
CHAPTER V—A GAME OF FOOTBALL AND A DANCE IN PENDRAGON HAVE THEIR PART IN
THE SCHEME OF THINGS
CHAPTER VI—SÆVA INDIGNATIO
CHAPTER VII—THE BATTLE OP THE UMBRELLA; THEY OPEN FIRE
CHAPTER VIII—THE BATTLE OP THE UMBRELLA; CAMPS ARE FORMED—ALSO SOME
SKIRMISHING
CHAPTER IX—THE BATTLE OP THE UMBRELLA; WITH THE LADIES
CHAPTER X—THE BATTLE OF THE UMBRELLA; “WHOM THE GODS WISH TO
DESTROY....”
CHAPTER XI—MR. PERRIN SEES DOUBLE
CHAPTER XII—MR. PERRIN WALKS IN SLEEP
CHAPTER XIII—MR. PERRIN LISTENS WHILE THEY ALL MAKE SPEECHES
CHAPTER XIV—MR. PERRIN REACHES THE HEART OF HIS KINGDOM
CHAPTER XV—THE GOLDEN VIEW
THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN
CHAPTER I—MR. VINCENT PERRIN DRINKS HIS TEA AND GIVES MR. TRAILL SOUND
ADVICE I.
VINCENT PERRIN said to himself again and again as he climbed the hill:
“It shall be all right this term”—and then, “It shall be”—and then,
“This term.” A cold wintry sun watched him from above the brown shaggy
wood on the horizon; the sky was a pale and watery blue, and on its
surface white clouds edged with gray lay like saucers. A little wind
sighed and struggled amongst the hedges, because Mr Perrin had nearly
reached the top of the hill, and there was always a breeze there. He
stopped for a moment and looked back. The hill on which he was stood
straight out from the surrounding country; it was shaped like a
sugar-loaf, and the red-brown earth of its fields seemed to catch the
red light of the sun; behind it was green, undulating country, in front
of it the blue, vast sweep of the sea.
“It shall be all right this term,” said Mr. Perrin, and he pulled his
rather faded greatcoat about his ears, because the little wind was
playing with the short bristly hairs at the back of his neck. He was
long and gaunt; his face might have been considered strong had it not
been for the weak chin and a shaggy, unkempt mustache of a nondescript
pale brown. His hands were long and bony, and the collar that he wore
was too high, and propped his neck up, so that he had the effect of
someone who strained to overlook something. His eyes were pale and
watery, and his eyebrows of the same sandy color as his mustache. His
age was about forty-five, and he had been a master at Moffatt's for over
twenty years. His back was a little bent as he walked; his hands were
folded behind his back, and carried a rough, ugly walking-stick that
trailed along the ground.
His eyes were fixed on the enormous brown block of buildings on the top
of the hill in front of him: he did not see the sea, or the sky, or the
distant Brown Wood.
The air was still with the clear suspense of an early autumn day. The
sound of a distant mining stamp drove across space with the ring of
a hammer, and the tiny whisper—as of someone who tells eagerly, but
mysteriously, a secret—was the beating of the waves far at the bottom of
the hill against the rocks.
Paint blue smoke hung against the saucer-shaped clouds above the
chimneys of Moffatt's; in the air there was a sharp scented smell, of
some hidden bonfire.
The silence was broken by the sound of wheels, and an open cab drove up
the hill. In it were seated four small boys, surrounded by a multitude
of bags, hockey-sticks, and rugs. The four small boys were all very
small indeed, but they all sat up when they saw Mr. Perrin, and touched
their hats with a simultaneous movement. Mr. Perrin nodded sternly,
glanced at them for a moment, and then switched his eyes back to the
brown buildings again.
“Barker Minor, French, Doggett, and Rogers.” he said to himself quickly;
“Barker Minor, French.. . ;” then his mind swung back to its earlier
theme again, and he said out loud, hitting the road with his stick, “It
shall be all right this term.”
The school clock—he knew the sound so well that he often thought he
heard it at home in Buckinghamshire—struck half-past three. He hastened
his steps. His holidays had been good—better than usual; he had played
golf well; the men at the Club had not been quite such idiots and fools
as they usually were: they had listened to him quite patiently about
Education—shall it be Greek or German? Public School Morality, and What
a Mother can do for her Boy—all favorite subjects of his.
Perhaps this term was not going to be so bad—perhaps the new man would
be an acquisition: he could not, at any rate, be worse than Searle of
the preceding term. The new man was, Perrin had heard, only just down
from the University—he would probably do what Perrin suggested.
No, this term was to be all right. He never liked the autumn term;
but there were a great many new boys, his house was full, and then—he
stopped once more and drew a deep breath—there was Miss Desart. He
tried to twist the end of his mustache, but some hairs were longer
than others, and he never could obtain a combined movement.... Miss
Desart.... He coughed.
He passed in through the black school gates, his shabby coat flapping at
his heels.
The distant Brown Wood, as it surrendered to the sun, flamed with gold;
the dark green hedges on the hill slowly caught the light. II.
The master's common room in the Lower School was a small square room
that was inclined in the summer to get very stuffy indeed. It stood,
moreover, exactly between the kitchen, where meals were prepared, and
the long dining-room, where meals were eaten, and there was therefore
a perpetual odor of food in the air. On a “mutton day”—there were three
“mutton” days a week—this odor hung in heavy, clammy folds about the
ceiling, and on those days there were always more boys kept in than on
the other days—on so small a thing may punishment hang.
To-day—this being the first day of the term—-the room was exceedingly
tidy. On the right wall, touching the windows, were two rows of
pigeon-holes, and above each pigeon-hole was printed, on a white label,
a name—
“Mr. Perrin,”
“Mr. Dormer,”
“Mr. Clinton,”
“Mr. Traill.”
Each master had two pigeon-holes into which he might put his papers and
his letters; considerable friction had been caused by people putting
their papers into other people's pigeon-holes. On the opposite wall was
an enormous, shiny map of the world, with strange blue and red lines
running across it. The third wall was filled with the fireplace, over
which were two stern and dusty photographs of the Parthenon, Athens, and
St. Peter's, Rome.
Although the air was sharp with the first early hint of autumn, the
windows were open, and a little part of the garden could be seen—a
gravel path down which golden-brown leaves were fluttering, a round
empty flower-bed, a stone wall.
On the large table in the middle of the room tea was laid, one plate of
bread and butter, and a plate of rock buns. Dormer, a round, red-faced,
cheerful-looking person with white hair, aged about fifty, and Clinton,
a short, athletic youth, with close-cropped hair and a large mouth, were
drinking tea. Clinton had poured his into his saucer and was blowing at
it—a practice that Perrin greatly disliked.
However, this was the first day of term, and everyone was very friendly.
Perrin paused a moment in the doorway. “Ah! here we are again!” he said,
with easy jocularity.
Dormer gave him a hand, and said, “Glad to see you, Perrin; had good
holidays?”
Clinton took the last rock bun, and shouted with a kind of roar, “You
old nut!”
Perrin, as he moved to the table, thought that it was a little hard that
all the things that irritated him most should happen just when he was
most inclined to be easy and pleasant.
“Ha! no cake!” he said, with a surprised air.
“Oh! I say, I'm so sorry,” said Clinton, with his mouth full, “I took
the last. Ring the bell.”
Perrin gulped down his annoyance, sat down, and poured out his tea. It
was cold and leathery. Dormer was busily writing lists of names. The
Lower School was divided into two houses—Dormer was house-master of
one, and Perrin of the other. The other two junior men were under
house-masters: Clinton belonged to Dormer; and Traill, the new man, to
Perrin. Both houses were in the same building, but the sense of rival
camps gave a pleasant spur of emulation and competition both to work and
play.
“I say, Perrin, “have you made out your bath-lists? Then there are
locker-names—I want.” Perrin snapped at his bread and butter. “Ah,
Dormer, please—my tea first.”
“All right; only, it's getting on to four.”
For some moments there was silence. Then there came timid raps on the
door. Perrin, in his most stentorian voice, shouted, “Come in!”
The door slowly opened, and there might be seen dimly in the passage a
misty cloud of white Eton collars and round, white faces. There was a
shuffling of feet.
Perrin walked slowly to the door.
“Here we all are again! How pleasant! How extremely pleasant! All of
us eager to come back, of course—um—yes. Well, you know you oughtn't to
come now. Two minutes past four. I 'll take your names then—another five
minutes. It's up on the board. Well, Sexton? Hadn't you eyes? Don't you
know that ten minutes past four is ten minutes past four and not four
o'clock?”
“Yes, sir, please, sir—but, sir—”
Perrin closed the door, and walked slowly back to the fireplace.
“Ha, ha,” he said, smiling reflectively; “had him there!”
Dormer was muttering to himself, “Wednesday, 9 o'clock, Bilto, Cummin;
10 o'clock, Sayer, Long. Thursday, 9 o'clock—”
The golden leaves blew with a whispering chatter down the path.
The door opened again, and someone came in—Traill, the new man. Perrin
looked at him with curiosity and some excitement. The first impression
of him, standing there in the doorway, was of someone very young
and very eager to make friends. Someone young, by reason of his very
dress—the dark brown Norfolk jacket, light gray flannel trousers, turned
up and short, showing bright purple socks and brown brogues. His hair,
parted in the middle and brushed back, was very light brown; his eyes
were brown and his cheeks tanned. His figure was square, his back
very broad, his legs rather short—he looked, beyond everything else,
tremendously clean.
He stopped when he saw Perrin, and Dormer looked up and introduced them.
Perrin was relieved that he was so young. Searle, last year, had been
old enough to have an opinion of his own—several opinions of his own; he
had contradicted Perrin on a great many points, and towards the end
of the term they had scarcely been on speaking terms. Searle was a
pig-headed ass....
But Traill evidently wanted to “know”—was quite humble about it,
and sat, pulling at his pipe, whilst Perrin enlarged about lists and
dormitories and marks and discipline to his hearts content. “I must say
as far as order goes I 've never found any trouble. It 's in a man if
he 's going to do it—I've always managed them all right—never any
trouble—hum, ha! Yes, you 'll find them the first few days just a little
restive—seeing what you 're made of, you know; drop on them, drop on
them.”
Traill asked about the holiday task.
“Oh, yes, Dormer set that. Ivanhoe—Scott, you know. Just got to read out
the questions, and see they don't crib. Let them go when you hear the
chapel bell.”
Traill was profuse in his thanks.
“Not at all—anything you want to know.”
Perrin smiled at him.
There was, once again, the timid knock at the door. The door was opened,
and a crowd of tiny boys shuffled in, headed by a larger boy who had
the bold look of one who has lost all terror of masters, their ways, and
their common rooms.
“Well, Sexton?” Perrin cleared his throat.
“Please, sir, you told me to bring the new boys. These are all I could
find, sir—Pippin Minor is crying in the matron's room, sir.” Sexton
backed out of the room.
Perrin stared at the agitated crowd for some moments without saying
anything. The boys were herded together like cattle, and were staring at
him with eyes that started from their round, close-cropped heads. Perrin
took their names down. Then he talked to them for three minutes about
discipline, decency, and decorum; then he reminded them of their
mothers, and finally said a word about serving their country.
Then he passed on to the subject of pocket-money. “It will be safer for
you to hand it over to me,” he said slowly and impressively. “Then you
shall have it when you want it.”
A slight shiver of apprehension passed through the crowd; then slowly,
one by one, they delivered up their shining silver. One tiny boy—he
had apparently no neck and no legs; he was very chubby—had only two
halfcrowns. He clutched these in his hot palm until Perrin said, “Well,
Rackets?”
Then, with eyes fixed devouringly upon them, the boy delivered them up.
“I don't like to see you so fond of money, Rackets.” Perrin dropped
the half-crowns slowly into his trouser pocket, one after the other. “I
don't think you will ever see these half-crowns again.” He smiled.
Rackets began to choke. His fist, which had closed again as though the
money was still there, moved forward. A large, fat tear gathered slowly
in his eye. He struggled to keep it back—he dug his fist into it, turned
round, and fled from the room.
Perrin was amused. “Caught friend Rackets on the hip,” he said.
Then suddenly, in the distance, an iron bell began to clang. The four
men put on their gowns, gathered books together, and moved to the door.
Traill hung back a little. “You take the big room with me, Traill,” said
Dormer. “I 'll give you paper and blotting-paper.”
They moved slowly out of the room, Perrin last. A door was opened. There
was a sudden cessation of confused whispers—complete silence, and
then Perrin's voice: “Question one. Who were Richard I., Gurth, Wamba,
Brian-de-Bois-Guilbert?.. . B,r,i,a,n—hyphen...”
The door closed. III.
A few papers fluttered about the table. It was growing dark outside, and
a silver moon showed above the dark mass of the garden wall.
The brown leaves, now invisible, passed rustling and whispering about
the path. Into the room there stole softly, from the kitchen, the smell
of onions....