College head-porters as a class assuredly rank amongst the dignified
things of the earth. One may admire the martial splendour of a
Brigadier-General, and it is not to be denied that Rear-Admirals have
a certain something about them which excites both awe and delight, but
they are never quite the same thing as a college head-porter. There
may be weak spots in the profession, and indeed in one or two of the
less self-respecting colleges the head-porters scarcely rise above the
level of the Dons; but these are distinctly exceptional. As a class
they stand, as I said, amongst the dignified things of life.
Parsons is our head-porter, and perhaps he is the sublimest of them
all. Freshmen raise their squares to him, and Oriental students can
rarely bring themselves to enter the porter's lodge during their first
term without previously removing their shoes. Few except fourth-year
men have the temerity to address him as "Parsons" to his face; it
seems such an awful thing to do, like keeping a chapel in bedroom
slippers or walking arm-in-arm with a Blue. You feel awkward about it.
In order to give you a shadowy idea of Parsons' majesty I must hark
back for a moment to a certain day in November, 1914, when Biffin and
I, after a brief dalliance with the C.U.O.T.C., left Cambridge to join
our regiments. It was pouring with rain, but we were elated in spirit;
we had our commissions; things were going to happen; we felt almost
in case to jostle a constable. As we passed out through the porter's
lodge Parsons sat at his table, imperturbable and austere, his eagle
eyes flashing from beneath his bushy brows and his venerable
beard sweeping his breast. At that moment Biffin, overwrought with
excitement, forgot himself.
"Cheerio, Parsons, old cracker," he shouted wildly; "how's the weather
suit your whiskers?"
Then, realising the enormity of his act, he turned suddenly pale,
dashed out into the road and dived panic-stricken into the waiting
taxi. We made good our escape.
* * * * *
Those seven stars represent the War. I take a childlike pleasure
in dismissing Armageddon in this brusque fashion. If you have had
anything at all to do with it you will understand.
Having been demobilised at a relatively early date, out of respect for
our pivotal intellects, Biffin and I were bound for Cambridge, to take
up the threads of learning where WILHELM had snapped them some years
previously. Both of us have changed a little. Biffin has been burnt
brown by the suns of Egypt, while I wear a small souvenir of Flanders
on my upper lip.
"I wonder if Parsons will remember us," said Biffin as the train
thundered into the station.
"Of course he will," I replied. "Parsons never forgets anything."
"I doubt it," said Biffin.
As our taxi drew up before the portals of Alma Mater the first person
we saw, standing on the steps of the porter's lodge, was Parsons. He
was as Olympian as ever. As soon as you saw him you felt that, though
they might abolish compulsory Greek or introduce a Finance Tripos,
they would never be able to subdue the ancient spirit of the
University. A single glimpse of Parsons, standing erect in all his
traditional glory, showed up people like Mr. H.G. WELLS in their true
perspective in a moment. It did one good.
We approached him. "Good afternoon, Parsons," we said, with a brave
attempt at _sang-froid_.
Parsons regarded us. "Good afternoon, Mr. Jones," he said to me. Then
his eyes rested on Biffin. "Good afternoon, Sir," he said.
Biffin nudged me, "He's forgotten me," he whispered. Parsons continued
to subject him to an implacable scrutiny. At length he spoke again.
"As to your question, Mr. Biffin, which I have had no earlier
opportunity of answering, I may say that what you were pleased to
allude to as my whiskers--a colloquialism I do not myself employ--are
entirely impervious to and unaffected by any climatic variations
whatsoever. Your rooms, Sir, are on Staircase B."
* * * * *