CHAPTER VITHE CLOVEN HOOF
AsMr. Flaggon passed, one October afternoon, through the green door at the end of his garden, which led into Colonus, the air was full of voices that rose alternately to a frenzied shriek or dropped to a kind of monotonous chant. For the first round of house-matches was in progress and reputations were being lost and won.
Chiltern prided itself on being different from other schools, and Chiltern had a game of football peculiar to itself. It was a more manly game than any other code, and developed higher moral qualities in those who played it. As Mr. Chowdler said, no shirker, no humbug, could hope to win laurels at the Chiltern game.
When Mr. Chowdler’s house was competing for laurels, Mr. Chowdler himself walked excitedly up and down the touch-line with a flushed face and protruding eyes, shouting, in a voice that dominated all others, instructions to his boys, such as, “Pass, Percy, pass! Feet, feet, Gerald! Shoot, Basil,shoot, can’t you! Stick to it! Good lads all! Wellplayed, Harry! Well played, sir!” For Mr. Chowdler always spoke to, and of, his boys by their Christian names. As a sort of tribal god, inspiring his children to deeds of valour, Mr. Chowdler was invaluable; but as a coach he had his limitations. For he had been brought up on the Rugby game and was never accepted as an authority on Chiltern football. Consequently his instructions were invariably ignored by the players. But he continued to shout them in perfect good faith, and they were regarded as an inevitable, if irrelevant, feature of the game.
Mr. Chowdler was in a good temper, for his house was winning easily, and Mr. Chowdler liked to win easily. An enthusiast for all forms of manly sport, he belonged to that particular brand of good sportsmen who find it easier to be chivalrous to a vanquished foe than fair to a victorious one. Accordingly, on the comparatively rare occasions on which his house was beaten, Mr. Chowdler always suspected the referee of partiality and his opponents of rough play; and, being an outspoken man, he did not keep his suspicions to himself. His own boys, less sensitive perhaps on the point of honour than their housemaster, sometimes regretted these outbursts, which did not add to the popularity of the house.
But on the present occasion all was going well and Mr. Chowdler’s temper was unruffled. The Chaseites (late Coxites) were only serving as a “sullen ground” to show off the “bright metal” of their adversaries. So when he caught sight of Mr. Flaggon approaching, he left his post of observation on the touch-line and went to meet him.
He was, indeed, feeling unusually well-disposed towards the new headmaster, for there had been a momentary rapprochement between the two men. Two days before, Mr. Chowdler had detected a boy in his Form cribbing—an offence about which he felt very strongly—and, acting on his advice, Mr. Flaggon had flogged the culprit; thus reverting to an old tradition which in the last seven years of Dr. Gussy’s reign had become obsolete. With a clear lead of two goals his “lads” could safely be left to their own devices for a few minutes, and it would be good for the new man to see the Chiltern game played in the true Chiltern spirit and interpreted by one who was able to explain its ethical value. For, after all, theremightbe possibilities in the “empty one,” and, rightly handled, he seemed not incapable of being taught.
Mr. Chase apparently thought so too. He was watching the defeat of his house with gloomy stoicism from the opposite side of the ground—a chivalrous Chowdler was alwaysa little overwhelming—and, catching sight of the two men in earnest conversation, he nudged Mr. Bent, who was standing beside him, and whispered:
“See that? Chowdler’s taking him in hand; same as poor old Gussy. Shouldn’t wonder if some of our friends haven’t been frightened with false fire after all.”
“H’m,” replied Mr. Bent. “Appearances are often deceptive. Wait and see. Flaggon’s a dark horse, and there’ll be surprises yet.”
And the first of the surprises came about a week later at a housemasters’ meeting. The meeting had been convened, nominally, for the purpose of discussing the scale of tradesmen’s charges, which Mr. Flaggon thought excessive; but, at the close of it, he said in the most matter-of-fact way:
“As we are here, I should like to say a few words on another subject. I intend, in the more or less near future, to introduce certain changes into our curriculum with a view to making our teaching more effective. I don’t know exactly yet what form those changes will take; but I have two things in my mind. In the first place, I find that our standard of scholarship is surprisingly low. I notice that last year we did not get a single scholarship of any importance at either university.”
“We have always discouraged pot-huntinghere,” interrupted Mr. Pounderly. “We have aimed at knowledge—not prizes.”
“I know,” said Mr. Flaggon; “but it is the level of knowledge that I find so low here; much lower, for example, than it is in several other schools at which I have examined. And, in the second place, I am convinced that the average boy here (I am not speaking of the scholar) is not getting quite the kind of education which is best suited to his requirements.”
Mr. Flaggon paused, and if a pin had fallen it would have been distinctly audible, so tense was the silence. The challenge had been thrown down, but everybody waited for a moment to feel the edge of his weapon before rushing into the fray.
“I intend to do nothing rashly,” continued Mr. Flaggon. “I wish the whole subject to be discussed thoroughly before we decide on anything final, so that every point of view may find its expression. And for that reason I think it would be interesting, and perhaps helpful, if we could obtain the views of at least some of our parents on the subject.”
There was a gasp; and Mr. Beadle, the authority on Plautus, rapped out:
“The parents have already expressed their views by sending their sons to Chiltern.”
“Not exactly,” said the headmaster. “It all depends on what alternatives they had.”
“Surely,” pleaded Mr. Pounderly, “surely,to call in the parents would be like calling in the patient to advise the specialist.”
“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Flaggon. “The truer analogy would be to say that we are like the specialist who consults the patient’s relatives about the patient’s symptoms. And the relatives are often able to give very helpful information to the specialist.”
“Do I understand you to propose,” said Mr. Chowdler in a voice of concentrated irony, “that we should call in their uncles and cousins and aunts and make a regular symposium of it?”
Mr. Flaggon winced, but he kept his temper.
“I don’t think,” he said, “that in this case there would be any practical advantage in going beyond the parents. What I wanted to say was, that I shall be very grateful if housemasters will let me have the names and addresses of any representative parents who are likely to be interested in such a proposal. I thought perhaps that we might arrange to meet them, quite informally, some time in November or at the beginning of December.”
“What exactly do you mean by a representative parent?” asked Mr. Flyte, with the air of a man who is putting a poser.
“I must really leave that to the discretion of housemasters,” replied Mr. Flaggon, with a smile.
News of the impending parents’ committee ran through the staff like fire through gorse, and soon all Chiltern was ablaze. Some called it the thin edge of the wedge; others, the cloven hoof. The Liberals (for there were a few Liberals even at Chiltern) said that Flaggon was setting up a second Chamber to override the decisions of Masters’ Meetings; the Conservatives, that he was appealing to Demos. All agreed that the innovation was a blow to the prestige of the masters and an infringement of their ancient rights. Even Mr. Plummer felt and spoke strongly, and he imparted his fears to Mr. Bent, as they were taking the hill walk, commonly known as the “Ushers’ Grind,” one sunny autumn afternoon.
The friendship of Mr. Bent and Mr. Plummer was founded on a complete dissimilarity of tastes. It is true that they shared a dislike of golf and motors, but in all other respects they were in hearty disagreement. Mr. Plummer’s faith in man goaded Mr. Bent almost into violence, and Mr. Bent’s distrust of human nature in general, and middle-class human nature in particular, filled Mr. Plummer with righteous indignation. At the end of every walk the nerves of each were raw and tingling; but they never failed to walk together twice or even thrice in the course of every week. The particular formof quarrelling in which they indulged had grown upon them like a drug habit, and neither could do without it for long.
A stranger who knew them by reputation but not by sight would inevitably have mistaken each for the other. Mr. Plummer, tall and thin, with a hooked nose, hollow cheeks, and sallow complexion, looked the embodiment of pessimism; while Mr. Bent, short, stout, with round eyes and a florid face, ought to have been a born optimist. Mr. Rankin used to say that Providence had designed the character of the one for the person of the other, that a malicious fairy had negotiated an exchange, and that they sought each others company because, apart, they were both conscious of being incomplete.
But on this occasion, as we have said, Mr. Plummer was inclined to be pessimistic.
“I don’t like this idea,” he said, “of calling in an outside opinion. If the parents once get it into their heads that they are able to dictate, there will be an end of systematic teaching.”
“My good Plummer,” replied Mr. Bent, “there cannot possibly be an end, because there has never been a beginning. Systematic teaching indeed! Why, a boy told me the other day that he had been doing the same French book ever since he came to the school two years ago; and it is notorious that Coxset one and the same Latin prose every Term to his Form, and never looked it over.”
“I was not thinking of organisation,” said Mr. Plummer, “I was speaking of principles; and I repeat, if the parents are allowed to dictate the lines on which education is to proceed, there will be an end of systematic teaching.”
“They will not dictate,” said Mr. Bent; “they have no manuscript to dictate from. Their theories on education are purely negative—I say, steady up the hill! The only thing they insist on is that their offspring should not be taught to think or know. Thought and knowledge are dangerous to the existing social order and must be smothered young, like the Princes in the Tower. Provided that theyaresmothered, the parents don’t care a rap what sort of pillow is used.”
“Thought,” said Mr. Plummer, “hardly exists outside the middle classes.”
“Knowledge,” retorted Mr. Bent, “only begins where middle-classdom ends. The art of being middle class consists in shutting yourself up in a detached house and only recognising the people who come in at the front door. Knowledge leads to the back door and the streets, and is therefore fatal to the art; and knowledge is the goal of education.”
“If parents didn’t believe in education,”said Mr. Plummer, “they wouldn’t send their boys here.”
“The English middle classes,” said Mr. Bent, “never have believed in education. The Scotch did once, till they discovered the superior merits of football; but the English never. And they send their sons here to be inoculated against it—I say,dogo a bit slower. For choice they put them with Chowdler, who returns them, in a few years, finished specimens of Philistinism, with orthodox views on Bible criticism and the off-theory, and a complete lack of interest in anything that really matters.”
“I don’t at all agree with you,” said Mr. Plummer; “but, if the parents are such hopeless idiots as you describe them, why do you want to consult them?”
“I don’t,” replied Mr. Bent. “But, if they are such angels of light as you imagine them, why do you object to asking for their advice?”
“You are paradoxical,” snapped Mr. Plummer.
“And you are illogical,” panted Mr. Bent.