A Dominie in Doubt Part 4
Mac's infant mistress was off duty to-day owing to an attack of influenza, and he gladly accepted my offer to take her place.
Half-an-hour after my entry into the room Mac came in to see how I was getting on. Most of the infants were swarming over me, and Mac frowned. At his frown they all crept back silently to their seats.
"You seem to have the fatal gift of demoralising children," he growled.
It hadn't struck me before, but it is a fact; I do demoralise children.
Not long ago I entered a Montessori school, and I spoke not one word.
In five minutes the insets and long stairs were lying neglected in the middle of the floor, and the kiddies were scrambling over me. I felt very guilty for I feared that if Montessori herself were to walk in she would be indignant. I cannot explain why I affect kiddies in this way.
It may be that intuitively they know that I do not inspire fear or respect; it may be that they unconsciously recognise the baby in me.
Anyway, as Mac says, it is a fatal gift.
I think Miss Martin the infant mistress is a good teacher. Her infants do not fear her, and I am sure they love her. The only person they fear is Mac, poor dear old Mac, the most lovable soul in the world. He tries hard to show his love for the infants but somehow they know that behind his smile is the grim head-master who leathers Tom Murray. I sent wee Mary Smith into Mac's room to fetch some chalk to-day, and she wept and feared to enter. Occasionally, I believe, Mac will enter the room, seize a wee mite who is speaking instead of working, and give him or her a scud with the tawse. I wonder how a good soul like Mac can do it.
I have an unlovely story of a board school. An infant mistress lay dying, and in her delirium she cried in terror lest her head-master should come in again and strap her dear, wee infants. It is a true story, and it is the most d.a.m.ning indictment of board school education anyone could wish for. She was a good woman who loved children, and if fear of her head-master brought terror to her on her deathbed, what terrors are such men inspiring in poor wee infants? The men who beat children are exactly in the position of the men who stoned Jesus Christ; they know not what they do, nor do they know why they do it.
There was a stranger in Dauvit's shop when I entered to-day, a seedy-looking whiskered man with a threadbare coat and extremely dirty linen. Shabby genteel would be the Scots description of him.
Dauvit asked me a casual question about London, and the stranger became interested at once.
"Ah," he said, "you're from London, are ye? Man, yon's a great place, a wonderful place!"
I nodded a.s.sent.
"Man," he continued, "yon's the place for sichts! Could anything beat the procession at the Lord Mayor's show, eh?"
I meekly admitted that I had never seen the Lord Mayor's show, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"But I'll tell ye what's just as good, mister, and that's the King and Queen opening Parliament. Man, yon's a sicht, isn't it?"
"I--er--I haven't had the opportunity of seeing it," I said.
He looked more surprised than ever.
"But, man, I'll tell ye what's just as good, and that's a big London fire. Man, to see the way the firemen go up the ladders like monkeys.
Yon's a sicht for sair een!"
"I never had the luck to see a fire in London," I said hesitatingly.
"When were you last in town?"
He did not seem to hear my question; he was evidently thinking of other London thrills.
"Man," he said ruminatingly, "often while I sit in the Tarbonny Kirk I just sit and think aboot Westminster Abbey. Man, yon's a kirk! I suppose you'll be there ilka Sunday?"
I found it difficult to tell him that I had never been in the Abbey, but I managed to get the words out, and then I avoided his reproachful eye. He knocked out his pipe, and I took the action to be a symbolic one meaning: You are an empty sort of person. He studied me critically for a time, then he brightened.
"Aye," he said cheerfully, "London's a graund place, but, for sichts give me New York."
I felt more humble than ever, for I had never travelled. He seemed to guess that by the look of me, for he never asked my opinion of New York.
"Man," he said warmly, "yon's a place! Yon skysc.r.a.pers! Phew!" and he whistled his wonder and admiration. "And the streets! Man, ye canna walk on the sidewalk at the busy times. A wonderfu' place, New York, but, as for me, give me the West, California and Frisco."
"You have travelled much, sir," I said reverently. The "sir" seemed to come naturally; my inferiority complex was touched on the raw.
Again he ignored me.
"To see yon cowboys! Man, yon's what I call riding! And the Indians!"
He sighed; it was obvious that he was living over again his life in the western wilds. A wistful look crept into his eyes, and I began to construct his sad story. He loved a maid, but the bruiser of the camp loved her also . . . hence the broken-down clothes, the dirty collar.
But anon he cheered up again.
"Yes," he said, "I love the West, but for colour and climate give me j.a.pan."
I was so confused now that I had to blow out my pipe vigorously. I glanced at Dauvit, but he was sharpening his knife on the emery hone, and did not appear to be interested. I felt a vague anger against Dauvit; why wasn't he helping me in my trial?
"j.a.pan," continued the irrepressible stranger, "is one of the finest countries in the world, but, for climate give me Siberia."
I hastily thought to myself that if I were Lenin I . . . but I did not follow out my daydream, for the stranger brought me back to earth by inquiring what was my honest and unbia.s.sed opinion of the Peruvians. I very cleverly pretended that I had swallowed some nicotine, and, after a polite pause for my answer, he went off to the subject of pearl fishing at Thursday Island. Then he looked at Dauvit's clock.
"Jerusalem!" he gasped, "the pub shuts at twa o'clock!" and he rushed out of the shop. I heaved a great sigh of relief, and then I heaved a greater sigh of relief.
I seized Dauvit by the arm.
"Dauvit," I gasped, "who--who is your cosmopolitan friend?"
"My what kind o' a friend?"
"Your world-travelled friend, Dauvit. Tell me who he is."
Dauvit laughed softly.
"That," he said, "was Joe Mill. He bides wi' his old mother in that cottage at the foot o' the brae. To the best o' my knowledge he hasna been further than Perth in his life."
"But!" I cried in amazement, "he has been everywhere!"
"He hasna," said Dauvit shortly, "but he works the cinema lantern at the Farfar picter hoose."
I had a long talk to-night with Macdonald about self-government in schools, and I told him of my plans for running a self-governing school in Highgate. At the end of the discussion I had the biggest surprise of my life. Mac smoked for a long time in silence, then he turned to me suddenly.
"Look here, old chap, I'll have a shot at introducing self-government to-morrow," he said with enthusiasm.
I grasped his hand.
"Excellent! Mac, you're a wonder! You're a brave man!"
"I don't feel brave," he said nervously. "It's going to be a very difficult job."