I don’t understand what is happening, thought Mr Trill. The liberal classical world is collapsing around us, and nobody notices. What an extraordinary situation.
He stared at the wall on which someone had written GOEBBELS EATS HAGGIS. The light poured through the glass roof on to him. Where am I, he thought, what is this place supposed to be?
And yet . . . and yet . . . perhaps it is right that I should try and teach the ‘masses’. And if I don’t what can I say? Others, he knew, would be cunning enough to find a purely objective way of defending personal territory, but he wasn’t clever enough to do that. His honesty was his weakness. He knew nothing about people. It was quite clear that he hadn’t understood Mr Watt at any rate. It was obvious that the two of them belonged to two very different worlds. The small cunning eyes bored into his again.
I should really be defending my own territory, thought Mr Trill, and yet there is a certain amount of truth in what he is saying. It is perhaps wrong to give Anderson seven periods of Greek a week.
That had a truth in it but on the other hand was that the real reason why Mr Watt had stopped Greek? Mr Trill took another step down the stair and stopped again. Perhaps he should still go back. But what was he to say? No, it was no longer important that one should love one’s subject, that was romantic idealism. What was important was to fight for everything you could get, find a quarrel in a straw. He took another step downstairs.
‘You have been very accommodating,’ said Mr Watt later, ‘in fact I would say that you have been the most accommodating and most civilised of all the teachers that I have dealt with. So therefore it is with a certain amount of trepidation that’ – he rested for a moment on the Latin word – ‘I approach you again.’ Was it Mr Trill’s imagination or did Mr Watt use longer words usually derived from the Latin than he had done in the past? Why, once or twice recently, he had come to his room to ask him about the derivation of a word like ‘curriculum’ and Mr Trill had been glad to expatiate, despising himself at the same time for basking in the warm glow of power.
‘Well then,’ said Mr Watt, ‘you will have heard of my plans for talks to be given by professional local people on selected topics, for example the law, medicine and so on. The question arises about a room for them.’ And he glanced round Mr Trill’s large and airy room and at his small class.
‘I was wondering whether you would be willing that they use this room during these periods. This would only occur once or twice a week. And you could have Mr Blake’s room at that time. Mr Blake is free. He has a small chemistry room as you will know.’
I know what he is doing, thought Mr Trill. Eventually he will get this room entirely for Mr Blake, or entirely for these industrial and professional conferences and I will be teaching in Mr Blake’s poky room till the end of my days. I know that this is exactly what he is doing. But what shall I say? Shall I say that he can find another room for his conferences, in which case he will tell me that there is no other room more suitable. Or shall I say that I am against these conferences in the first place? But how can you be? he will say. After all, these poor children cannot go out into the world blind and deaf.
And in any case, thought Mr Trill, does it matter where I teach Latin? Do I need a sunny room such as this one is and which I have inhabited for twenty years and which I love? Is this not selfishness on my part? Why, is my comfort to be more important than the future lives of the children as they set out on their journey through life?
‘I don’t mind,’ he said. And again the small sharp eyes glittered with their lights of sharp hate, if that was what it was.
Who are you, thought Mr Trill, who are you really? My scholarship after all is no use to me in this world. All this time you weren’t weak at all, all this time when I felt pity for you you knew exactly what you were doing. All this time when I wept for you because you were such a pigmy you thought of yourself as a giant. And perhaps you have gone home and discussed me with your wife and she has helped you to find my weakest spot, just like Achilles. How can I stand out against you, against these ratlike movements, with my shaken armour?
And so without argument Mr Trill surrendered more and more, till finally he had hardly anything at all left. Dressed in his dignity he found that dignity didn’t count at all. The past was forever gone and only the present remained and the present was fashioned by these devious manoeuvrings.
Perhaps then he should have fought from the very beginning for every piece of chalk in his room, for every jotter, every desk. Perhaps that was what fighting and honour really meant.
And his father, by retreating into his study, had been wrong, and his mother by intuition had been right all along.
Hail to the Bingo Caesar, he shouted among the shades. And he raised an imaginary glass.
From a deep shade behind him he thought he heard the sound of weeping and there under a tree he saw a woman who was dressed in black. Above her flowed the dark distraught leaves.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Andromache,’ she replied.
‘The wife of Hector?’ he asked.
‘The same,’ she said.
‘Why then are you weeping?’
‘It is because of my fear,’ she said.
‘Fear of what?’ asked Mr Trill.
‘Not fear of death,’ she replied. ‘Not fear of death but another fear. A greater fear than that.’
‘What fear is that?’
‘Fear of loss,’ said the woman as she shivered uncontrollably under the shadow of the leaves.
‘Everyone knows,’ she began, ‘what happened to my husband Hector. Everyone knows that he had to go out to fight Achilles. I remember it very well. I helped him put on his armour on that never-to-be-forgotten day. He was trembling with fear but when I asked him whether he should still go out, he said, “I must, I must,” over and over. I asked him why he should go out when he was frightened but he kept saying, “I must, I must,” like a little child. That day was a day of sorrows. It was a beautiful calm blue day and the soldiers were gathered together to watch the fight for they themselves wouldn’t have to take part. And my husband Hector put on his armour on that calm blue day with the mist in the air and I said to him, “Why do you have to go out and fight?” and he kept saying, “I must, I must.” His mother Hecuba was there and his father Priam and to them he returned the same answer.
‘And you know what happened to him. In spite of the fact that he ran round the walls of Troy to escape the terrible Achilles and finally had to turn and fight he was still carried about the dust of the plain tied to the victor’s chariot wheels.’ And she began to weep uncontrollably. ‘And you know how Priam had to beg for my husband’s body in order that it might be buried. And Achilles threw the bodies of many Trojans on to the same pyre as that of Patroclus. But that was not it. That was not what I was talking about. For there was much else that no one knows about.’
There was a long silence and it seemed to Mr Trill that she would not speak again but at last she said very slowly and quietly.
‘Men do not know what women suffer. None of them knows that. For if they must go out and fight we must stay where we are. We must look after the children and we must knit and tidy and clean. The house or the castle must be kept, whether we know or not that the war will soon be lost and we ourselves will be taken prisoner or raped. Thus it was that while Hector fought I must keep the house together, and Priam and Hecuba were old.
‘But it was not even that. It was worse than that, much worse. All day Helen went about the castle, young and beautiful, gazing into her mirror as if she were a girl. She was the centre of the world’s attention, men fought over her. How could she not be happy? How could she not look on herself as valuable and important? Every day she would wake up in the morning and how could she not say to herself, “I am the centre of the whole world. Great armies are dying and fighting all the time because of me.” On the other hand, I worried about my husband continually while I must give orders to the servants to keep t
he affairs of the palace running smoothly. And who was to say to me that the two great armies were fighting over me? No one was to say that, no one. Every woman must be encouraged and told that she is beautiful. But how could Hector do that when he was out fighting every day? When he was taking the responsibility for a whole kingdom? And all the time Helen was singing and dancing and happy in the house, for she knew that if the Trojans lost Menelaus would take her back again. All she had to do was keep herself beautiful for any eventuality, while I on the other hand lost my beauty every day because of the responsibility I was enduring. No one can know the anger and the rancour that I felt. Because of her my husband was going out to die, because of her my father and mother were trembling with fear, because of her Trojans were dying every day, and all she could do was sing and keep herself beautiful.
‘One day I lost control of myself and I told her all this. And who took her side? I will tell you. It was Hector. One day I said to her, “Why don’t you go and give yourself to Menelaus, and the Greeks can go home?” But she only looked up from her mirror and smiled for though she was beautiful she was stupid. I could have torn her eyes out. I could have scratched her face to make her less lovely than she was. But who was it who stopped me? It was Hector, my own husband. It was the same Hector who must go and die for her, for a girl – I cannot even call her a woman – who didn’t care. What was it to her that I would be without a husband? She had seen many husbands die and one more wouldn’t make any difference. And as she was the most beautiful girl in the world so Hector was the greatest soldier. And he loved her. O I know that he loved her. He told me that he didn’t, he insisted that he didn’t, but I knew that he did. A woman cannot be deceived. He saw me as old and wrinkled, and he saw her in the dew and blossom of her youth. How could he not love her? I have no proof that he slept with her, that I do not know. But I do know that he loved her. When he didn’t think that I was looking at him, his eyes would follow her about the palace and she would walk with her swaying woman’s walk. I knew what she was doing but Hector did not know. One night I accused him of being in love with her. I said that if he wished to leave me he could do so. If he thought me old he should find someone younger. “I am not keeping you back,” I told him. For I was insane with jealousy. And why should I not be? I knew that he loved her though he refused to admit this to himself, and yet he was going out to die for her, leaving me alone to take all the responsibility. Who would blame me for my jealousy?
‘I remember the morning he left and went out of the gate of the palace for the last time. Though he was trembling he looked heroic. The palace and the people depended on him. He knew that and everyone knew it. Only Priam and Hecuba and I were sure that he would not live, for who could survive an encounter with Achilles? His armour suited him, he looked handsome and radiant. Only I was aware of the fact that he had been trembling, for of course being his wife I knew everything. And then as he was leaving he kissed us all. He kissed me first and then Hecuba and Helen. Lightly, as it seemed to me, on the lip as if she were his sister. But that was only what he wished us all to think. I on the other hand knew that the kiss was a more meaningful one than that. I knew that she was the only one among us whom he would have wished to kiss with passion though he restrained himself. I knew that it was she alone whom he loved. And she too realised it and turned to me with her blazing triumphant eyes and at that moment I could have killed her. But being who I was I had to remain silent. I had to preserve my dignity to the end as Hector had to preserve his courage, the image of the great soldier and hero, even though he was going to his death and knew it. Never have I suffered so much in my life before or since, seeing my husband setting out to fight a great soldier and a god, for a woman younger and more beautiful than me, and knowing that he was setting out with a lie in his heart. How beautiful that day was, how blue, how calm, and how terrible was the beating of my heart. It was Helen who waved gaily to him as he turned for the last time with his puzzled face and his brow which I knew would be wrinkling under his helmet.
‘My love my love I cried to him. And then I heard the scream, like the scream of an animal in agony, and when I turned and looked it was as if Helen was trembling with ecstasy as she might have done in the marriage bed. Her eyes were large and very clear and yet at the same time turned inwards on themselves and her lips were large and full and soft and her whole body was trembling as if at the height of love. I cannot tell you what I felt at that moment for I knew that she was an animal in heat and that she wished to go out and give herself to the victor Achilles in the prime of his courage and his triumph.
‘I could have slapped her face, I could have bitten her ear off, but in spite of all my rage, I had to maintain my dignity, for there was much to be done, Priam and Hecuba to be looked after, and my child to be pacified. I could have turned into a stone that morning but I didn’t.
‘I could have dropped down dead where I was, but I could not afford even that, there was too much to do.
‘And that is what broke my heart, that Hector loved Helen and he had gone out from me with a lie in his heart. Perhaps he had never slept with her but nevertheless the lie was in his mind. His love had passed from me to her, from age to youth.’
She became silent under the shadow of the leaves and Mr Trill felt a desolation in his heart as if it had been pierced. He wanted to say something but there was nothing that he could say. All he could do was bow his head in front of that suffering, while the woman’s silence swelled and swelled as if it would overwhelm him totally. And there together they sat in the dark shade of the trees, each thinking his thoughts till finally with a deep sigh the woman rose and left him.
At the age of thirty-four Mr Trill had fallen in love with one of his pupils, a girl called Thelma who had long blond hair worn in a pigtail. At first Mr Trill did not know that he was in love for he had never been in love before. It was only when he realised that he was extremely sad when Thelma was absent from his class that he finally knew that he was in love. The only problem was that Thelma was at the most seventeen. Mr Trill began to re-read Catullus in his room at night but could find in that famous Latin poet only salacity and not the pure true language that he craved. For his love was agonisingly sweet and weighted with youth and mortality. It was as if Thelma’s youth, its imagined pains and terrors and exquisite joys, was a sign of eternity that concerned itself only with the soul.
As he bent over her jotter to see how she had translated a passage from Livy that he had set, it seemed to him that a faint perfume wafted from her that did not belong to her as such but to a kingdom of which she was simply an emanation. And this was especially so on summer mornings when the mist had not yet been dispersed, and he saw her enter the room in her blue blazer and skirt as if she were not a woman at all, but the spirit of eternal youth, a youth that had forever passed from Mr Trill and which he could hardly remember.
In all the time however that Mr Trill was in love with Thelma he in no way made any advances to her since to him youth was sacred, and especially so as he was a teacher. Thus he sighed in secret and his heart bled in private. At night when he lay in bed he thought of Thelma as of some unattainable star which shone straight into his bedroom from unimaginable distances, a kind of Diana, a huntress connected with spring woods and delicate waters.
How happy Mr Trill was in those days and how well, in his opinion, he taught. It was as if he was inspired and his happiness in the presence of Thelma reflected on to her fortunate class. She was the daughter of a man who worked in the local agricultural office, though Mr Trill of course could not believe this. She was no more his daughter than she was Persephone. She was flesh and blood but she was more than that. Her perfume was that of the Muses as they disported themselves around Helicon.
He found ways of lending her books which in fact she did not read – books with titles like The Greek Mind or The Thought of Greece – but she was not interested in the classics, and her brightness was not in any case exceptional. Nevertheless Mr Trill saw si
gns in her exercises of a budding brilliance. In her presence words like ‘mensa’ and ‘insula’ had a music of their own, and, once gaunt and antique, became vernal and tender. Sometimes he would sit on his tall barren chair wondering how he could get through the day without seeing her again.
At times he would dream that he might some day marry her, but these times occurred only rarely for to him she was not a being of flesh and blood such that he could imagine her as a wife, whatever that might be like, but as an inspiration and guide through the banality of the days, a sort of Beatrice. If only she would remain as she always was, in that breathless moment when beauty is poised at its height before it begins to tremble and waver and finally fall like a dewdrop from a branch in the early morning when the gossamer webs are drifting in the breeze.
Not a sign however did Thelma give that she loved him in return or was at all occupied with these omens and portents of eternity. Not a sign did she give that his scholarship was devoted to her, that all he was and all he possessed he was willing to lay in a moment at her feet. If Mr Trill had been in the habit of going to school dances he would have attended them for her sake alone but he could not bring himself to do that, for his mirror, as he thought, taught him his unworthiness. Why, he had seen too much of the world for her to love him. He was soiled with knowledge and irony and rancour. And he was too old for her.
He existed in what only could be called a mist of love since his love had no reality in the world around him, was not anchored in it, and could not issue in any fruition. If she was spring he was autumn, and if she had suddenly said to him at some moment charged with significance that she was his forever he would probably have run away, his gown floating behind him. For he craved the pure and impossible which he saw only in her.
The Black Halo Page 40