The Two Cock was always played a fortnight after the Thirds, and during
that fortnight the outhouses had to play off among themselves three
preliminary rounds. For them it was a remarkably strenuous time. The two
best outhouses sides had, in fact, to play four house matches in twelve
days. But it was possible for the School House to take things easily for
at least half a week. And these three days out of training meant a lot
to Gordon and others, who would have to play not only in the Two Cock,
but most probably in the Three Cock as well. It prevented staleness;
and staleness was the great danger that all outhouse sides had to face.
The week after the Thirds was regarded as a fairly slack time
before the strenuous week that culminated in the Two Cock. There
would probably be only one game--on the Saturday; and that a short
quarter-of-an-hour-each-way affair. It was usually a quite uneventful
time. This term, however, an occurrence took place that had a big effect
on the growth of Gordon's character.
Finnemore had caught influenza; the Chief had to go for a week to
Oxford. The Sixth was at a loose end. Various masters took it in various
subjects, or at least were supposed to. Most of the week was spent in
the studies, as the master in charge forgot to turn up.
One afternoon, Ferrers was to take them in English. But Ferrers was
engaged in writing an article on the "New Public School Boy" for _The
Cornhill Magazine_, and wanted to be quiet. He sent the form to their
studies to write an essay on a typical Ferrers subject: "Poetry is in
the first instance the outpouring of a rebel." It had to be shown up by
six o'clock.
Gordon revelled in it. During the long afternoon he poured out his
fierce soul. His life was now a strange paradox. Half the time he
thought of poetry, worshipping any sort of rebellion against the
conventional standards of living. At other times he was like the
ordinary Philistine, blindly worshipping games, never seeing that they
led nowhere, and were as a blind alley. This afternoon Gordon forgot
everything but Swinburne, Byron, Rossetti, and the poets of revolt. He
stigmatised Wordsworth as a doddering old man, not knowing that his
return to nature was the greatest revolution in English literature. In a
text-book he saw Shelley described as a rebel. He got a copy of his
works out of the library, but found little there resembling the work of
his own favourite. However, he quoted a verse out of _O World, O Life, O
Time!_ and decided to search more deeply later on. The bulk of the essay
was a glowing eulogy of _The Hymn to Proserpine_ and _Don Juan_. It was
very dogmatic, very absurd in parts, but it had the merit of enthusiasm,
and, at any rate, showed a genuine appreciation of a certain class of
literature.
Well satisfied, he made his way across to the Sixth Form room, and found
Ferrers gazing at a pile of papers, as Hercules must have gazed at the
Augean stables.
"Um," said Ferrers, "who are you?"
"Caruthers, sir. I have brought you the essay you set the Sixth."
"Right; let's have a look at it; hope it is better than the stuff I have
just been reading."
"Yes, yes, um--ah," he murmured to himself, as he read on. There was
clearly some hankering after style, some searching for an idea. Ferrers
dearly wanted to smile at the attack on Wordsworth, and the comparison
between Swinburne and Milton (whom Gordon had never read), all in favour
of the Pre-Raphaelite. But he knew that it would be a fatal thing to do;
it would seem superior; the master must come down to the boy's level. He
read on to the end of the wild, sprawling peroration.
"Not bad stuff, Caruthers, not bad at all. Far and away better than
anything I have so far struck. I must talk to you again about this; I am
glad you love Byron; I do myself; people run him down--fools, that is.
You stick to Byron, he is all right. And don't despise the rest too
much. Have a shot at Keats and Shelley. They are not so powerful, but
good all the same, very fine stuff.... Try _The Pot of Basil_. Must rush
off now. Are you in training? No! Not yet. Right. Come up to tea
to-morrow. Good-night."
And thus began a friendship that was the most permanent in Gordon's
school career.
Every Friday he used to climb up the hill past Rogers's house, and step
out down the white London road to Ferrers's cosy little home. Over a cup
of tea he read an essay. Ferrers would lie back listening, and then
discuss it with him. He sometimes blamed the actual expression of it,
but he never found fault on questions of taste. He let Gordon browse at
will in the fields of English literature; he suggested books he thought
Gordon would like; he did not try to rush him on. There was heaps of
time; he would let Gordon develop on his own lines.
From these evenings Gordon derived a pleasure that he found it hard to
explain. He was thankful to get away from the footer talk, the
inevitable intrigues, scandals, all in fact that went to form the daily
curriculum. The world of ideas was far more attractive. Ferrers,
although himself a quarter-mile Blue, looked upon games as a recreation,
and upon school life as a mud-heap that had to be washed clean. Poetry,
drama, the modern novel, these were what Ferrers loved; and Gordon was
glad to find someone who thought like this. He felt uplifted after his
talks with Ferrers, he walked back to the House buoyant, as it were on
wings. Then as the school gates rose before him, and he heard the sound
of a football bouncing in the court, the old routine caught him once
more. He plunged into the old life with the same zest. He devised a new
scheme for avoiding work, thought out an idea for teaching forwards to
heel, laughed, discussed athletics and was well content. He tried to
analyse his feelings, but could not. He was now two separate persons. At
times he was the dreamer, the lover of art and poetry; at another the
politician, the fighter who lived every minute of his life deeply to the
full, with one fixed aim before him. Gordon wondered if this apparent
paradox in himself was in any way an answer of the enigma that an
artist's life so frequently was utterly different from the broad
outlines of his work. Browning had talked of a man having "two
soul-sides." Had he two soul-sides, one for the world, the other for
art--and Ferrers? But then Browning had spoken contemptuously of the
"one to face the world with." Surely games were as good as poetry? Or
weren't they, after all? He felt an unanswerable doubt, and at such
times of introspection he would stop trying to think and merely let
himself be carried on in whatever course fortune chose to bear him. And
so the Jekyll and Hyde business went on.