And then out one would come through our grey old gate into the evening light and the spectacle of London hurrying like a cataract, London in black and brown and blue and gleaming silver, roaring like the very loom of Time.We came out into the new world no teacher has yet had the power and courage to grasp and expound.Life and death sang all about one, joys and fears on such a scale, in such an intricacy as never Greek nor Roman knew.The interminable procession of horse omnibuses went lumbering past, bearing countless people we knew not whence, we knew not whither.Hansoms clattered, foot passengers jostled one, a thousand appeals of shop and boarding caught the eye.The multi-coloured lights of window and street mingled with the warm glow of the declining day under the softly flushing London skies; the ever-changing placards, the shouting news-vendors, told of a kaleidoscopic drama all about the globe.
One did not realise what had happened to us, but the voice of Topham was suddenly drowned and lost, he and his minute, remote gesticulations....
That submerged and isolated curriculum did not even join on to living interests where it might have done so. We were left absolutely to the hints of the newspapers, to casual political speeches, to the cartoons of the comic papers or a chance reading of some Socialist pamphlet for any general ideas whatever about the huge swirling world process in which we found ourselves.I always look back with particular exasperation to the cessation of our modern history at the year 1815.There it pulled up abruptly, as though it had come upon something indelicate....
But, after all, what would Topham or Flack have made of the huge adjustments of the nineteenth century? Flack was the chief cricketer on the staff; he belonged to that great cult which pretends that the place of this or that county in the struggle for the championship is a matter of supreme importance to boys.He obliged us to affect a passionate interest in the progress of county matches, to work up unnatural enthusiasms.What a fuss there would be when some well-trained boy, panting as if from Marathon, appeared with an evening paper! "I say, you chaps, Middlesex all out for a hundred and five!"Under Flack's pressure I became, I confess, a cricket humbug of the first class.I applied myself industriously year by year to mastering scores and averages; I pretended that Lords or the Oval were the places nearest Paradise for me.(I never went to either.)Through a slight mistake about the county boundary I adopted Surrey for my loyalty, though as a matter of fact we were by some five hundred yards or so in Kent.It did quite as well for my purposes.
I bowled rather straight and fast, and spent endless hours acquiring the skill to bowl Flack out.He was a bat in the Corinthian style, rich and voluminous, and succumbed very easily to a low shooter or an unexpected Yorker, hut usually he was caught early by long leg.
The difficulty was to bowl him before he got caught.He loved to lift a ball to leg.After one had clean bowled him at the practice nets one deliberately gave him a ball to leg just to make him feel nice again.
Flack went about a world of marvels dreaming of leg hits.He has been observed, going across the Park on his way to his highly respectable club in Piccadilly, to break from profound musings into a strange brief dance that ended with an imaginary swipe with his umbrella, a roofer, over the trees towards Buckingham Palace.The hit accomplished, Flack resumed his way.
Inadequately instructed foreigners would pass him in terror, needlessly alert.
6
These schoolmasters move through my memory as always a little distant and more than a little incomprehensible.Except when they wore flannels, I saw them almost always in old college caps and gowns, a uniform which greatly increased their detachment from the world of actual men.Gates, the head, was a lean loose-limbed man, rather stupid I discovered when I reached the Sixth and came into contact with him, but honest, ****** and very eager to be liberal-minded.He was bald, with an almost conical baldness, with a grizzled pointed beard, small featured and, under the stresses of a Zeitgeist that demanded liberality, with an expression of puzzled but resolute resistance to his own unalterable opinions.He made a tall dignified figure in his gown.In my junior days he spoke to me only three or four times, and then he annoyed me by giving me a wrong surname; it was a sore point because I was an outsider and not one of the old school families, the Shoesmiths, the Naylors, the Marklows, the Tophams, the Pevises and suchlike, who came generation after generation.I recall him most vividly against the background of faded brown book-backs in the old library in which we less destructive seniors were trusted to work, with the light from the stained-glass window falling in coloured patches on his face.It gave him the appearance of having no colour of his own.He had a habit of scratching the beard on his cheek as he talked, and he used to come and consult us about things and invariably do as we said.
That, in his phraseology, was "maintaining the traditions of the school."He had indeed an effect not of a man directing a school, but of a man captured and directed by a school.Dead and gone Elizabethans had begotten a monster that could carry him about in its mouth.
Yet being a man, as I say, with his hair a little stirred by a Zeitgeist that made for change, Gates did at times display a disposition towards developments.City Merchants had no modern side, and utilitarian spirits were carping in the PALL MALL GAZETTEand elsewhere at the omissions from our curriculum, and particularly at our want of German. Moreover, four classes still worked together with much clashing and uproar in the old Big Hall that had once held in a common tumult the entire school.Gates used to come and talk to us older fellows about these things.
