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Updated: May 26, 2025
It might mean what Prothero made it mean seven hours in school a week, and the remainder pretending to read history in his study. The grey and lifeless Finnemore superintended the history, and, like everything else he superintended, it was scandalously neglected. Outhouse people occasionally did a little work; School House men never. Gordon began by taking quite modest privileges.
Finnemore had once published a small book of verses, a copy of which he gave to Gordon. They had in them all the frail pathos of a wasted career; most of them were songs of spurned affection, and inside was the quotation: "Scribere jussit amor." "When I look at that book," said Finnemore to Gordon, "I can't associate myself with the author, I seem to have quite outgrown him.
After he had written it, he got rather nervous about its reception, but it was returned marked a-, and Finnemore had written at the bottom: "We all think like this when we are young; and, after all, it is good to be young." Gordon felt that he had found someone who understood him.
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.
The floor of the big school is made of exquisitely polished oak, and is one of the glories of Fernhurst. It was admirably suited for the dance which within five minutes was in progress. It was a noble affair. Finnemore sat back in his chair powerless, impotent; Carter hammered out false notes on a long-suffering piano.
Finnemore asked the head of the school. "I believe, sir, we are supposed to be preparing something." "Ah, excellent; excellent, a very good opportunity for putting in some good, hard work. Excellent! Excellent!" For about three minutes there was peace. Then Ferguson lethargically arose.
Finnemore would listen with the greatest interest. "Very nice indeed, Caruthers, very sound attitude to adopt. An essay well worth preserving. You will copy it out neatly, won't you?" "Oh yes, sir." Gordon wanted to institute a Van Hepworth memorial, and put up a plate to him somewhere. But there were many obstacles to this.
He was the great god of Gordon's soul, greater even than Lovelace major had been, far greater than Meredith. As he sat listening to Finnemore discussing artistic questions in form, he felt wildly impatient to hear Ferrer's opinion. Nothing seemed settled definitely until Ferrers had spoken, and only the Army and Matriculation classes had the tremendous advantages of doing English with him.
But he had left behind him a name that will be remembered in the School House as long as history is taught by Finnemore. For on his last day, in a fit of gratitude, he had left to future historians the legacy of his history notebook. It contained all that Finnemore knew! Every week Finnemore set three questions to his specialists to be done with books.
On another occasion Betteridge walked quietly up to him, handed him a Shelley, and without any warning suddenly shrieked out: "He hath outsoared the shadow of our night." Finnemore looked at him sadly: "My dear Betteridge, so early in the morning!" By many little things his life was made wretched for him. But yet he would not have chosen any other profession.
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