In the summer of 1890 I went to stay at the Coventrys’ place at Croome Court in Worcestershire, and Willie Coventry came to Membland later in the same summer. The libretto I was writing for him never got further than a few lyrics, and his score never got further than a few bars and a triumphal march, which I composed, and even played at one of Miss Copeman’s afternoon parties. I can still play it now, if pressed.
I had a faint hope at one time that I might be able to get into the Boats. Arthur Benson had taken me out one day down stream and advised me to try. I could row well enough on the stroke side, but not so well on the bow side of the boat. I put my name down for Novice Eights, in which boys were tried, and one evening I started out full of hope. Unfortunately I was told to row bow in the boat. A tall Colleger stood up in the stern of the boat to coach us. No sooner had we started than there was a loud call: “Keep time, Bow—keep time, Bow!” and we had not gone much farther than the Brocas when I caught so violent a crab that the coach fell into the water, the boat was partially submerged, and we had to go back, some of us swimming. I was never allowed to row in company again, and earned the reputation of being the only person who had ever swamped a Novice Eight.
In the autumn of 1890 Hugo and I went up to London for long leave. My father and mother were staying at my sister Elizabeth’s house in Grosvenor Place, and there we heard about the financial crisis in Baring Brothers, which had nearly ended in a great disaster. When we went back to Membland at Christmas everything was different. There was no Christmas party, and the household was going through a process of gradual dissolution. Chérie was leaving us, the stables were empty, and the old glory of Membland had gone for ever.
All through the next year I was engrossed with the discoveries I was making in English literature. In the summer I sent a poem to Temple Bar, then edited by George Smith, and to my great surprise it was printed, and I received a cheque for a guinea. During that same summer I had a little book of poems privately printed at Eton, called Damozel Blanche, consisting of ballads and lyrics.
I was now a member of the House Debating Society, in which we used to have heated discussions on such subjects as whether sports were brutalising or not, whether conscription was a good thing, whether General Booth’s scheme was a sound one, and whether Mary Queen of Scots had been improperly beheaded.
There was another debating society founded before I left Eton, called Le Cercle des Débats, in which we made speeches in French, and I remember M. Hua making a passionate speech in favour of England relinquishing her hold upon Egypt. I spoke several times at this debating society, and in the report on the debate as to whether Monte Carlo should be allowed to exist, it is recorded that: “M. Baring croyait que c’était un mauvais endroit mais que cela ne devrait pas être supprimé.”
The summer of the Eton Tercentenary, 1891, was great fun, especially the concert, when Hubert Parry’s beautiful setting to Swinburne’s “Ode” was performed. I sang among the baritones. My mother came down for the concert, and Hubert Parry conducted himself. There was an interesting exhibition in the school hall, and it was there that I made the acquaintance of Mrs. Cornish. My Aunt M’aimée introduced me to her, and I soon became a great friend of the Cornish family, and was invited by them to go out on water-parties down stream to the Bells of Ousley and Runnymede, and to have supper with them afterwards. I enjoyed these water-parties as much as anything at Eton.
In the summer holidays of 1891 I went to stay with Chérie, who had left us. She lived with her friend, Miss Charlesworth, in a little house called Waterlooville, near Cosham, in Hants, and realised the dream of her life, namely, to have a large garden of her own full of hollyhocks and sunflowers and sweet peas.
In the Michaelmas half of 1891 I competed for the Prince Consort’s French prize. I had already done so the last year, but I was then too young to compete with sixth-form boys, who were much older, and I was not expected to get a place, but I came out third. This year it was my great ambition to get the prize. I thought of nothing else. We had to read several books—Molière’s L’Avare, Alfred de Vigny’s Cinq Mars, Taine’s Voyage aux Pyrénées, Victor Hugo’s Ruy Blas, and Brachet’s Grammaire Historique. Besides this, we were examined in unseen translations from and into French, and we had to write a French essay. We were examined by a Monsieur Hammonet. I worked extremely hard for this examination, and had extra lessons in the evenings from M. Hua. So did the other competitors. My serious rival was Grand d’Hauteville, who I think was a French Canadian, and who spoke French fluently. The examination took five days, and as it went on I became more and more convinced that I had not done well and could not possibly win the prize. When it was over, there was a long interval of agonising suspense before the result was made known.