He said: “Why did you melt your waxen man, Sister Helen?” was a magnificent opening to a poem.
In spite of having learnt nothing in an academic sense at Cambridge, I am glad I went there, and I think I learnt a good deal in other ways. I look back on it and I see the tall trees just coming out in the backs, behind King’s College; a picnic in canoes on the Cam; bookshops, especially a dark, long bookshop in Trinity Street where a plaintive voice told one that Norman Gale would be sure to go up; little dinner-parties in my rooms in Trinity Street, the food arriving on a tray from the College kitchen where the cook made créme brûlée better than anyone else in the world; one night fireworks on the window-sill and the thin curtains ablaze; rehearsals for the A.D.C., and Mr. Clarkson making one up; long, idle mornings in Trinity and King’s; literary discussions in rooms at Trinity; debates of the Decemviri in Carr-Bosanquet’s room on the ground floor of the Great Court; summer afternoons in King’s College gardens, and the light streaming through the gorgeous glass of the west window in King’s Chapel, where, listening to the pealing anthem, I certainly never dreamed of taxing the royal Saint with vain expense; gossip at the Pitt Club in the mornings, crowds of youths with well-brushed hair and straw hats telling stories in front of the fireplace; the Sunday-evening receptions in Oscar Browning’s rooms full of Arundel prints and crowds of long-haired Bohemians; the present Provost of Eton mimicking the dons; and the endless laughter of those who could say:
“We were young, we were merry, we were very, very wise,
And the door stood open to our feast.”
I left Cambridge after my first summer term as I could not pass the Little Go, nor could I ever have done so, had I stayed at Cambridge for years. My life during the next five years was a prolonged and arduous struggle to pass the examination into the Diplomatic Service. When I left Cambridge I went to Versailles, and stayed there a month to work at French. Then after a few days at Contrexéville, with my father, I went back to Hildesheim and stopped at Bayreuth on the way.
That year Parsifal and Tannhäuser were given, and for the first time at Bayreuth, Lohengrin. Mottl conducted; Vandyk sang the part of Lohengrin. When I arrived at the station, after a long night’s journey, I was offered a place for the performance of Parsifal that afternoon. I took it, but I was so tired after the journey that I fell asleep during the first act, and slept so soundly, that at the end of the act, I had to be shaken before I woke up. In the third act, it will be remembered that Lohengrin, when he reveals his parentage, his occupation, and his name, at Elsa’s ill-timed request, mentions that his father’s name was Parsifal. A German lady who was sitting near me, when she heard this, gave a gasp of relief and recognition, as if all were now plain, and sighed: “Ach der Parsifal!”
At Leipzig I ran short of money, and nobody would cash me a cheque, as I could not satisfy either the Hotel or the Bank or the British Consul (Baron Tauchnitz) that I was who I claimed to be. I telegraphed to the Timmes for money, and they sent it to the Bank for me by telegram, but even then the Bank refused to give it to me, as they were doubtful of my identity. Finally I got the Timmes to telegraph it to the Hotel. The Consul was annoyed, and said that Englishmen always appeared to think they could go where they liked and do what they liked. I told him this was the case, and I had always supposed it to be the duty of a British Consul to help them to do so. I stayed at Hildesheim till Mr. Scoones’ establishment for candidates for the Diplomatic Service examination opened at Garrick Chambers in London in September. The examination for the Diplomatic Service was competitive. Candidates had to qualify in each of twelve subjects, which included three modern languages, Latin, modern history, geography, arithmetic, précis-writing, English essay-writing, and shorthand. The standard in French and German was high, and the most difficult task was the translation of a passage from a Times leading article into French and German as it was dictated. Life at Scoones’ meant going to lectures from ten till one, and again in the afternoon, and being crammed at home by various teachers. Mr. Scoones was a fine organiser and an acute judge of character. He was half French, and his personality was electric and fascinating; he was light in hand, amusing, and full of point. He used to have luncheon every day at the Garrick Club, which was next door to Garrick Chambers, and he lectured himself on French. He was assisted by the Rev. Dawson Clarke, who in vain tried to teach me arithmetic, and did manage to teach me enough geography, after five years, to qualify, and Mr. J. Allen, who gave us brilliant lectures on modern history. There was also a charming French lecturer, M. Esclangon, who corrected our French essays. The first time I wrote him an essay he wrote on it: “Le Français est non seulement pur mais élégant.”
I lived alone in a room at the top of 37 Charles Street, and worked in the winter months extremely hard. Special coaches used to come to me, and special teachers of arithmetic. One of them had a new system of teaching arithmetic, which was supposed to make it simple, but in my case the system broke down.
Mr. Scoones told my father after I had been there a little time that I was sure to pass eventually.
On Sunday evenings I used often to have supper with Edmund Gosse at his house in Delamere Terrace, and there I met some of the lights of the literary world: George Moore, Rider Haggard, Henry Harland, and Max Beerbohm. Sometimes there would be serious discussions on literature between George Moore, Edmund Gosse, and Arthur Symons. I remember once, when Swinburne was being discussed, Arthur Symons saying that there was a period in everyone’s life when one thought Swinburne’s poetry not only the best, but the only poetry worth reading. It seemed then to annihilate all other verse. Edmund Gosse then said that he would not be at all surprised, if some day Swinburne’s verse were to appear almost unintelligible to future generations. He thought it possible that Swinburne might survive merely as a literary curiosity, like Cowley. He also said that Swinburne in his later manner was like a wheel that spun round and round without any intellectual cog.