The same master said one day, to a boy who had done some verses on Charles II., “Castus et infelix is hardly an appropriate epithet for Charles II.” Once we had a lyric on a toad. “Avoid the gardener, a dangerous man,” was one of the hints which I rendered:
“Fas tibi sit bufo custodem fallere agelli.”
The whole of my first half was like Paradise, and I came back to Membland for the holidays quite radiant.
When I went back for my second half I was in the Upper Fourth in the Lower Master’s Division. The Lower Master was Austen Leigh and the boys called him the Flea. I started, when I was up to him, the fiction that I could scarcely write, that the process was so difficult to me that a totally illegible script was all that could be expected from me. This was completely successful throughout the half, but in Trials I did well. I had started off by getting the holiday task prize, the holiday task being the Lord of the Isles, and as I had read a great part of it in the train going back, and as none of the other boys had read any of it, I got the prize.
Those holidays Chérie took Susan and myself to Paris. We stayed at the Hôtel Normandy in the Rue de l’Échelle, and I started from Eton the day before the result of Trials was declared. The day we arrived in Paris a blue telegram came telling us the result. It ran as follows: “Brinkman divinity prize, distinction in Trials, Trial Prize.” This meant that for the distinction, one had a cross next to one’s name in the school list for the rest of one’s Eton career. The Trial prize meant one was first in Trials in the division. It was a complete triumph, and the Lower Master wrote in my report: “Had I known what I discovered at the end of the half that he could write perfectly well, I would have torn up every scrap of his work during the half.” But it was an idle regret, as he did not discover it until too late. We spent the whole of the holidays in Paris and enjoyed it wildly.
Looking at a letter which I wrote from Paris (March 1888) at this time, I see we did some strenuous sight-seeing. We went to Notre Dame des Victoires, to the Musée Grévin, to Sainte Geneviève, la Foire de Jambon, the Jardin d’Acclimatation, and the Bois de Boulogne; we breakfasted at the Café de Paris, with anisette at the end of the meal; went to hear “la Belle musique sacrée” at the Châtelet, where Mademoiselle Kraus sang and Mounet Sully recited; we visited the Panthéon, saw Victor Hugo’s tomb, the Musée Cluny; had breakfast at Foyod’s, and saw the Archbishop of Paris officiate at Notre Dame, and went to the Louvre. All this was in Holy Week.
The next week we went to Versailles, the Sainte Chapelle, and the Invalides; saw Reichemberg and Samary act in the Le Monde ou l’on s’ennuie at the Théâtre français and Michel Strogoff at the Châtelet.
On Monday, 2nd April, I wrote home: “Nous allons jeter une plume et la suivre.” We also saw a play of Georges Ohnet’s at the Porte Saint Martin called La Grande Marnière and Le Prophète at the opera, with Jean de Reske singing the part of the false Messiah. We saw this from a little box high up in the fourth tier, and when we arrived we found a lady and a gentleman in our seats. We had expressly paid for the front seats. Chérie was indignant, and had it out with the gentleman, who gave way under protest. “Vous voyez,” said the lady, “Monsieur vous cède sa place.” “C’est ce qu’un Monsieur doit faire,” said Chérie. “On rencontre des gens,” said the lady, shrugging her shoulders.
We did not go to see L’Abbé Constantin, as Chérie said it was “une pièce de carême.”
On our last night in Paris we went to see a farce called Cocart et Bicoquet at the Renaissance. This play had been recommended to Chérie by a French friend of hers, who thought we did not understand French enough to follow dialogue. After the first act, Chérie became uneasy, and no sooner was the second act well under way than Chérie took us away. It was, she said to me, no play for Susan. She added that whenever she had tried to distract Susan’s attention from the more scabrous moments by saying, “Regarde cette manche,” and by calling her attention to interesting details in the toilettes of the audience, I had recalled Susan’s attention to the play by my only too well-timed laughter.
The year after this, 1889, we again went to Paris—Chérie, Susan, and myself—and this year Hugo came with us. Great preparations were being made for the Exhibition. It was not yet open, but the Eiffel Tower was finished, and we saw the reconstruction of the Le Vieux Paris and a representation of Latude escaping from the Bastille.
We also saw Maître Guérin performed at the Théâtre français, with Got Worms, Baretta, and Pierson in the cast. Got’s performance as the old, infinitely cunning, and scheming notaire, who is finally deserted by his hitherto submissive wife, was said to be the finest thing he ever did.
We saw two melodramas—Robert Macaire and La Porteuse de Pain; Zampa at the Opéra Comique and Belle Maman, Sardou’s comedy at the Gymnase; and Chérie and I went to see Sarah Bernhardt in perhaps the worst play to which she ever lent her incomparable genius, and which, I imagine, she chose simply to give herself the opportunity of playing a quiet death scene. It was an adaptation of the English novel, As in a Looking-Glass. Bad or good, I enjoyed it, and wrote home a detailed criticism of the play. This is what I wrote: “The adaptation of the book is bad. They evidently think you are perfectly acquainted with the book, and the sharp outline and light and shade of character is not sufficiently marked. In the first act you see about a dozen people who come in and who don’t let you know who they are, and who never appear again, and you do not arrive at the dramatic part till the last act.
“The story is briefly thus: Léna is staying with Mrs. Broadway, very Sainte Nitouche! everyone admiring her and all the octogenaires in love with her. She (whose passé is not sans tache) is under the power of a certain Jack Fortinbras, who forces her, under the penalty of unveiling her past, to marry a certain Lord Ramsey. Léna has in her possession a letter which Ramsey wrote to a Lady Dower, whose name is also Léna, and the letter is in very affectionate terms. Ramsey is engaged to Beatrice, and Léna shows this letter to Beatrice and says it was to her! Of course, Beatrice thinks Ramsey un lâche and leaves the house, saying her marriage is impossible, and leaving a letter for Ramsey to that effect. Act II. is in Léna’s house. Fortinbras comes and plays cards with a young man and cheats. Ramsey sees this, and Fortinbras is turned out of the house.
“Act III., Monte Carlo.—Léna is staying there with Ramsey, with whom she is now desperately in love. Fortinbras appears and asks for money, which she gives. Ramsey comes in and asks why she is agitated. She says she is helpless, alone. He confesses his love for her, and she, in a nervous excitement, says, “Je t’adore,” and so scheming to marry for money, she finds she is dreadfully in love with him.
“Act IV.—They are married and in Scotland. Fortinbras appears tracked by detectives and asks for 200,000 (pounds or francs?) at once, or he tells of her passé. Then Sarah Bernhardt was superb. It was quite impossible for her to get the money, and she is so happy with her husband. At this crisis Ramsey comes in and half strangles Fortinbras, who, when let go, reveals all Léna’s past. At the words, ‘Cette femme m’aimait une fois,’ Léna jette un cri d’angoisse, I would have given anything for you to have seen her act that scene. Ramsey hears it all, and, when given the proofs that are in letters, throws them into the fire, and Fortinbras is given to the detectives and Ramsey is alone with Léna and tells her that he really believes what the man said. She cannot deny it, and confesses the whole thing. Her acting was supreme, and Ramsey says to her, ‘Et m’avez vous jamais aimé?’ Then she gives way and bursts into sanglots, and implores him to believe her, and that she adored him. He refuses to believe her and goes out. Then all is pantomime. She takes up a knife,