The Wandering Years (1922-39) Page 2

  I bought a compass and met Bobbie Heath on my way to the exam hall. My cold bothered me rather much. I don’t know how I’ve done on the exam; it’s impossible to tell. I was sure I’d passed last time, and hadn’t.

  At five o’clock I met Gordon. I was pleased to see Gordon. We had tea at Fuller’s, Gordon very full of his successes with girls and said he was unofficially engaged. He looks just the same as at Harrow — perhaps a little coarser, also sunburnt in places.

  When Gordon left to unpack I went to Bobbie’s rooms. His sitting room has glorious dark oak panelling, also height, shape and tall windows. There were peonies and Canterbury Bells in huge pots, and a polished table where we sat and had more tea in an apple-green tea service. We laughed; we talked long as we ate strawberries and cream. I envied the oldness and the comfort of it all: the chandelier, the books, the Pera cigarettes. A terribly gauche youth came in. Bobbie has a way of making friends with awful people. He doesn’t like them, but he’s always friendly with them. I wish I were. I can’t stand talking to people I don’t like. Naturally they hate me for being so priggish. It would be better if I were more like Bobbie. I thought Bobbie looked like a young edition of Barrie’s Lob. Or was he the host in Shall We Join the Ladies?

  After dinner in Hall, a nice, red-haired Scot brought me my cap, which I had left under the bench. I went to the cinema with Bobbie. I was disappointed with Rod LaRoque, but saw Gordon there and talked to him all through the film.

  It was a quarter past ten when I got back. At first I thought I was locked out. I was very disturbed, but the door had only got jammed. The housekeeper on the stairs said she thought curfew was at ten o’clock. ‘Surely not, surely it must be twelve!’ What a bore if I had to be in by ten every night.

  I got into bed and read Macbeth. At twelve o’clock, sleepy and cold, I pulled aside the curtains to peep out on the jumbled roofs and windows — a view which in sunlight looks like a back street of what I imagine Venice to be like. It was raining fast. I could hear the rain against the old roof.

  October 6th

  It’s jolly good of my father to send me up here. It must cost him a lot, and he’s very generous about an allowance. I don’t have to worry about money, so long as I’m not unreasonably extravagant. I feel so independent and original. I must buy lots of things for this sitting-room: emerald green curtains, green cushions and green china. I must also get some of those tall, twisted wooden candlesticks!

  There is a little pot in here that one puts in front of the gas stove to take away the fumes. On it is written: ‘Lost time can never be found.’

  I thought about that pot as I lay warmly in bed for a long time after I ought to have got up. Then I put lotion on my hair, dressed properly and enjoyed a slack morning. No exam, no rushing off to tutors. I wrote a long letter to Modom,[5] scribbled diary and rubbed my fingers a lot, as chilblains are starting.

  This afternoon I read Macbeth for about two hours, being very pleased when the murder of Duncan was found out. I have wonderful ideas for that scene with Lady Macbeth in black and dark grey.

  After Shakespeare, I read The Times and saw the announcement of the Du Maurier dance. I was annoyed at missing it. Tea by myself. A little bored, I went out to find Boy’s rooms. I met James Player, looking squashed: the poor thing couldn’t get up here, so he’s trying for next year. Also saw Joe Harmsworth, terribly fat in a brilliant blue suit. He, too, is not up here, so I really am lucky. Joe told me Boy and Tris[6] were out golfing.

  I went to be interviewed by Armitage. Outside John’s I met Robert Leng. It was good to bump into a brother of Kyrle — even Robert. Robert seemed quite awake. I arranged to meet him tomorrow evening.

  It turned out one had to wear cap and gown when visiting Armitage. By the time I returned properly dressed, five people had arrived before me. Ten more came and we waited in his rooms.

  Armitage was late, of course. He is always rushed from seeing too many people. We talked about the work I should do if I’d got through maths. He said the English tripos would be fun. The work sounded amusing; I wanted to do it, if I was clever enough. Armitage said I would get into a nice set of people if I did do it, and would be able to join the Marlowe Society. This pleased me immensely.

  Dinner in Hall was dull. I didn’t know anyone. On the way back to my rooms, a figure met me in the darkness. It was Boy, looking ludicrous in cap and gown. We roared with laughter.

  Boy enthused about my rooms, saying how lucky I was that they were so central, and how awful his were. I showed him my paintings (which I liked) and we talked quickly about people and artists — Augustus John, Orpen (a heated discussion), Epstein. I said I hated Aubrey Beardsley.

  Boy entertained me with an imitation of his landlady sporting a black eye and holding her heart when she saw the huge mantelshelf had been removed. Then he left.

  I think Boy will be good at oil painting. I was surprised to find out how much less cheap his taste has become since Harrow. He now admires Botticelli! It’s rather exciting.

  How amicable everyone is here. Even the people I used to hate and turn my back on now come up and shake hands. The most weird types have spoken to me. Fenwick, who reviled me at Harrow, came and sat next me at the cinema. I suppose I’ll have to become friendly with the world too!

  October 7th

  There were tomatoes with bacon at breakfast. I had a lot to do, as I was to meet Boy at eleven o’clock. I wrote diary and applied hair lotion.

  Boy’s rooms were a pleasant surprise! Two tall windows, and some not bad pictures on the walls — but what a jumble of oils, prints and etchings. I admired some designs he had done for covers of music scores. Really, Boy has improved. This morning he wore wonderful new greyers and a double-breasted waistcoat. A pity about his suede shoes though.

  We went off to buy things. Boy was extravagant (but then, he can afford to be, and I envy him that). He forked out for a wonderful print of the Mona Lisa in an elaborate frame, and a book of Beardsley drawings with which I wasn’t best pleased. I bought a surplice, and a box of figs and some cheap but pretty flowers, huge dahlias and Michaelmas daisies.

  After lunch, I scoured the whole of Cambridge for a jade-green china service. At last an intelligent woman promised to get me a set, only there’d be a fortnight’s delay, in the meanwhile, she has lent me a willow pattern. I then succumbed and bought a Biblical vase. The colour is too sombre, but I had to get something for the flowers stuck in my washing jug.

  I met Gordon for tea at the King’s Parade Cafe. Everyone stared, everyone seemed to be listening to our conversation. We retreated to his digs, which are typically landlady’s taste. After paying a king’s ransom in tips for nice rooms, he has been stuck with plush and china cats. We played his gramophone, which wasn’t much fun.

  During dinner at Hall, I felt relieved to find someone I could talk to. Langton-May is another old Harrovian, but I never knew him well at school: he was so shy. Now he seems witty and grown-up in his ideas, and encourages me to be clever. He suggested that people are more friendly here out of insincerity. If we hated certain people at school, it was because of being bottled up: one got sick of seeing too much of them. But at Cambridge there are so many people one can afford to be amicable without worrying about having to see them again and again.

  I opened the box of figs. I love their dull skin and dull red insides.

  October 8th (Sunday)

  I started Locke’s new novel The Tale of Triona. Then Robert arrived punctually, and we went off on a sightseeing tour of Cambridge.

  We took the weeping-willow path by the river at the back of Trinity. He called it the ‘Vacs’ or something. We wore ourselves out seeing too many beautiful things, including King’s chapel like carved lace and Christopher Wren courts and Inigo Jones façades. Best of all the bridges. I liked the silvery stone one at Clare College.

  We went to the Fitzwilliam Museum. There’s a hideous thing of Bernard Shaw by Augustus John. Quite apart from the fact that it doesn’t even
resemble G.B.S., the colour is puking. John’s etchings and drawings are infinitely better.

  We found proof that Rupert Brooke had been at Cambridge. After reading the Memoir so many times, I somehow thought he’d gone to Oxford! But here was a photograph of the poet himself: calf-faced with long silken hair. There was the original manuscript of Grantchester in funny, sloping handwriting. At the top of the poem was written: ‘Poem to be entitled The Sentimental Exile.’ Now that I think of it, I do remember something about the Marlowe Society in Brooke’s Memoir. How thrilling that such an amusing person should have been here, and not at Oxford.

  I couldn’t find Langton-May at Hall for dinner, and took any place. While we stood in silence waiting for grace to be said, the fair boy next to me suddenly began to quiver all over with laughter. He couldn’t control himself. I felt sorry for him, as I know how awful it is not to be able to stop laughing. Later, he explained that the chorus of senile and beavered elders lined up in front of their carved chairs struck him as farcical caricatures of old age. What an odd sense of humour he’d got. To me, they were awe-inspiring embodiments of profound wisdom and scholarship, with their bald heads, parchment skin and wisps of white beard. One in particular might have been painted by Tintoretto: he had a straight nose and deep, hollow eyes with huge pouches under them.

  Robert told me people at Oxford throw bread about in Hall: I can’t imagine Kyrle doing it.

  October 9th

  This morning I was determined to face up to the geyser in the bathroom. It proved a complicated ten minutes, putting matches to the wrong places and turning on the gas instead of the water. Nevertheless, I had a bath.

  After breakfast I wrote, then hung up a tie rack in my bedroom. When I looked out of the window, I was aghast to find the patina of my back street in Venice being spoilt. A redheaded boy had climbed up a ladder and now stood covering everything with bright pink paint. There was no way of stopping him, so goodbye Venice.

  I bought the papers. How sad to read of poor Marie Lloyd’s death. Everyone is dying. I was looking forward to seeing her in the music halls next holidays, with her cockney gusto, low-cut evening dress, diamonds and teeth. It’s too tragic.

  Boy came to take me for a tour in his motor-car. He looked at Venice being spoilt while I put on my new coat, a reddish tie and no hat.

  It is pretty round Cambridge. We decided we must come out and sketch together. Boy drove well, and very fast. We talked very fast, too. I did envy him, having the car and being so clever with it. I can’t even ride a bike! There were lots of things to see: black and white cottages with ragged roofs, flat fields and high sky looking like pictures by Arnesby Brown.[7] Also a funeral: two huge masses of flowers, and a procession of people in black. They seemed so unreal with all the green around them. Their black clothes were so black, and the flowers looked so white. (Poor Marie Lloyd!) We branched off on another road in order not to disturb them.

  On the way back we went to Grantchester and looked at the orchard where Rupert Brooke wrote poetry at ten to three. But what a horrid little house. I really shouldn’t have cared whether there was honey for tea.

  We had tea in Boy’s room, and he showed me some of his drawings. I liked one of Othello in scanty clothing murdering his wife.

  Reminder: Never relight your cigar.

  I wish I could find the really best people at Cambridge, if there are any. There must be some like Kyrle — clever, interesting, artistic, not absurd or dull. But somehow I’m rather shy. And I hate the way people stare at me. I can’t think why they do it. I’m not fantastically dressed or odd looking.[8] Yet it’s a fact: they do stare.

  I long to join the dramatic clubs — the ADC and the Marlowe Society. I should like to work on a play. If I worked really hard, I could do it all myself — all the costumes and curtains and rehearsals. I could even learn to climb ladders and fix lights.

  October 10th

  Robert came to tell me that he’d been to the Senate House and seen I had passed my exam. Could it be true? I thought maths would baffle me forever. Now I’d never have to pull my hair out again when I thought of it. I’d never have to waste months of good time at that filthy tutor’s, doing work I despised. Oh, what joy! Robert didn’t stay long to share it. When he left, I threw myself on the bed and bellowed with triumph. All morning long, whenever I looked in the glass I saw a broad grin on my face. I sprinted out to send telegrams and postcards. If I could have whistled, I would have done so now. I didn’t mind feeling idiotic when the man behind the counter read my messages. They were all flippant. To my tutor I wrote: ‘You dear old soul, you’ve passed me.’ To the Beaton family: ‘Stupendous miracle; let the world rejoice; living marvel, etc.’

  After lunch I stayed indoors, reading Marius the Epicurean. Telegrams of congratulations came from Aunt Jessie and from Nancy and Baba.[9]

  Soon after five I went to see my supervisor. His rooms were very select: pale grey, white and orange, with Medici prints of Dutch paintings in polished ebony frames on the walls. Mr Bennett seemed fond of Herrick, also of Donne’s sermons — and of giving me a list of lectures I have to attend! Shakespeare, the seventeenth-century dramatists, poetry; and I can go and hear Walter de la Mare if I wish.

  Afterwards, came back and finished Macbeth for the third time. Acted the sleep-walking scene. What a part for a boy in Elizabethan times!

  Went to see Armitage. He was astounded that I had passed maths, but said I should take up Art instead of French. At one moment he looked at me and said, ‘You are a queer fish!’ I felt he was a damnably rude fish! Anyhow, I like him. I also know that he likes me. As he put it, ‘I want you to make good, a phrase I particularly dislike.’

  Armitage said he liked my papa for being a kind man and a sportsman — a rare combination. Armitage sees hundreds of parents in his position, also many famous people; but he has hardly ever seen anyone who impressed him as much as my papa. In fact, Daddy impressed him so much that he offered me a glass of champagne, but I refused.

  At five minutes to twelve I bolted back to my rooms, ate three macaroons and was very cold in bed.

  October 13th

  I feel such a useless fool. I would like to be able to drive a car, fish, row, paddle a canoe, hunt and shoot.

  October 14th

  At lunch today Boy ate enormously, especially of the Bismarck herrings. Then we went to Ely and saw the cathedral. I was annoyed at not being able to admire it. But we both liked the Bishop’s Palace, a wonderful old Jacobean thing with warm colours and fantail doves circling around.

  Boy brought me home and I read letters — the first from Mummie since she left for America. They were written in the middle of the Atlantic. It had been a terrifically rough crossing: even the bandsmen were too seasick to appear.

  I started to read Sinister Street. It’s shaming not to have read it before; and, if I don’t do so immediately, it will be too late. Compton Mackenzie has such a sense of humour.

  October 16th

  Lecture on Chaucer. Mr Wyatt was quite interesting. He evidently knows his subject — not always the case with the masters at Harrow.

  After Chaucer, I went to see Mr Bullough about Art. I should imagine he is only half English. There was a little bronze statue on the mantelpiece (it could have been Hermes) and a large print of a lot of Velazquez topers making merry: The Triumph of Bacchus. Mr Bullough gave me a list of art lectures to attend on Wednesdays and Fridays in the Museum of Classical Archaeology.

  Gordon made me buy a Cambridge Pocket Diary. He says they are useful. I always write my engagements down on odd bits of paper and promptly lose them.

  I decided to buy a bright red tie, which annoyed one shop assistant. I said, ‘Is this all you have? A rotten selection.’

  He said, ‘Well, we don’t get any demand. No one wears a red tie nowadays.’

  I said, ‘That’s exactly why I want one.’ Two other shops and found nothing suitable. I’ll have to send to Oxford for one!

  I am writing this wh
ile eating lumps of crisp, crusty bread with butter and anchovy paste.

  October 17th

  Lecture at nine on literature in Pepys’ lifetime. It would have been dull if I hadn’t been attacked by a wasp. Everyone shouted to kill it.

  I killed the wasp and had my hair cut. The more fool I, I never realised how short the man was trimming it.

  Soon after tea I had to see Mr Bennett. He unmuddled me about my work. It appeared that I had gone to the wrong lecture on Thursday. I wondered what the Middle Ages had to do with Shakespeare!

  October 18th

  Lecture by a Mr Attwater, on poets of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Lots of epigrams flying around. Mr Attwater is dark, fairly young, and looks as though he spent his life in a rugger scrum. He read poems and although nothing to do with the subject enlightened us about the decadence of the naughty Nineties.

  As it was raining, I popped into the Fitzwilliam Museum to see the Lady with the Yellow Shawl. I don’t know why I admire Augustus John; I criticise almost every picture of his that I see. But each new Gainsborough seems better than the last. I spent a long time looking at his two young children with Beggar’s Opera clothes.

  At five-thirty Mr Bullough lectured on art and aesthetics. He was splendid. He talked about the theory of art, and said that beauty can be defined. I like Mr Bullough, though his neck is much too thin and long. I believe he is half Italian.

  October 19th

  Now that my hair is cut short, my head seems such an awful shape — like a donkey, all long and square. I’m such a damned fool: I never realised how much the barber was shaving off. I did the same thing last season, just when I was going to six dances a week. When I complained to my mother, she said, ‘I’m sick of you worrying about your hair. There’s every chance of it growing again. You’re getting very conceited.’