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I said I had, which was true, for I had written several papers on it for the Philosophical Society. He nodded, then read again for a few score miles. The train was travelling fast, and when next he looked up it was as if he realized that anything he still had to say must be hurried; we were already streaking past the long rows of suburban back gardens.

He suddenly resumed, with a touch of his earlier eagerness: "All right then—listen to this —and don't laugh Some casual little thing—a tune or a scent or a name in a newspaper or a look of something or somebody will remind me, just for a second—and yet I haven't time to get any grip of what it DOES remind me of—it's a sort of wisp of memory that can't be trapped before it fades away I could see that lake between the summits—why, I'd BATHED in it—there was a slab of rock jutting out like a diving-board—and the day I was there I fell asleep in the shade and woke up in the sun Does all this strike you as the most utter nonsense?

You should read his book An Experiment with Time. He says—this, of course, is condensing his theory very crudely—that dreams DO foretell the future, only by the time they come true, we've forgotten them—all except your elusive wisp of memory. It's an interesting theory even if it can't be proved. Anyhow, the feeling you have is quite a normal one. I can only plead this one-day-a-year excuse—the purging of the inhibitions, didn't you call it?


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Let's talk about something else—cricket—the Test Match Wonder what will happen to England After the silence there ARE overtones Which makes it worst of all. Not that in your case it sounds very serious. You don't think these—er— peculiarities of memory—are—er—anything to worry about? Here, you can read it—it's typed. SHE wouldn't let me forget anything. Oh, they're my constituents— I have to show them round the House—guide-book stuff—an awful bore This evening I have an Embassy reception; then tomorrow there's a board meeting, a lunch party, and in the evening I'm guest speaker at a dinner in Cambridge.

There'll be a crowd of novelists and actors and titled people who'd think me surly because I wouldn't talk to them half as freely as I'm talking to you now. I could believe it. So far he had made no move towards an exchange of names between us, and I guessed that, on his side, the anonymity had been not only an encouragement to talk, but a temptation to reveal himself almost to the point of self-exhibition.

And there had been a certain impish exhilaration in the way he had allowed me to glance at his engagement book for just those few seconds, as if teasing me with clues to an identity he had neither wish nor intention to disclose. Men in whom reticence is a part of good form have fantastic ways of occasional escape, and I should have been the last to embarrass an interesting fellow traveller had he not added, as the train began braking into St.

Pancras: "Well, it's been a pleasant chat. Some day—who knows? Spoken as if he sincerely half meant it, the remark merely emphasized the other half sense in which he did not mean it at all; and this, because I already liked him, irked me to the reply: "If it's the Swithin's Dinner tomorrow night we may as well introduce ourselves now as then, because I'll be there too. My name's Harrison. I'm on the Reception Committee.

Then I suppose he realized it would be pointless, as well as discourteous, to refuse the name which I should inevitably discover so soon.

He saved it for a last unsmiling afterthought as he jumped to the platform. Charles Rainier. Rainier nodded rather coldly when I met him again the following day. In his evening clothes and with an impressive array of decorations he looked what he was—a guest of honour about to perform his duties with the touch of apathy that so effectively disguises the British technique of authority.

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Not necessarily an aristocratic technique. I had already looked him up in reference books and found that he was the son of a longish line of manufacturers—no blue blood, no title I wondered how he had evaded that , a public school of the second rank, Parliamentary membership for a safe Conservative county. I had also mentioned his name to a few people I knew; the general impression was that he was rich and influential, and that I was lucky to have made such a chance encounter.

He did not, however, belong to the small group of well-known personalities recognizable by the man-in-the-street either in the flesh or in Low cartoons. On the contrary, he seemed neither to seek nor to attract the popular sort of publicity, nor yet to repel it so markedly as to get in reverse; it was as if he deliberately aimed at being nondescript. A journalist told me he would be difficult to build up as a newspaper hero because his personality was "centripetal" instead of "centrifugal"; I was not quite certain what this meant, but Who's Who was less subtle in confiding that his recreations were mountaineering and music.

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On the whole I secured a fair amount of information without much real enlightenment; I hoped for more from a second meeting and travelled to Cambridge in a mood of considerable anticipation. It was the custom of the secretary and committee of the Swithin's Society to receive guests informally before dining in the College Hall; so we gathered first in the Combination Room, where we made introductions, drank sherry, and exchanged small talk. It is really hard to know what to say to distinguished people when you first meet them—that is, it is hard to think of talk small enough to be free from presumption.

Rainier, for instance, had lately been in the financial news in connection with a proposed merger of cement companies, a difficult achievement for which negotiations were still proceeding; but it was impossible to say "How is your merger getting on? Presently, to my relief, some other guests arrived whom I had to attend to, and it was perhaps a quarter of an hour before I saw him edging to me through the crowd.

Then I went back and explained to the company what had happened. Somehow it did not sound very convincing, and none of us really expected to see him again.

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But we did. An hour later he took the vacant place we had left at the High Table and was just in time to reply to the toast with one of the best after-dinner speeches I had ever heard.


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Maybe the escape from physical pain plus the Cambridge atmosphere, with its mingling of time-honoured formality and youthful high spirits, suited a mood in which he began with badinage about toothache and ended with a few graceful compliments to the College and University. Among other things I remember him recalling that during his undergraduate days he had had an ambition to live at Cambridge all his life, as a don of some sort laughter , but exactly what sort he hadn't stayed long enough to decide laughter , because fate had called him instead to be some sort of business-man politician, but even what sort of THAT he hadn't yet entirely made up his mind more laughter After he had finished, we all cheered uproariously and then, relaxing, drank and argued and made a night of it in the best Swithin's tradition; when eventually the affair broke up, it was Rainier himself who asked if my invitation to coffee still held good.

But he smiled in saying it, and I gathered he had forgiven not so much me as himself for having taken part in our train conversation. A few friends adjourned to my rooms near by, where we sat around and continued discussions informally. Again he charmed us by his talk, but even more by his easy manners and willingness to laugh and listen; long after most of the good-nights he still lingered chatting, listening, and smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Grant Fitch

I didn't know then that he slept badly and liked to stay up late, that he enjoyed young company and jokes and midnight argument, that he had no snobbisms, and that public speaking left him either very dull and listless or very excitable and talkative, according to the audience.

Towards three in the morning, when we found ourselves sole survivors, I suggested more coffee, and at that he sank into an armchair with a sigh of content and put his feet against the mantelpiece as if the place belonged to him— which, in a sense, it did, as to any Swithin's man since the reign of Elizabeth the Foundress. Fellow with the disarming name of Pal had them in my time—'native of Asia or Africa not of European parentage,' as the University regulations so tactfully specify.

High-caste Hindoo. Mathematician—genius in his own line—wonder what he's doing now? Used to say he felt algebra emotionally—told me once he couldn't read through the Binomial Theorem without tears coming into his eyes —the whole concept, he said, was so shatteringly beautiful Wish I could have got into his world, somehow or other. And there are other worlds, too—wish sometimes I could get into any of them—out of my own.

He laughed defensively. Maybe, as you hinted yesterday, just a matter of overwork. But it's true enough that talking to all you young fellows tonight made me feel terribly ancient and envious. It's we who are envious of you—because you've made a success of life. We're a pretty disillusioned crowd when we stop laughing—we know there won't be jobs for more than a minority of us unless a war comes to give all of us the kind of job we don't want.

He mused over his coffee for a moment and then continued: "Yes, that's true—and that's probably why I feel how different everything is here instead of how much the same—because my Cambridge days WERE different. The war was just over then, and our side had won, and we all of us thought that winning a great war ought to mean something, either towards making our lives a sort of well-deserved happy-ever-after—a long golden afternoon of declining effort and increasing reward—or else to give us chances to rebuild the world this way or that.

It all depended whether one were tired or eager after the strain. Most of us were both —tired of the war and everything connected with it, eager to push ahead into something new.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hildegarde's Harvest, by Laura E. Richards.

We soon stopped hating the Germans, and just as soon we began to laugh at the idea of anyone caring enough about the horrid past to ask us that famous question on the recruiting posters—'What did you do in the Great War? And J. Keynes was lecturing in the Art School, politely suggesting that Germany mightn't be able to pay off so many millions in reparations, or was it billions? And behind us on the wall the portrait of Catholic Mary scowled down on this modern audience that scoffed at science no less than at religion.

Heretics indeed—and laughing heretics! But my pal Pal didn't laugh—he was transfixed with a sort of ecstasy about the whole thing. Brooke would be fifty today, if he'd lived—think of that Still stands the clock at ten to three, but Rupert Brooke is late for tea—confined to his bed with rheumatism or something—that's what poets get for not dying young. The woman at the Orchard who served the teas remembered Brooke—she was a grand old chatterbox and once I got to know her she'd talk endlessly about undergraduates and professors past and present—many a yarn, I daresay, that I've forgotten since and that nobody else remembered even then Trivial talk—just as trivial as the way I'm talking to you now.

Nineteen-twenty, that was—Cambridge full of demobilized old-young men still wearing dyed officers' overcoats—British warms sent up to Perth and returned chocolate-brown—full of men still apt to go suddenly berserk in the middle of a rag and turn it into a riot, or start whimpering during a thunderstorm—after-effects of shell-shock, you know.


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