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The young man made a wild and misjudged effort, and got right off the target.

“Well,” he said, “one of my greatest favourites of course is ‘Kissingcup’s Race.’”

“Is it, indeed?” said the Poet. “If you turn to the left on leaving the house, the second on the right will take you straight to the station.”

The young man never forgave it. And that, so I have always been told, is how the first Browning Society came to be founded.

It was a meeting with this undergraduate—purely accidental on my part—in the romantic garden of the poet’s house that first turned my mind towards the university town of Oxbridge. I had no difficulty in finding employment as a waitress there in a restaurant where knowledge of the business was considered less essential than a turn for repartee and some gift for keeping the young of our great nobility in their proper place. It was not long before I had made the acquaintance of quite a number of undergraduates. Some of them had a marked tendency towards rapidity, but soon learned that the regulation of the pace would remain with me.

One Sunday morning I had consented to go for a walk with one of my young admirers—a nice boy, with more nerve than I have ever encountered in any human being except myself. It happened by chance that we encountered the Dean of his college. The Dean, with an unusual condescension—for which there may possibly have been a reason—stopped to speak to my companion, who without the least hesitation introduced the Dean to me as his sister.

That was my first meeting with Dr. Benger Horlick, the celebrated Dean of Belial.

No social occasion has ever yet found me at a loss. The more difficult and dramatic it is, the more thoroughly do I enjoy its delicate manipulation. I could not deny the relationship which had been asserted, without involving my young friend. The only alternative was to play up to it, and I played up. The perfect management of old men is best understood by young girls.

I told him that I was staying with mamma, and mentioned a suitable hotel, adding that I was so sorry I had to return to town that afternoon, as I had begun to love the scholastic peace of Oxbridge and valued so much the opportunity of meeting its greatest men. I was bright and poetical in streaks, and every shy—if I may use the expression—hit the coco-nut. Sometimes I glanced at Willie, my pseudo-brother. His face twitched a little, but he never actually gave way to his feelings. The Dean had ceased to pay much attention to him.

For about a quarter of an hour the Dean strolled along with us. At parting, he held my hand—for a minute longer than was strictly necessary—and said:

“You have interested me—er—profoundly. May I hope that when you get back to Grosvenor Square, you will sometimes spare a few moments from the fashionable circles in which you move, and write to me?”

I said that it would be a great honour to me to be permitted to do so.

“I hope,” he added, “that you will visit Oxbridge again, and that you will then renew an acquaintance which, though accidental in its origin, has none the less impressed me—er—very much.”

After his departure Willie became hilarious and I became very angry with him. He persisted that everything was all right. I had put up a fine performance and had only to continue it. The Dean would no doubt write to me at Grosvenor Square, and Willie assured me that he had his father’s butler on a string, and that the butler sorted the letters. I would receive the Dean’s epistles at any address I would give him, and would reply on the Grosvenor Square notepaper.

“I’ve got chunks of it in a writing-case at my rooms,” he said, “and I’ll send it round to you.”

I had to consent to this. However, the next day I skipped for London, somewhat to the disappointment of the restaurant that I adorned, and still more to the disappointment of Willie. But, as I wrote to him, he had brought it on himself. I could not take the risk of another accidental meeting with Dr. Benger Horlick.

Nor, as a matter of fact, did we ever meet again. But for three years we corresponded with some frequency; it was a thin-ice, high-wire business, but I pulled it through.

No doubt the task was made easier for me by the fact that the Dean was a singularly simple-minded man. Reverence for the aristocracy had become with him almost a religion. When he was brought—or believed himself to be brought—in contact with the aristocracy, his intellectual vision closed in a swoon of ecstasy. Snob? Oh, dear, no! Of course not. What can have made you think that? It was simply that the aristocracy appealed to him very much as romance did—he was outside it, but liked to get a near view.

The G.E. found that letters, however delightful, bored her when they were scattered through a biography. For that reason she gave one set of letters all together. I do not see myself why, if a thing bores you when you get a little of it at a time, it should bore you less when you get a lot of it. But, determined to follow my brilliant model with simple faith and humility, I now append extracts from the letters I received from Dr. Benger Horlick.

“I wish I could persuade you to be less precise in your language. If you say what your opinion is, you should take care to be beautiful but unintelligible. Commit yourself to nothing. Words were given us to conceal our thoughts, and with a little practice and self-discipline will conceal them even from ourselves. A candid friend once complained to me that in my translation from the Greek it was sometimes impossible for him to know which of two different lectiones I was translating. As a matter of fact, though I did not tell him this, I did not know either. Especially useful is this when one is confronted with a rude, challenging, direct question as to any point in religion or politics; I reply with a sonorous and, I hope, well-balanced sentence, from which the actual meaning has been carefully extracted, and so escape in the fog. It is indeed from one point of view a mercy that most people are too cowardly or too ashamed to say that they have failed to comprehend. Yet if they had my passion for truth it might be better. Truth is very precious to me—sometimes too precious to give away.

“It is good of you to say that the fourteen pages of good advice did not bore you. Can it have been that you did not read them? No Dean—and perhaps no don—who has been in that portentous position as long as I have can fail to become a perennial stream of advice. It is the Nemesis of those who have all their lives been treated with more respect than they have deserved. I am the only exception with which I am acquainted. Child, why do you not make more use of your noble gifts for dancing, amateur theatricals, and general conversation? And yet I’m not grumbling. Only I mean to say, don’t you know? Of course, they all do it—the people in the great world to which you, and occasionally I, belong. Still, there it is, isn’t it? And you write me such soothing full-cream letters with only an occasional snag in them. So bless you, my child. I do trust that the report which comes to me that you are going with the Prince of Wales, Mrs. H. Ward, and a Mr. Arthur Roberts to shoot kangaroos in Australia is at least exaggerated. These marsupials, though their appearance is sufficiently eccentric to suggest the conscientious objector, will—I am credibly informed—fight desperately in defence of their young. If I may venture to suggest, try rabbits.

“I am delighted to hear that you are not the author of the two articles attacking Society. The fact that they happen to be signed with the name of another well-known lady had made me think it possible that this might be the case. Society? It is a great mystery. I can hardly think of it without taking off my boots and prostrating myself orientally. To criticize it is a mistake; it is even, if I may for once use a harsh word, subversive. It is the only one we’ve got. Oh, hush! Only in whispers at the dead of night to the most trusted friend under the seal of secrecy can we think of criticizing it. But holding, as I do, perhaps the most important public position in the Continent of Europe, if not in the whole world—responsible, as I am, for what may be called the sustenance of the next generation—I do feel called upon to carry out any repairs and re-decoration of the social fabric that may be required. You with your universal influence which—until Einstein arrives—will be the only possible explanation of the vagaries in the orbit of Mercury, can do as much, or nearly as much. Do it. But never speak of it. Oh, hush! (Sorry—I forgot I’d mentioned that before.)

“In reply to your inquiry, I never read ‘Robert Elsmere,’ but understand from a private source that it saved many young men from reading ‘David Grieve.’ Your second inquiry as to the lady-love of my first youth is violent—very violent. Suppose you mind your own business.”

Fourth Extract
THE SOLES

I do not know why we were called the Soles. Enemies said it was because we were flat, fishy, and rather expensive.

Our set comprised the upper servants of some of the best houses in Mayfair. Looking back at it now, I can see that no similar body ever had such a tremendous influence. It may not have been entirely due to us that gravity varies inversely as the square of the distance, but at least we acquiesced. And what we did in home and foreign politics has scarcely yet been suspected.

The reason for our influence is sufficiently obvious. Our great leader, James Arthur Bunting, was perhaps the most perfect butler that the world has yet seen; his magnificent presence, plummy voice, exquisite tact, and wide knowledge made him beyond price. We had other butlers whom it would have been almost equally difficult to replace. We had chefs who with a chain of marvellous dinners bound their alleged employers to their chariot-wheels. Nominally, Parliament ruled the country, but we never had any doubt who ruled Parliament.

To take but one instance, the sudden volte face of Lord Baringstoke on the Home Rule Question. This created a great sensation at the time, and various explanations were suggested to account for it. Nobody guessed the truth. The fact is that Mr. Bunting tendered his resignation.

Lord Baringstoke was much distressed. An increase of salary was immediately suggested and waved aside.

“It is not that, m’lord,” said Bunting. “It is a question of principle. Your lordship’s expressed views as to Ireland are not, if I may say so, the views of my friends and of myself. And on that subject we feel deeply. Preoccupied with that difference, if I remained, I could no longer do justice to your lordship nor to myself. My wounded and bleeding heart–”

“Oh, never mind your bleeding heart, Bunting,” said Baringstoke. “Do I understand that this is your only reason for wanting to go?”

“That is so, m’lord.”

“Then, supposing that I reconsidered my views as to Ireland and found that they were in fact the opposite of what I had previously supposed, you would remain?”

“With very great pleasure.”

“Then in that case you had better wait a few days. I’m inclined to think that everything can be arranged.”

“Very good, m’lord.”

Less than a week later, Lord Baringstoke’s public recantation was the talk of London. In a speech of considerable eloquence he showed how the merciless logic of facts had convinced his intellect, and his conscience had compelled him to abandon the position he had previously taken up. Fortunately, you can prove absolutely anything about Ireland. It is merely a question of what facts you will select and what you will suppress.

Mr. Bunting is, I believe, still with Lord Baringstoke. This was, perhaps, one of the principal triumphs of the Soles. There were many others. We had our own secret service, and I should here acknowledge with respect and admiration the Gallic ingenuity of two of the Soles, Monsieur Colbert and Monsieur Normand, in reconstructing fragmentary letters taken from the waste-paper baskets of the illustrious.

Naturally, we had to suffer from the jealousy and malice of those who had not been asked to join us, and a rumour even was spread abroad that we played bridge for sixpence a hundred. There was no truth in it. There have been, and still are, gambling clubs among the younger men-servants of the West-end, but we never gambled. Mr. Bunting would not have liked it at all. We were serious. We did try to live up to our ideals, and some of our members actually succeeded in living beyond their incomes. Our principal recreation was pencil-games, mostly of our own invention.

In this connection I have rather a sad incident to relate. On one occasion we had a competition to see which of us could write the flattest and least pointed epigram in rhyme. The prize for men consisted of two out-size Havannah cigars, formerly the property of Lord Baringstoke, kindly presented by Mr. Bunting.

Percy Binder, first footman to the Earl of Dilwater, was extremely anxious to secure this prize. He took as the subject of his epigram the sudden death of a man on rising from prayer. This was in such lamentably bad taste that he did not win the prize, but otherwise it would have certainly been his. His four lines could not have been surpassed for clumsy and laboured imbecility. The last two ran:

 
“But when for aid he ceased to beg,
The wily devil broke his leg.”
 

And then came a terrible discovery. Percy Binder had stolen these lines from the autobiography of my own G.E. She says, by the way, that their author was “the last of the wits.” But how can you be last in a race in which you never start? It is always safe to say what you think, but sometimes dangerous to give your reasons for thinking it.

That, however, is a digression. Percy Binder was given to understand that we did not know him in future. Mr. Bunting was so upset that he declared the competition cancelled, and smoked the prize himself. He said afterwards that what annoyed him most was the foolishness of Mr. Binder’s idea that his plagiarism would be undetected.

“He is,” said Mr. Bunting, “like the silly ostrich that lays its eggs in the sand in order to escape the vigilance of its pursuers.”

One of our pencil-games was known as Inverted Conundrums, and played as follows. One person gave the answer to a riddle, and mentioned one word to be used in the question. The rest then had to write down what they thought the question would be. The deafness of dear Violet Orpington sometimes spoiled this game.

For instance, I had once given as an answer “bee-hive,” and said that one word in the question was “correct.”

The first question I read out was from George Leghorn. He had written: “If a cockney nurse wished to correct a child, what insect-home would she name?” This was accepted.

The next question was from Violet Orpington: “If you had never corrected a naughty boy before, where would you correct him?”

“But, Violet,” I said, “the answer to that could not be ‘bee-hive.’”

“Oh,” she said, “you said ‘hive,’ did you? I thought you said something else.”

I have never been able to guess what it was she thought I had said; and she refused to tell me.

Another of our pencil-games was Missing Rhymes. One of us would write a deccasyllabic couplet—we always called it a quatrain, as being a better-class word—and the rhyme in the second line would not be actually given but merely indicated.

For example, I myself wrote the following little sonnet:

 
“I have an adoration for
One person only, namely je.”
 

To any reader who is familiar with the French language, this may seem almost too easy, but I doubt if anybody who knew no language but modern Greek would guess it. For the benefit of the uninitiated I may add that the French word je is pronounced “mwor,” thus supplying the missing rhyme.

Millie Wyandotte disgraced herself with the following lyric:

 
“After her dance, Salome, curtseying, fell,
And shocked the Baptist with her scream of ‘Bother!’”
 

She had no sooner read it out than Mr. Bunting rose in his place and said gravely:

“I can only speak definitely for myself, but it is my firm belief that all present, with the exception of Miss Wyandotte, have too much refinement to be able to guess correctly the missing rhyme in this case.” Loud and prolonged applause.

George Leghorn was particularly happy at these pencil games, and to him is due this very clever combination of the lyrical and the acrostical:

 
“My first a man is, and my next a trap;
My whole’s forbidden, lest it cause trouble.”
 

The answer to the acrostic is “mantrap”; the missing rhyme is “mishap.” The entire solution was given in something under half an hour by Popsie Bantam. She was a very bright girl, and afterwards married a man in the Guards (L.N.W.R.).

Mr. Bunting, a rather strong party-politician, one night submitted this little triolet:

 
“When the Great War new weapons bade us forge,
Whom did the nation trust? ’Twas thou, Asquith!”
 

The missing rhyme was guessed immediately, in two places, as the auctioneers say.

However, by our next quinquennial meeting Nettie Minorca had thought out the following rejoinder:

 
“When history’s hand corrects the current myth,
Whose name will she prefer? ’Tis thine, Lloyd George.”
 

Yes, dear Nettie had a belated brilliance—the wit of the staircase, only more so. We always said that Nettie could do wonderful things if only she were given time.

She was given time ultimately, and is still doing it, but that was in a totally different connection. She inserted an advertisement stating that she was a thorough good cook. First-class references. Eight years in present situation in Exeter, and leaving because the family was going abroad. Wages asked, £36 per annum. No kitchen-maid required. No less than twelve families were so anxious to receive the treasure that they offered her return-fare between Exeter and London, and her expenses, to secure a personal interview with her. She collected the boodle from all twelve. And she was living in Bryanstone Square at the time. She is lost to us now.

As dear old Percy Cochin, also one of the Soles, once said to me: “We are here to-day, and gone at the end of our month.”

Violet Orpington had an arresting appearance, and walked rather like a policeman also. Her hair was a rich raw sienna, and any man would have made love to her had she but carried an ear-trumpet. She is the “retiring Violet” of verse seven.¹ Millie Wyandotte was malicious and unintelligent; she looked well in white, but was too heavily built for my taste. I may add, as evidence of my impartiality, that she laid a table better than any woman I ever knew; in fact, she took first prize in a laying competition. Nettie Minorca was “black but comely,” and had Spanish blood in her veins. She is the “gipsy” mentioned in verse one-and-a-half. Popsie Bantam was petite. Her profile was admired, but I always thought it a little beaky myself. I myself was the least beautiful, but the most attractive. Allusions to me will be found in verses 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 12-19, 24, 57-60, 74, 77, 87, 97, and 102-3468.

George Leghorn was an Albino, but his figure was very graceful. From the specimen which I have already given, it will be easy to believe that his wit was fluorescent, detergent, and vibratory. He afterwards became a well-known personality on the turf. He gained a considerable fortune by laying the odds; his family were all reputed to be good layers.

Dear old Peter Cochin was staunch and true. He reminds me of something that my illustrious model says of another man. She says that he “would risk telling me or anyone he loved, before confiding to an inner circle, faults which both he and I think might be corrected.” Grammar was no doubt made for slaves—not for the brilliant and autobiographical. All the same, a prize should be offered to anybody who can find the missing “risk” in mentioning to another a point on which both are agreed.

She adds that she has had “a long experience of inner circles.” There, it must be admitted, she is ahead of me. But the only inner circle of which I have had a long experience has been much improved since it was electrified.