In June, 1914, I took a house on the Thames, in order to make sure of
a good view of the Boat-Race; then a man threw a bomb at Serajevo and
ruined my plans. But now it is going to happen again. And instead of
fighting with a vast crowd at Hammersmith Bridge I shall simply walk
up into the bathroom and look out of the window. It is wonderful.
Yet meanwhile I have lost some of my illusions about this race. I have
a boat myself; I myself have rowed all over the course in my boat. It
is only ten feet long, but it is very, very heavy. Still, I have rowed
in it all over the course--with ease. Yet people talk as if it was
a marvellous thing for eight men to row a light boat over the same
water. Why is that? It is because the ignorant land-lubber regards
the river Thames as a pond; or else he regards it as a river flowing
always to the sea. He forgets about the tide. The Boat-Race is rowed
_with the tide_; they deliberately choose a moment when the tide is
coming in, and hope nobody will notice; and nobody does notice. The
tide runs about three miles an hour, sometimes more; if they just sat
still in the boat they would reach Mortlake eventually, and the crowd
would get a good look at them, instead of seeing them for ten seconds.
The race ought to be rowed _against_ the tide. Then it really would
be a feat of strength; then it really would take ten years off their
lives--perhaps more. Then perhaps small boys would drop things on them
from the bridges, as they do on me. I wonder they don't try to do
that now. There is a certain quiet satisfaction in dropping things
on people, especially if they are labouring under Hammersmith Bridge
against the tide, and I should imagine that the temptation to drop
things on a University crew would be almost irresistible. It is not
everyone who can look back and say, "In 1890 I hit the Oxford stroke
in the stomach with a stone." As it is, though, I suppose they go too
fast for that kind of thing.
But apart from the small boys on the bridges, the present system is
most unsatisfactory for people who know "a man in the boat." Even in a
football match it is possible for an aunt occasionally to distinguish
her nephew and say, "Look, there is Edward." But if she says, "Look,
there is Edward," meaning No. 5 in the Cambridge boat, you know she is
imagining. All she sees is a vague splashing between two bowler-hats,
or possibly the Oxford rudder moving at high speed through a horse's
legs. If the race were rowed against the tide we should all get our
money's worth; and the oars-men could then put more realism into their
"After-the-Finish" attitudes. As it is, they roll about in the boat
with a praiseworthy suggestion of fatigue, but nobody really believes
they are tired--nobody at least who has rowed on the Thames with the
tide.
No, I am afraid the actual race is a sad hypocrisy. But the training
must be terrible. Think of it. They started practising in the second
week in January: they row the race in the fourth week in March. For
ten weeks and more they have been "getting those hands away" and
driving with those legs and not washing-out. For ten weeks horrible
men with huge calves have shouted at them and cursed them and told
them their sins, like a monk telling his beads--"Bow, you're late;
Two, you're early; Three, you're bucketing; Four, you're not bucketing
enough." I listen painfully, hoping against hope that at least one of
the crew may be left out of the catalogue, that Stroke at least may be
rowing properly. But no, Stroke is not forgotten, and even Cox doesn't
always give complete satisfaction.
Sometimes I feel that I ought to row out in my little boat and offer
to tow the incompetents back to Putney. Yet they seem somehow to
travel very easily and well. But, however harmoniously they swing past
"The Doves" or quicken to thirty-five at Chiswick Eyot, I know that in
their hearts they are hating each other. Goodness, how they must hate
each other! For ten weeks they have been rowing together in the same
boring boat, behind the same boring back. I read with grim interest
about the periodical shiftings of the crew, how Stroke has moved to
the Bow thwart, and Bow has replaced Number Three, and Number Three
has shifted to the Stroke position. They may pretend that all this is
a scientific matter of adjustment, of balance and weight and so forth.
I know better. I know that Stroke is fed up with the face of Cox, and
that the mole on Number Two's neck has got thoroughly on Bow's nerves,
and that if Number Three has to sit any longer behind Number Four's
expanse of back he will go mad. That is the secret of it all. But
I suppose they each of them hate the coach, and that keeps them
together.
Of all these sufferers perhaps Cox is most to be pitied. They all have
to eat what they're told, no doubt, yards and yards of beefsteak, and
so on. In the old days rowing men had to drink beer at breakfast; I
can't think of anything worse, except, perhaps, stout. But Cox doesn't
eat anything at all. He has to get thinner and thinner. And if there
is one thing worse, than eating beefsteak at breakfast it must be
watching eight rowing men eating beefsteak at breakfast and not eating
anything yourself.
Yes, beyond question Cox is the real hero. I watch him dwindling,
day by day, from nine stone to eight stone, from eight stone to seven
stone twelve, and my heart goes out to the little fellow. And what a
job it is! If anything goes wrong, Cox did it. He kept too far out or
he kept too far in, or too much in the middle. But who ever heard of
Cox doing a brilliant piece of steering, or saving the situation, or
even rising to the occasion? His highest ambition is for _The Times_
to say that he did his work "adequately"--like the _Second Murderer_
in SHAKSPEARE.
And at the finish he can't even pretend that he's tired, like the
other men; even if there was any spectacular way of showing that he
was half-frozen he couldn't do it, because he alone is responsible if
one of the steamers runs over them and they are all drowned. We ought
to take off our hats to Cox; though, of course, if we did, Stroke
would think it was intended for him.
But indeed I take off my hat to all of them; not because of the race,
which, as I say, is a piece of hypocrisy, being rowed with the tide,
but because of the terrible preparation for the race. I wonder if it
is worth it. It is true that they have lady adorers on the towing-path
at Putney, and it is even rumoured that they receive anonymous
presents of chocolates. But presumably they are not allowed to eat
them, so that these can do little to alleviate their sufferings. It is
true also that for ever after (if their wives allow it) they can hang
an enormous oar on the wall and contemplate it after dinner. But,
after all, I can do that too, if I like; for I too have rowed over the
course.
And _I_ shall have a free view of the race. But none of them will see
it at all. They will all be looking at the back of the man in front,
except Stroke, whose eye will be riveted on the second button of Cox's
blazer. What a life!