"There's nothing that emphasizes the _amari aliquid_ of life like one's
tobacconist," mused Fane Trevyllyan as he flung a box of eighteenpenny
Emeticos into the fire and lit a Latakia cigarette.
It was a lovely August morning in the Eights of 18--; and the stroke of
the Charsley Hall boat reclined wearily in his luxuriously furnished
apartments within that venerable College and watched the midday sun
gilding the pinnacles of the Martyr's Memorial. It had been a fast and
furious night, and Trevyllyan had lost more I.O.U.s than even he cared to
remember: and now he was very weary of it all. Had it not been for one
thing, he would have thrown it all up--sent dons, deans, duns, and dice
to the devil, and gone down by the afternoon train: as it was, there was
nothing for it but to recline on his tiger-skins and smoke countless
cigars. He never would train.
"Going to row to-day, Fane?" It was little Bagley Wood, the cox.
Trevyllyan sanctioned his presence as if he had been a cat or a lapdog:
to all others he was stern and unapproachable--a true representative of
his Order.
"Don't know, _caro mio_," was the reply. "It's such a bore, you know:
and then I half think I promised to take La Montmorenci of the Frivolity
up the Cherwell to Trumpington in the University Barge."
"What! when the Lady Gwendolen de St. Emilion has come down on purpose to
see us catch Christ Church! why, _sapristi_, where can your eyes be?"
The stroke hissed something between his clenched teeth, and Bagley Wood
found himself flying through an unopened window.
"_Cherchez la femme_! it's always the way with the Trevyllyans," muttered
the lad, as he picked himself up from the grass plot in the quadrangle
and strolled off to quiet his nerves with a glass of _aguardiente_ at the
Mitre.
* * * * *
An August moon shone brightly on the last night of the great aquatic
contest: the starter had fired his pistol, and all the boats but one were
off.
"Hadn't you better think about starting, Trevyllyan?" asked the coach of
the Charsley Hall Eight, a trifle pale and anxious. "See, they are all
under way. Glanville Ferrers, the Christ Church stroke, swears you
shan't bump him as you did last week. He must be past the Soapworks by
this time."
"_Caramba_! then I suppose we ought to get in," replied the other; and as
he spoke he divested himself of the academical garb that scarcely
concealed his sky-blue tights, and stood, a model of manly beauty, on the
banks of the rushing river. Then, throwing away a half-finished cigar,
Trevyllyan strode into the boat. _Per Bacco_! 'twas a magnificent sight.
As the crack Eight of the river sped swiftly after her rival, cheers
arose from the bank, and odds on both boats were freely taken and offered
by the _cognoscenti_.
You and I, _amigo mio_! have seen many a race in our day. We have seen
the 'Varsity crews flash neck and neck past Lillie Bridge: we have held
our breath while Orme ran a dead heat with Eclipse for the Grand
National: we have read how the victor of the _pancratium_ panted to the
_meta_ amid the Io Triumphes of Attica's vine-clad Acropolis. But we did
not see the great Christ Church and Charsley's race--that great contest
which is still the talk of many a learned lecture-room. They say the
pace was tremendous. Four men fainted in the Christ Church boat, and
Trevyllyan's crew repeatedly entreated him to stop. But he held on,
inexorable as the Erinnyes.
Fair as Pallas Anadyomene--fair as the Venus whom Milo fashioned _pour se
desennuyer_ in his exile at Marseilles--the Lady Gwendolen de St. Emilion
sat throned on the University Barge, and watched the heroes as their bare
arms flashed in the moonlight. And now they were through the Gut, and
the nose of the Charsley's boat pressed hard on its rival: yet Fane
Trevyllyan did not make his final effort. Would he spare Glanville
Ferrers? _Quien sabe_? They had been friends--once. But the die was
cast. As the boats sped past her the Lady Gwendolen stooped from her
pride of place and threw a rose--just one--into the painted poop of the
Christ Church wherry. That was all: but it was enough. Trevyllyan saw
the action where he sat: one final, magnificent, unswerving stroke--those
who saw it thought it would never end!--and with a muttered "Habet!" he
sent the brazen beak of his Eight crashing in among the shattered oars of
his helpless competitor.
_Galeotto fu il libro_, _e chi lo scrisse_.
II. NEW OR KODAK STYLE
(From the French)
If they are frivolous, these Universities!
At present great sensation in Oxford: this town, so gloomy, so sad
ordinarily, is to-day _en fete_.
Is it that one elects a new _Vice-Chancellor_?
No.
It is the contest aquatic of the Colleges which goes to take place.
One discusses in the _salons_ the most _chic_ how many kilogrammes
they weigh, these heroes of the oar.
Everywhere Professors in straw hats and Heads of Colleges _en
matelot_.
What a spectacle!
. . . . .
On the barges. . . .
Grouped on these venerable hulks, crowds of ladies excite our
admiration by their beauty and our respect by their intelligence.
Whence do they come, these damsels, so young, so charming?
It is that they have arrived from the metropolis at the request of
their brothers, their cousins--what do I know of it? perhaps their
_pretendants_--of whom they wish to enhance with their applause the
athletic triumph.
. . . . .
After all, they are adorable, these English misses!
. . . . .
On the bank. . . .
One hears the portentous echo of the _Five-Minutes-Gun_.
Moment tremendous!
They have started: one sees already the _strokesman_ of the
_first-boat_.
One would say a whole University that runs on the _towing-path_, and
that utters loud cries.
Here and there _coachmen_ are seen carrying pistols and pronouncing
terrible execrations.
Why these pistols? . . .
A little brutal, these English: but of a force, a virility!
. . . . .
I myself who speak to you am infected by this enthusiasm.
I run: I utter cries: I _raffole_ of the _leading-boat_: I shout En
avant! Vive la Madeleine! Vive le Cercle Nautique! Hourra! . . .
But one does not do these things at forty years.
I am out of breath, what? I wish to stop.
Arrest yourselves, my friends too impetuous!
I appeal to you in the name of France, who respects you: do not
annihilate me, do not pulverize me. . . . .
Vain appeal! One would say the car of Juggernaut.
I am knocked down: I am _crible_ with kicks: I am massacred.
. . . . .
Ah! . . .