breathedout: Portrait of breathedout by Leontine Greenberg (bathtime)
At Cambridge, the most memorable event of the summer [1909] term was staged by Geoffrey [Keynes], now in his final year at Pembroke. He and two friends had invited the novelist Henry James to visit Cambridge, Henry James accepting, so Maynard [Keynes] informed Duncan [Grant], ‘in an enormous letter even more complicated than a novel…’ On Sunday 13 June 1909 Maynard gave a breakfast party for Henry James at King’s. It was not a success. He had invited, among others, Harry Norton, who responded to each remark with manic laughter. Henry James was not amused. Desmond MacCarthy found him sitting disconsolately over 'a cold poached egg bleeding to death’ surrounded by a respectful circle of silent undergraduates. However, the visit did produce a classic James remark. Told that the youth with fair hair who sometimes smiled was called Rupert Brooke, who also wrote poetry which was no good, Henry James replied, 'Well, I must say I am relieved, for with that appearance if he had also talent it would be too unfair.’


—Robert Skidelsky, John Maynard Keynes: Hopes Betrayed (1883-1920)

Morals of this story:

  • Every single person in pre-WWI England wanted to bone Rupert Brooke.
  • Horrible breakfast parties read about at second hand are almost as amusing as horrible dinner parties read about at second hand.
  • The image of Henry James sitting disconsolately over a cold poached egg, surrounded by silent undergraduates while one lone man laughs manically, will be a balm to call upon in my darker moments.
  • If that doesn’t cheer me up, imagining the complexity of James’s acceptance letter should do the trick.
breathedout: Portrait of breathedout by Leontine Greenberg (bathtime)
One benefit of arriving late was that Maynard missed the new boys’ traditional first encounter with the headmaster in Upper School. The Rev. Edmond Warre, immensely muscular and immensely Christian, always used the occasion to deliver a warning about the dangers of “filth”; a warning made more impressive and mysterious by the fact that few other words in his discourse were audible.

—Robert Skidelsky, John Maynard Keynes, Volume 1: Hopes Betrayed

I just read Skidelsky’s chapter on Keynes’s time at Eton, during most of which I was cackling and tittering to myself alone in my apartment like the crazy spinster I am. Maynard starts out his boarding school years writing home that “Strawberries and iced devonshire cream is spiffing” on the occasion of the Eton/Harrow match at Lords; and ends up, five years later, discoursing to his fellow debating-society members on “the epigrammatic lips of Mr. Swithinbank.” Either way, in the words of greywash: “England: you can’t make this shit up.”

(NB: It’s also a little odd to me that Skidelsky has obviously read Lytton Strachey’s letters but still acts like it’s impossible to know whether or not Keynes got up to much sexual funny business at Eton. From where I sit those letters give a very clear picture indeed. VERY clear. Unless a) Keynes lied to Strachey or b) Strachey, to entertain Leonard Woolf, invented stories about real people he’d never met…neither of which is out of the realm of possibility, certainly. Yet why wouldn’t Skidelsky assume the simplest explanation: namely, that they were both telling the truth?)

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