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The Spike or Victoria College Review October 1928

An Arts Conversazione

page 45

An Arts Conversazione

I returned home at 11 p.m. on the last night of last term "buoyed up' as the French prose expressed it, "with a sweet soothing of self-satisfaction." After attending a 7—8 lecture (on the last night of a term!) and being thoroughly bored with it, and everything else, I applied myself to the grim task of escorting three interested visitors hroutgh dense crowds round the various laboratories to witness the entertainment provided by the Science Conversazoine. To keep a fatherly eye on them, as they peered through microscopes at frogs' feet, worked jig-saw puzzles, or got frozen with liquid air, was a comparatively easy matter; but to rescue them from Strontium and Barium flames, from fiddling with yellow phosphorus, or making an exhibition of themselves with the intelligence tests, taxed my powers to the utmost. However, the evening passed off without accident, and, if some of my explanations of physical, psychological, geological or chemical phenomena were extempore (and no doubt to a practised ear rather un-convincing) my visitors were none the wiser.

As a rabid Arts student myself, I could not help reflecting in true Socratic, or Lucretian, fashion on the keenness of our science brethren "rerum cognoscere causas," and on the engaging interest of the practical and concrete demonstrations as displayed by them. A great pity we could not give some practical exhibition of the utility, cultural value, or absorbing interest of the Arts subjects—History, for example! The Law faculty might get up a mock court, and lie there to their heart's content; but a 'conversazione di dilettanti" in Greek, or even French, would probably not attract very large houses. However, T decided to derive as much benefit as possible from my night's experiences, by thinking over which I had managed to pick up from the well-informed (or perhaps specious-speaking) demonstrators. T recalled that Beta particles were negatively charged; Gamma particles have no charge and penetrate lead. My last thoughts were that the nucleus of Uranium has 92 electrons, that of Radium 88 . . . or was it 89 . . . ?

It must have been about 5th March, except for the gloomy darkness of the Science wing, the College buildings were a blaze of light. Over the main entrance, resplendent in green and gold lights, was an electric sign "Arts Conversazione." At length, with difficulty, I gained admittance to the old familiar hall where I was supplied with a programme or "book of words," containing a list of the exhibits and adorned with such homely mottoes as, "Aut disce ant discede" "Hoc opus, hie labor est" "Carpe diem," "Cosa ben fatta è fatta due volte" "La vertu est la seule noblesse," "O this learning, what a thing it is!" These wise sayings, though no doubt not at all understood, seemed to give the requisite atmosphere to the proceedings. A number of gaunt, somewhat intellectual, looking gentleman eagerly scanned the faces of the visitors. These, I learned, were zealots and devotees of their Art, ready to pounce on any hapless fresher who ventured to enter the halls of learning, without a guide, philosopher and friend. As time was short, I made a judicious selection from the 'book of words" and began my round of inspection.

page 46

I began with the English Department. The first scene that met my gaze was a brilliant and elaborate pageant of writers of every genre—more or less adequately represented by students—historians, philosophers, critics, dramatists and novelists, from the Venerable Bede down to Ethel M. Dell. As I passed by, I heard Dean Swift bitterly reproaching Milton for corrupting the morals of youth by writing the "Paradised Regained." Bernard Shaw was giving Will. Shakespeare lucid proof of his right to be called an Irishman—he had been born in Yorkshire. Lambs "Gentle Reader" was as common as ever; and apart from the rest, using only words of not more than four letters, Wordsworth was engaged on a poetic description of the woods in May. The purely linguistic section was unique. Gaunt, grey-headed grammarians—forerunners of Nesfield—were busy "levelling" Old English endings, others in cutting them off. A modern was reversing the general tendency in contemplating the effect of restoring a lost "e" to the word "boote-legger." Other grave, business-like grammarians were discussing the possibility of floating loans among the Modern languages for the enrichment of English. Just at this moment, to complete the excitement, Nesfield himself entered hurriedly, in his shirt sleeves and a great state of excitement, having just succeeded, after strenuous efforts, in borrowing "Camouflage" from the Department of Modern Languages next door.

In the Department of Modern Languages came another glittering array of litterateurs—from Moliere to the editor of Le Rire. La Fontaine was absent-mindedly telling, not one of his fables, but one of his "Contes" to Madame de Sévigny—who, it must be confessed, seemed to be enjoying it immensely! De Musset and George Sand, as might have been expected, were quarrelling violently. In a dark corner, la figure torque, sat Emile Zola, busily thinking dark-thoughts for a new chapter for his "L'Assommoir." A few people who looked like morbidly-interested scientists, were busily examining through microscopes pro-tonic A's, counter final U's, and accented O's developing feverishly into all sorts of things. The language here was terrible: I would not have you misunderstand me—I mean it was all French! On literary subjects students in this department are strictly forbidden—on pain of not getting terms—to use any other. For this reason, and possibly on account of the "Jules Lazare Inquisition," which went on continuously, Fresher's seemed to give this department a wide berth. The Italian division of it was apparently represented by dolce far ninety.

I found the Classics Department at supper in a gaily bedecked "triclinium." Plautus, as summus in medio, and Horace—both drinking choicest Chain and Falernian—were the life and soul of the party. Cicero—as usual—was trying to tell Julius Caesar how he had "saved the country." Julius's reply sounded suspiciously like "Tu quoque." Tacitus and Juvenal, in terse epigrammatic style, were discussing women—apparently unfavourably. Virgil and Lucretius were criticizing the latest style hexameters. The representatives of "Graecia mendax" were waiting for the second sitting, entertained meanwhile by Socrates, who was busily explaining the nature of "Justice," Euripides, the freethinker, and Aristophanes, the caricaturist, were laughing to themselves. Aeschylus and Sophocles meanwhile discussed "the good old times." Homer was not represented, either, I presumed, on account of his blindness, or because he never existed.

As supper was over, I decided to make my visit to the History Depart page 47 ment the last, It was most uncomfortably full—mostly of women. Attractive placards adorned the walls: "Freshers, take History! Terms easy! Apply to the Professor." He certainly seemed to be having a busy time with the ladies! There we found all the men and women of British History represented—from Cassivellanners to the Leader of the Opposition, and from Boadicea through Henry VIIIs' six wives to Mrs. Pankhurst. We saw Queen Elizabeth rejecting the suit of the Earl of Essex; (date 1688—speaking from memory; or was it 1588?) the Princes in the Tower, Sir Francis playing bowls, and other sights innumerable. Shrill showman-like voices shouted: "This way to Mary Queen of Scots!" "The man of the people—Oliver Cromwell!" "See the signing of Magna Charta!" But suddenly a stentorian voice rang out: "This way to the execution of King Charles!" Immediately—striking proof of the morbidness of the mob—there was a blind rush to the black-draped scaffold. Borne along in the seething, swaying, heaving mass of humanity, I beheld the victim and the uplifted axe! For a moment there is a tense chilling silence (in the midst of which Lady Jane Grey dropped the proverbial pin) then . . . . . . the axe descended with a dull heavy thud I awoke—on the floor beside the bed—with a violent pain in my head which had just struck the bedroom chair.

—A.C.K.