A young lady who was always known as "Nelia" was about to be married. Gilbert was congratulating her, adding that her Christian name would join charmingly with her forthcoming surname; the girl then told him that her first name was really "Cornelia." Gilbert at once replied: "Oh, I see, you've cut your corn."
Once, in my presence, Gilbert was being questioned by an ardent playgoer as to one of his serious plays, and was finally asked how it ended; its author immediately answered that it had ended in a fortnight.
On another occasion I arrived at the Garrick Club on foot as Gilbert drove up in a hansom: when he alighted he handed the driver half-a-crown. The cabman asked, "What's this?" Answer: "It's your fare." Cabman: "This ain't my fare." Gilbert took back the half-crown, saying: "I beg your pardon, I made a mistake, there's your fare"—as he gave the man a florin. Tableau.
Someone remarked to him what an extraordinary title Henry Arthur Jones had given a new play of his. Gilbert asked: "What isit?"The Princess's Nose. Gilbert hoped it would "run."
The fashion of the "hobble skirt" was being discussed in Gilbert's presence, who said that it reminded him of the boards outside a prospering theatre—"standing room only."
In long past days what was called a shilling subscription was got up by theDaily Telegraphas a testimonial to W. G. Grace. At one time there was a fine cricket ground known as Prince's, which was a rival to the Oval and Lord's, and stood upon the land now occupied by Pont Street and Lennox Gardens. At an afternoon party the question of the testimonial was being discussed, and a young girl asked Gilbert if Grace was anything besides a great cricketer. The brilliant tongue at once replied: "Oh, yes, my dear, he is lord of Lord's and the only ruler of Prince's."
As a rule I have been careful in the choice of guests and successful in seating them to ensure good companionship, for what you put on the chairs is quite as important as what you place on the table, but let me confess to a terrible blunder when I invited Gilbert and Burnand to the same dinner. At an early stage of it, when all was going well, a loud-voiced guest said: "Tell me, Mr. Burnand, do you ever receive forPunchgood jokes and thingsfrom outsiders?" This was not long after he had been elected to the editor's chair, and Burnand replied, cheerfully: "Oh, often." Gilbert sharply grunted from the opposite side of the table, over his knife and fork: "They never appear!" The rest was silence. This is the true version of an otherwise much-told tale.
Editors of "Punch"
The allusion toPunchreminds me that I can readily tell how many weeks old I am, as we were born in the same year; and not many people now can say they have known all its editors: Mark Lemon—when he was old and I was young, Shirley Brooks—who was my proposer at the Garrick Club, Tom Taylor, Frank Burnand and Owen Seaman. What pleasure they have given, and how incomplete the week would be without the charm of Mr. Punch's infinite pen and pencil!
Burnand's humour was different from Gilbert's: he excelled as a punster. From his earliest days he was devoted to the theatre and founded the A.D.C. at Cambridge. He wrote with marvellous rapidity. When he sawDiplomacy, in the height of the play's original success, he left the theatre, sat up through the night, began and finished a most amusing travesty, which he calledDiplunacy.
Years ago my son was at Ramsgate, reading for an examination in the law. He metBurnand, who asked what he had been doing. George told him that he had been on the Goodwins with his "coach." Burnand replied that he had no idea you could drive there!
He told me once that, in spite of every kind of exercise, he was a slave to liver—a livery servant. One of the best of his many smart things was said when he was recovering from a serious illness. A journalist friend paid him a sympathetic visit, and said: "Your condition has been so grave that my editor asked me to write an obituary notice of you, adding that he wished it to be generous and that I must give you a column." Burnand at once exclaimed: "A column! Why, that's all they gave Nelson."
My first meeting with Oscar Wilde was at Oxford. He had recently "come down," but was visiting a friend there. His appearance suggested to me that he might have prompted Disraeli to write these words, they seemed so accurately to apply to the once spoiled darling: "The affectations of youth should be viewed leniently; every man has a right to be conceited until he is successful."
I think the best plays from his pen wereLady Windermere's FanandThe Importance of Being Earnest.
He was talking with us about one of his comedies, just produced, when my wiferemarked that the leading situation rather reminded her of the great scene in a play by Scribe, to which Wilde unblushingly replied: "Taken bodily from it, dear lady. Why not? Nobody reads nowadays."
He once congratulated us when we wrote some account of ourselves, on and off the stage, on not having waited, as most people do, until they have lost all memory.
Robert Marshall
One of many heavy blows I have naturally had to bear during my fifty-six years' membership of the Garrick Club was through the loss of Robert Marshall. His was a strange career. The last man to imagine who could claim the honour of rising from the ranks, through failing to pass an examination, to be a captain in the army. He had left it before we met, but was always smart and soldierly in appearance.
He wrote some charming plays, with a distinctive quality of their own. I recall especiallyA Royal Family,His Excellency the Governor,The Second in Command, andThe Duke of Killiecrankie. What pleasant evenings they gave us! When he was stricken and his friends knew that his lease of life was not to be renewed, he was lying in a nursing home close to Portland Place. A man who loved him was sitting by his bed-side one afternoon when Marshall's quick ear caught the sound ofapproaching military music. It was the band of the Horse Guards on the way from Albany Street barracks to a Royal function. He started up in bed and with a far-off look in his eyes, his mind having travelled back to his soldier days, listened for the last time to the trumpets and the drums: as their sound died away he fell back on his pillow in a flood of tears.
Henry Lucy
Henry Lucy—Toby, M.P.—was an old and amusing friend; we often enjoyed the pleasant parties to which Lady Lucy invited us, and they were our guests in London and frequently at Underlea, when they lived hard-by, at Hythe. Perhaps the greatest of the many surprises I have had was the discovery that instead of the poor journalist he was thought to be, he left a quarter of a million. How so vast a fortune was accumulated has remained a mystery to me, fostered by the fact that during the War they discharged their servants as a duty, and ran their cottage themselves, with the simple help of one old woman and then only once in a week. However his wealth was achieved, it was hardly by such means as those of a brother journalist, a wily Scot, who, when he was seen coming out of a telegraph office by a friend, who knew his penurious ways and asked: "Surely, Mac, you've not been wasting your money in sendingtelegrams?" replied: "Not I, mon, I've only been giving my fountain pen a drink!"
Lucy was an odd looking little creature, with his hair standing straight up, reminding me of some strange bird that might have escaped from the zoo. I remember his telling me once that, when dining with Lord Rothschild, he arrived late, jumped from a hansom, ran up the steps, flung his Inverness cape into the arms of a footman, but, as he passed his hand through his hair, was stopped from entering the dining-room by a stately butler, who told him, pointing to a door, that he would find brushes in his lordship's dressing-room.
On the occasion of one of his visits to us, the talk turned upon Forbes-Robertson's acting inThe Passing of the Third Floor Back. Lucy told my wife that he had not yet seen the play, but much wished to do so, and would she tell him the story. To the amazement of those who heard her, she gave the most perfect and dramatic illustration I have ever listened to—if I may use the expression, she seemed to be inspired. We sat spell-bound as the various incidents were unfolded and brought to a wonderful climax. After a pause, Lucy rose from his chair, took her hand, and said: "Good-bye, my dear; there is no need for me to see the play."
"Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?"
For the egotism which is bound to occur in a book of this sort it is useless to offer excuses or apology; it must have its sway.
My wife one day on returning from an afternoon party, to which I was unable to go, in answer to my question: "Who were there?" humorously replied: "Oh, ladies and other dukes." The phrase came to stay—being often used by us. In writing further of departed guests—"Shadows of the things that have been"—it will constantly be on my tongue.
Prince Francis of Teck
I enjoyed the acquaintanceship of Prince Francis of Teck, who was certainly a man of mark, at a social club as well as at the Middlesex Hospital, of which he was the energetic chairman. Having been a member of the weekly board for more than thirty years, I ought to know something of the value of his services and devotion to the welfare of that institution.My wife first met the Prince in the Engadine, long before he was our guest; in fact, when he was a boy on a visit to St. Moritz, in the company of his mother, the Duchess of Teck, his sister, Queen Mary, and other members of his family.
The Prince was a good soldier, and bore himself well, with an air of command. He served with distinction in Egypt and South Africa.
He died at forty, or thereabouts. I saw him in the Welbeck Street nursing home before he succumbed to that enemy, even of the robust, pneumonia, and was one of the deputation from the hospital bidden to Windsor, where he was buried.
I now find myself up against a duke. There is no need to dwell at any length on the name of his late Grace of Beaufort, beyond saying that he was a great lover of the stage and gave us his friendship. (I mean the grandfather of the present Duke.)
When it became known that my wife and I had decided to abandon the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, and had a lease of the Haymarket, a movement was set on foot, in which the Duke took a prominent part, to present us with a "testimonial." That sort of thing was always obnoxious to me; and, happily,the intention came to my ears in time for me to bring it to a prompt end.
Referring to our farewell night at the Haymarket Theatre, later on, the Duke wrote to my wife:
"Do you know, I feel it to be too melancholy an occasion to assist at. I should hate it all the time. Some day, when you both play for a benefit or a charity, I hope to be there to welcome you. Let me say how very much I regret your determination to retire from management. What a loss I feel it, and how sure I am the general public share that feeling."
Another duke!—but merely a viscount when he sat at our table—Viscount Macduff, a close friend of Horace Farquhar, whose name reminds me of his amusing brother Gilbert, generally known as "Gillie" Farquhar. Gillie, when it was rumoured that he intended to go on the stage, was angrily sent for by Horace, his elder and prosperous brother, who loudly expostulated on such a step being taken, but learned from Gillie that he was quite in earnest. Horace then thundered: "Of course you will take some other name. What do you mean to call yourself?" Gillie quietly replied: "I have thought of calling myself Mr.HoraceFarquhar!"
When we first knew Macduff we were neighbours,and constantly saw him lead his father, the old and infirm Earl of Fife, into the garden of Cavendish Square, where tea was taken across the road to them.
I was invited to dine at No. 4 one Sunday evening, but had to be elsewhere with my wife, so asked leave to join the party later, as I knew it would not be an early one. When I entered the room a young man was standing in the middle, giving an imitation of myself. When he had finished I was made acquainted with Herbert Tree.
Lord Londesborough
Lord Londesborough, the first earl, was also a keen playgoer. For years he and Lady Londesborough showed us thoughtful kindness. Our theatre did not seem to be complete if they were not present on a "first night."
With reference to the farewell performance ofCaste, which had an added interest from Hare's coming to us, from his own theatre, to play his original part, Lord Londesborough wrote: "The demonstration was most thoroughly well deserved, for there is no one to whom the stage, and therefore the country, owes more than to you and to Mrs. Bancroft. It is always satisfactory when the public shows its appreciation of those who do their work, and make their mark, without beat of drum and flourish of trumpets."
He was a great "whip" and a prominent member of the Coaching Club. I was of his joyous party to the Derby for a number of years, until his sight failed him through an accident while shooting; and I remember his telling my wife, in the later years of his life, that the remaining eye was saved by a consultation held at Lord's between C. I. Thornton, W. G. Grace and myself. I was fond of cricket in those days, and became a member of the M.C.C. before it was necessary to be proposed in boyhood.
On one occasion I drove with our kind friend to Ascot. While seated in a prominent position on the front of his coach, helping a group of gorgeously-dressed ladies to lobster salad, I felt someone touching my toe; on looking down I saw a well-known "nigger," who for years frequented the race-courses. He held up his tambourine to me and called out, with a grin: "Now, Mr. B, don't forget the perfession!"
These Men of Mark who gave me the joy of their friendship are more numerous than I had looked for, and the names of those left to me must not be dwelt upon. I cannot ignore, however, the delightful and unique dinners enjoyed in Whitehall with the late Lord Onslow, when Members from bothHouses streamed in and sat, informally, at separate tables, reinforced by men prominent in other walks of life. As an example, I once was placed in the company of the Archbishop of Canterbury and Mr. Balfour, as he then was. Onslow was a delightful host and a delightful guest. I have never forgotten his saying to me that very few men, even eminent men, had any idea who their great-grandfathers were.
Lord Rowton
Few more attractive men have graced a table than Lord Rowton: we knew him first as Montagu Corry. Later on he became a next door neighbour: our No. was 18, his 17. In his courtly way he said to my wife we ought to change houses, so that he might address her as "sweet seventeen," and not as his "dear neighbour." It is, to my pen, difficult to describe his pervasive charm, which I am sure was as manifest in simple homes as at Balmoral. He always appeared to be gay, never boisterous, and his devotion to his great chief, Disraeli, must have been priceless.
I was told by an eminent authority for many years at the bar, my friend Sir Edward Clarke, that in his early days he "read" in chambers where "Monty" Corry was his companion. The career of my informant speaks for his diligence; and he assured me that Corrychiefly passed his time in making rhymes on the names which appeared inThe Timesof the day in the column restricted to the announcements of "hatches," "matches" and "despatches"!
Two other things about this dear man occur to me. He told me, after the great fancy-dress ball given at Devonshire House on a State event, that he was at the head of the staircase when Irving arrived, and was struck with the impression that the actor alone of all the distinguished crowd wore his robes (he went as a cardinal) as if they were his daily garb, and not obviously hired from a costumier's store, or made for the occasion.
My last remembrance of Rowton is on leaving a club with him one night to walk home; he suddenly stood still on the way and, after a pause, said, as if dreaming of secrets under mental lock and key: "I seem to have passed the whole of my life in holding my tongue."
"Jacky" Fisher
At the hospitable board of mutual friends we first met Sir John and Lady Fisher, as they then were. The great Admiral took my wife down to dinner, and from that evening was her good friend and mine. Others at the table, I remember, were the scientist Lord Kelvin and Canon Ainger, the Master of the Temple.Fisher accepted an invitation to dine with me in these words: "On the 25th, with pleasure. Yours till hell freezes, J. F." His bad language was really only a not very bad habit—his bark was infinitely worse than his bite; in fact, he was a deeply religious man, as a beautiful letter he wrote to my wife when Lady Fisher died would testify. He knew much of the Bible, and quotations from it were as often on his lips as were his stock phrases. A friend of mine told me that he was once as astounded to hear the old Sea Lord preach a sermon in the Duke of Hamilton's private chapel as he was by its excellence. Whenever he caught sight of me, no matter where, Lord Fisher would call out, cheerily, "How's the vintage?"
When Queen Alexandra shared King Edward's throne, Lord Fisher paid Her Majesty a pretty compliment when offering his congratulations on her sixtieth birthday. "Have you seen, Ma'am," he asked, "the paper which says: 'Her Majesty is sixty years old to-day; may she live till she looks it!' The words were his own, but he thought it would please the Queen more to believe that the compliment had been paid to her publicly. Soon afterwards, the Queen cut out from an illustrated catalogue the figure of a little girl, stuck on the top of it a portrait of her own head, andwrote underneath it: "May she live till she looks it!" and sent it to Lord Fisher.
This reminds me of a compliment that I will dare to mention, paid to me by Alfred Sutro on my eightieth birthday, when he ended a charming letter with these words: "But then, my dear B, you are not really eighty, you are only forty for the second time."
We did not know that dandy of the Senior Service, Lord Alcester, until he had retired upon his laurels and left the planks of an ironclad for the pavement of St. James's Street, of which his lavender kid gloves seemed to be a daily part, and had earned for him his gorgeous nickname, the "Swell of the Ocean."
It was as Beauchamp Seymour that he so ably served his country, the height of his career being the brilliant success of his bombardment of Alexandria, which gave him his Peerage, and doubtless paved the way to our occupation of Egypt. It is interesting to know that two of his captains at the time were named John Fisher and Charles Beresford.
The first Admiral Sir Edward Inglefield was our neighbour fifty years ago, and many a nautical salute have we exchanged "over the garden wall." As a "handy man" I never met his equal. If a pane of glass in house or conservatory was broken he replaced it; ifthe kitchen clock stopped he soon made it go again; if a chimney took to smoking it soon gave up the habit through his means.
On the other hand, Lady Inglefield used to say that the punctuality with which she heard our wheels at night, when we returned from work, regulated her movements.
Sheridan's Granddaughter
At a garden party given by them we met the celebrated Mrs. Norton, the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, famous alike for her poetry and novels, and for her unhappy relations with her mean and cruel husband. She was still a beautiful woman in the sixties, and it was easy to believe that she was the granddaughter of the lovely Elizabeth Linley. Time had then all but obliterated the old and untrue scandal that she had sold toThe Timesthe news of Peel's conversion to Free Trade, and his intention to get the Corn Laws repealed. George Meredith's novel,Diana of the Crossways, had (though wholly against the author's will) done something to revive the false report that, for her own financial ends, Caroline Norton had wormed the secret out of Sidney Herbert; the truth being that Delane had been told it by Lord Aberdeen himself, who intended him to publish it.
On one occasion, when Sir Edward was in command of one of our fleets, he condemneda man to receive so many strokes from the lash, and was on deck to see the sentence carried out. When the delinquent approached he made certain signs known to Freemasons. "Oh," said the Admiral, "a Mason, eh? Well, I doubt if you're better at that job than as a seaman. Go down and take your punishment."
Garnet Wolseley
Having written of Lord Fisher, a great sailor, I will now turn my attention to a great soldier, whom we first knew, fifty years ago, as Sir Garnet Wolseley. We became friends and later on were neighbours.
To my regret, I only had a club acquaintance with Lord Roberts, who was too true a gentleman ever to murmur: "I told you so—why did you not listen to me?" The same with Lord Kitchener; we only knew him as a fellow-guest at other people's tables. It was a Frenchman who wrote this tribute on his sad end, which staggered the country: "Great England's valiant soldier needed a nobler tomb than a hole in the ground, and he had the noblest of all tombs. God ordered his funeral; the waves sang his requiem; the organ-pipes were rocky cliffs; his pall was the black sky, foam the flowers, and the lightning his funeral torches."
Wolseley was, I repeat, a great soldier. One of those leaders whom men will follow—evenunto death. These words were written before the powerful biography written by two friends of mine, Sir Frederick Maurice and Sir George Arthur, was published. I think he saw service even before the Crimean War, where, as little more than a boy, he became Captain, and was almost cut to pieces by bullets. Then came Lucknow and service in many lands. He was a Lieutenant-Colonel when twenty-six; and throughout his long career honours of all kinds poured on him. He became Commander-in-Chief, but was not destined to have realised the wish expressed to my wife—"I hope I shall never die in a bed." There was something about him, about that slight cheerful figure, and that glowing face, that outspoken talk, that was very helpful and strengthening: he seemed in some way to shed happiness round him.
Among the accumulated correspondence we found waiting after a holiday in 1882 was a cheery letter from Wolseley, postmark Alexandria, August 18th, in which he wrote: "The 'army' keeps arriving daily, and I hope very soon to be in a position to bring Mr. Arabi to book." The realisation of this prophecy, and the curious incident of an atmospheric phenomenon caused by the comet of that year, prompted some verses, that were sent to the hero of the achievement and thusacknowledged from the War Office: "I am very glad Bancroft induced you to send me your lines on Tel-el-Kebir, for I like them extremely. The word-painting is admirable, and the whole incident is told most feelingly and well. I shall put the little poem away among my treasures. Many, many thanks for it." I wonder where it is now. He was a shockingly bad speller—double pp's and double ll's were sure to be found where they were not wanted.
A rebuff
I was told of a terrible rebuff Wolseley brought upon himself on an occasion when he took Madame Melba down to dinner, not having, most unfortunately, caught her name when presented. He neglected her at table and devoted himself to a charming lady on his other side, whom he knew well. After a time he asked—as was rather his habit—too loudly, "Who is my other neighbour?" "Surely you know Madame Melba," was the answer. "Only heard of her: never met her before: did not catch her name: when I brought her down she conveyed nothing to me." At last he turned to the great songstress and addressed some casual remark to her. Melba quietly asked: "To whom am I speaking?" He answered: "General Wolseley," and received the reply: "I am afraid the name conveysnothing to me." I hope Dame Nellie Melba will forgive me for repeating the story.
Writing of Wolseley reminds me of another, his comrade, Sir Redvers Buller, for years, with Lady Audrey, our friend and neighbour. Buller was a man of unflinching courage and dogged bravery: it was said that he had won his Victoria Cross three times over.
He invited me to join a congratulatory dinner party to be given by him, at a military club, in honour of Wolseley having been made a Field-Marshal. All the guests turned up except Wolseley, who had received a late summons from Windsor, commanding him to dine at the Castle, as Her Majesty wished to present thebâtonto him in person on that very evening.
A long spell of years has passed since my wife and I were guests at what was then Thomas's Hotel, in Berkeley Square, now converted into flats, and met Evelyn Wood when he was about thirty, having already won the V.C. in the Indian Mutiny, after beginning his adventurous career as a midshipman and being wounded in the Crimea. We lost sight of him for a long while, and he must have become a Field-Marshal when he dined with us, as he often did, until increasing deafness made him cautious of accepting such invitations. He amused us once bythreatening to recite the Lord's Prayer in an alarming number of languages if provoked.
Another Field-Marshal and V.C. whom we knew was the hero of Ladysmith, Sir George White. I met him first on board a P. & O. steamer when he was Governor of Gibraltar. We walked many a mile together on the deck of theArabia. Both he and Lady White were very kind to me when I landed from his launch for a short stay on the Rock, and enabled me to be present at a memorial service for the Duke of Cambridge. When his own time came White was Governor of Chelsea Hospital. His body was taken across London, for burial in his native Ireland, to such a tribute of affection and regard from his comrades and the people as is rarely given.
I first knew the popular old soldier and father of the charming Lady Burnham and Lady Somerleyton, Sir Henry de Bathe, in the early days of my membership of the Garrick, and was so struck by his appearance that I did my best to suggest it in a part I played soon afterwards—I suppose with a measure of success, for when I stepped upon the stage Lady de Bathe (now the Dowager, still, happily, strong and well), who was seated in the stalls, exclaimed audibly, "Why, it's Henry!"
My wife was so impressed by a dramaticstory the old general told of his Crimean days, that she often repeated it.
A convict from Eton
One evening, in the severe winter time, it was de Bathe's duty to direct the clearing of the dead and wounded after a deadly encounter with the enemy, the brunt of which had been borne by men drawn from the French convict settlements, who were thrust into the hottest places when trying work had to be done. The searching party came across one poor fellow who was grievously wounded but still alive: de Bathe had him placed upon a stretcher, lifted his head, and poured brandy into the soldier's mouth. The man took his hand and pressed it, murmuring in English, "Thank you, de Bathe." Thunderstruck, he stooped down and asked how a Frenchman knew his name and could also speak such perfect English. The wounded man smiled and whispered, "Eton!" as he fainted; de Bathe accompanied the stretcher to the French lines, saying that he would return as soon as his duty would allow him. He did so, but the man was dead; de Bathe lifted the sheet from his face and gazed upon it earnestly without recognising the lost creature, once his school companion, then known only as a French convict with a fictitious name.
I remember being once so fortunate, whenthe old general dined with me, as to place him between Sir William Howard Russell, the war correspondent, and Dion Boucicault, the dramatist, and to learn that all three of them in boyhood's days had been at the same school together in Dublin.
Lord Rathmore—better remembered and thought of by me as David Plunket—was a fascinating creature. What otherwise could he be with such youthfulness, brightness, wit—such qualities as earned for him the friendship of the sphinx-like Disraeli?
Our acquaintance with him began many years ago at Homburg, where we had a happy time, and continued until 1915, when, with his company and that of other pleasant people, my wife and I passed a holiday at the old Queen Hotel, on The Stray, at Harrogate. He was a delightful guest, an arresting personality at any table, and one of the most gifted orators—I can use no smaller word—I have listened to; his highly polished sentences being rendered even more attractive by his sometimes pronounced stammer, which often added charm to his brilliant flow of language. David Plunket's many friends at his favourite club, the Garrick, where he was beloved, missed him greatly and mourned his loss.
Lord Glenesk, always a great supporter ofthe drama, gave us his friendship for many years. As Sir Algernon Borthwick, he was, to our great delight, at Balmoral when we were commanded by the late Queen to act there. From his house in Piccadilly, we saw both joyful and mournful processions. In a letter to my wife he wrote: "You were the first to teach the school of Nature, and not only by your own bright impersonations, but also by your influence over all those with whom you were brought in contact, to prove that English art is second to none."
Acquaintance with the first Lord Ashbourne, so long Lord Chancellor of Ireland, began years ago in the Engadine, and I recall happy times spent there and by the Lake of Como in his excellent company.
Edward Carson
We were dining with him one evening when my wife asked who was a young man at the farther end of the table. "Oh," said her host, "his name is Carson. He is a fellow-countryman of mine, who has just been called to the English Bar, where he means to practise." "And where he will go far, if I am any judge of a face," was my wife's reply. Lord Ashbourne brought the "young Irishman" to her afterwards, and so an affectionate and enduring friendship with the brilliant advocate, the valiant patriot, Lord Carson, had its birth.
I was one of four who made up a table with Lord Ashbourne—who was gay and amusing—to play bridge at the Athenæum on the day before he was stricken.
I first met Edward Lawson, afterwards Lord Burnham, on the morning of my wedding day, which chanced to be his birthday. My wife had made his acquaintance before, as also that of his sage old father, who founded the fortunes of the great newspaper, of which three generations have now been justly proud.
I gratefully remember that it is to the senior of the trio the stage owes much of its present recognition by the press. To digress for a moment, it was well that Clement Scott, young and enthusiastic, was given his head, and for a long while—years, in fact—his virile pen was devoted to the service of the drama.
Lord Burnham continued in his father's footsteps, as, in his turn, his own son has done. I remember hearing Burnham say, when asked if there was any particular advantage in being very rich: "Only one; you can afford to be robbed."
I was indebted to his constant kindness and hospitality, especially at Hall Barn, for little short of fifty years, until the war broke his splendid spirit and claimed him as its victim.
Of my friend since his boyhood, the presentViscount, I will only say, although I can hardly believe it, that I have given him a sovereign when he went back to Eton!
Alfred Lyttelton
My first acquaintance with Alfred Lyttelton was as a spectator at Lord's, in the field, and in the courts. Before I knew him I had the privilege of two well-remembered talks with Miss Laura Tennant, whose beauty and charm left a lasting impression. His career, political and otherwise, is too well known to need a word from me. The widespread popularity he enjoyed began early. He was captain of both his school and university elevens, and held the tennis championship without a break for many years.
A personal note I can strike with this most lovable man is through going with him in Paris to see one of the earliest performances ofCyranoby Coquelin. He also did me the honour to take the place of Sir Henry Thompson as my seconder at the Athenæum.
Alfred Lyttelton was spared the agonies of the Great War and the bewildering sense of uncertainty as to what will result from it in this much-altered world. On the day he was buried, in July, 1913, the Oxford and Cambridge match was being played at Lord's. At the solemn hour the game was stopped, and the great assemblage stood uncovered as theythought of him. Later, on the same day, Mr. Asquith said of him in the House of Commons that he, perhaps of all men of this generation, came nearest to the ideal of manhood which every English father would like to see his son aspire to and attain.
It is among my happy memories to have been many times the guest of that prince of hosts, Sir Henry Thompson, extending over twenty years. No dinner parties were more justly celebrated than the "octaves," generally eight guests and himself, he arranged with so much thought and knowledge.
He was an exceptional, an extraordinary, man, in addition to his skill as a great surgeon. He had talent as a painter, had pictures hung in both the Academy and the Salon; he wrote novels, and his knowledge of old Nanking china, of which he owned a fine collection, was that of an expert; and he was founder and president of the Cremation Society. He introduced me to motoring, when it was in its infancy. He was an enthusiast in astronomy, having a private observatory erected by himself. He gave a valuable book on this subject to my wife with the inscription: "Homage from an Astronomer to a Star of the First Magnitude."
Public servants
Other names crowd my mind: Sir FrankLascelles, so long our Ambassador in Berlin, and Sir Rivers Wilson, also a distinguished public servant—delightful hosts, delightful guests—both great gentlemen, and both devoted to cards as an amusement. The former cursed them (never his partner) when they persistently went against him; the latter caressed them, however badly they treated him.
Of Schomberg McDonnell, known better to his big circle of friends as "Pom," I recall one personal incident. He was the first to congratulate me on my knighthood, through being at the time Lord Salisbury's private secretary, a post which he had the courage to give up to take his part in the South African War, where he did good service with the C.I.V., and was rewarded on his return by being reinstated. He again served his country in the Great War and died from his wounds, beloved and regretted.
I must in these names include that of a friend of many years, Sir Thomas Sutherland, so long the chairman of the P. & O. Company. To the kindness of his invitations to be a guest on trial trips of ships of that great fleet I owe the happiest "week-ends," in wonderful company, I have ever spent.
"Mr. Alfred," as Alfred de Rothschild was generally spoken of, was once our guest;we were often his in Seamore Place. I was invited to join a week-end party, when I might have seen the wonders of his country home, with its circus and performing animals, but I could not go. Being delicate and of a highly nervous temperament, he must have been a mine of wealth to members of the medical profession. He was a great lover and patron of the theatre. I remember a peculiar incident concerning him when we revived Robertson's comedySchoolat the Haymarket. Sometimes for several nights running, sometimes twice in a week, he took a large stage box, occupied it for not more than half an hour, sat alone to see the second act of the comedy, and then went.
Burton and Stanley
The two famous travellers and explorers, Burton and Stanley, were old friends of ours. I couple their names because it so chanced that we saw the most of them, and more intimately, together with Lady Burton and Lady Stanley, in hotels—one in Switzerland, the other in Italy—when we were all holiday making.
Burton's early career was that of a wild, untamed gipsy spirit. His childhood was passed in France and Italy, when his mastery of tongues began. At Oxford he acquired Arabic, having turned his back on Latin andGreek. He told me that, eventually, he conquered well over thirty languages—I forget the exact number—as well as made progress towards interpreting what he called the speech of monkeys. We first met him at the table of a dear friend, Dr. George Bird, who asked how he felt when he had killed a man. Burton replied that the doctor ought to know, as he had done it oftener.
Stanley's fame was chiefly established by his "finding" of Livingstone, when he was only about thirty, the search having occupied eight months.
Of the two, Burton was the easier to get on with, being full of talk and anecdotes. Stanley was reserved, and it often took my wife some time to draw from him stories, full of interest, about the King of Uganda and other persons, and incidents of his courageous travels.
Labouchere
Our acquaintance with Henry Labouchere dates back to the time when he built the Queen's Theatre in Long Acre, where St. Martin's Hall formerly stood, and of which his wife was the manageress. Henrietta Hodson was a clever actress, whom, in the early days of the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, we introduced to London. She afterwards played Esther Eccles inCastewith the first complete company which toured the provinces.
Labouchere's varied career, after he left Eton and Cambridge, began in diplomacy. Among many similar stories I have heard of him in those days, is one of a pompous visitor who, calling at the embassy in Washington, and not liking the look of so youthful an attaché, said abruptly: "Can I see your boss?" Labouchere calmly replied: "With pleasure, if you'll tell me to what part of my person you refer."
After giving up diplomacy he entered Parliament; at one time represented Northampton with Bradlaugh. I think it was then he became known as "Labby," and a sort of licensed clown. He was also prominently associated with journalism. His "Letters of a Besieged Resident," sent over from Paris by balloons, were so sensational as to increase the circulation of a daily paper by more than double.
We knew him best on the Lake of Como, at Cadenabbia, a place he loved, which my wife said ought really to be renamed Cadelabbya. I remember his suddenly turning to her one morning and saying that he would rather be deformed than unnoticed.
On the night that our Haymarket career commenced London was fog-bound. The density lasted for days, being unique in its horrors, as records of the time can tell.Labouchere was at the theatre and emerged with the rest of the audience into dreadful gloom. This is the story of his reaching home. He ran heavily against a man, who asked him in what direction he wanted to go. Labouchere replied, "Queen Anne's Gate." The questioner said that he also was going that way, in fact, that he lived hard by, and would take him there safely if he chose to go with him. Labouchere had some fears as to being trapped, but decided to risk it and be wary. The two plodded along together arm-in-arm; they met with one or two minor difficulties; but presently the cheerful stranger, who evidently was of humble station, stood still in the pitch darkness and said: "Here we are; what's your number?" Labouchere told him, and his companion answered: "Then we must cross the road." They did so, the man groped about a door with his fingers and said: "That's your house; you're all right now; try your latchkey."
Labouchere, before rewarding his friendly guide, in amazement asked how he had found his way so accurately on such a night. The simple answer was: "I'm blind!"
He ended his days at his villa in Italy. When I read his name in the Honours List as Privy Councillor, I sent him a telegram:"Labouchere, Florence. Congratulations. Bancroft." His reply was to the effect that I had puzzled him dreadfully, as he had no idea to what I referred until he receivedThe Timeson the following day.
Oscar Browning—or shall I say "O.B."?—was an odd-looking creature. We made his acquaintance in our haunt for many years, the Engadine, when my wife christened him "The Wicked Monk." For my part, I never felt quite certain how much of him was "Jekyll" and how little there was of "Hyde."
Some time afterwards he sent word to me at the theatre that he was in the stalls and would like to introduce me to a young friend who was his companion. I arranged that he should do so at the end of the play, when they were brought behind the scenes, and O.B. made me known to Mr. George Curzon, who had recently left Eton, and whose friendship, if I may use the word, I claim the privilege of having since enjoyed, in the great position to which Browning had no doubt foreseen that his pupil would attain. Our last meeting was when Lord Curzon presided at the dinner given to another old friend of mine, T. P. O'Connor, with a charm only equalled, in my experience, on somewhat similar occasions by Lord Rosebery and Lord Balfour.
Comyns Carr
I think it was when I first met Comyns Carr—"Joe"—early in the seventies, that I heard him rebuke a pushing young man as "a pantaloon without his maturity and a clown without his colour"—the sort of thing that he fired off throughout his life, as if he were a well-charged satirical machine-gun.
He had been called to the Bar, but was then on the eve of his marriage with the attractive Miss Strettell, the daughter of a delightful old clergyman whom I knew as the chaplain at St. Moritz. Carr did not stick to his first choice of a profession, which I always regarded as a pity, but drifted into journalism instead. He was, in his day, attached to many newspapers. Then, fostered by his love and knowledge of art, came a long career when Sir Coutts Lindsay, our old friend and guest, reigned at the Grosvenor Gallery, with Carr as Director. It was famous for Sunday afternoon parties, which were unique. The robes of Royalty rubbed against the skirts of Bohemia. "Ladies and other dukes" were plentiful, as were the followers of every art, and all were happy. Then he wrote plays; next managed a theatre.
I often think he was right when he said to me: "My dear B, the first duty of wine is to be red." Most of the witty things he utteredhave no doubt appeared in print; perhaps the following gem has not. An old and well-known friend, who dyed his hair and beard so unnatural a black that even the raven's wing had no chance against it, was lunching, on a hot day, in the revealing sun's rays, with some club friends, of whom one was Comyns Carr, and presenting a sad picture of the struggle between the ravages of time and the appliances of art. He left the table early, and his departure was followed by remarks. "How dreadful—what a pity!" "Can't somebody advise something?" Some one turned to Carr, who had remained silent, and asked him what he thought. Joe replied that of all his friends and acquaintances the old fellow was the only one who really was as black as he was painted.
Carr's gift of eloquence was naturally sought at public banquets, where his speeches took high rank. But was it not, after all, the old story of "a rolling stone" which left him best remembered by his brilliant tongue?
Cecil Clay
I could go on writing of other Men of Mark to whom I have had the good fortune to play the host, and tell again of the great goodness shown to followers of the stage by members of the healing art, and by lights in the law; but let me bring this chapter to its close by a reference to Cecil Clay, who wroteA PantomimeRehearsaland, with those who acted his amusing play, gave the old generation much pleasure. He was beloved in every circle that he moved in, and I never heard an unkind word pass his lips or saw an unkind look upon his face. He went so far once as to reproach a fellow-member of one of his many clubs who swore at the matches because they would not strike. "My dear fellow, don't be angry; pray remember they are the only things in the country that don't!"
I have asked Owen Seaman to allow me to reprint some lines which appeared inPunch, written, I feel sure, by the pen of Charles Graves.
"Athlete and wit, whose genial tongueCheered and refreshed but never stung:Creator, to our endless joy,Of pricelessArthur Pomeroy.Light lie the earth above his headWho lightened many a heart of lead;Courteous and chivalrous and gay,In very truth no common Clay."
The Sickles tragedy
I have alluded to an early visit to New York, when I was a lad of seventeen. During my stay what was known as "The Sickles Tragedy" occurred in Washington; the details of which have lingered in my mind ever since. Many years afterwards my wifeand I were at an evening party given by the Dion Boucicaults to a handsome and distinguished-looking American, with one leg and a crutch; the other leg he had lost, valiantly, on the field of Gettysburg. His name was Daniel Sickles. My interest was at once aroused. He was, or had been, United States Minister to Spain, being no less eminent in diplomacy and the civil service than as a volunteer soldier and general. At one time the tragedy of his life might have robbed his country of his great abilities. He had married, some six years before, a beautiful girl of sixteen, Italian by origin, and they were living in Washington, where Sickles held a Government appointment, when he learned from an anonymous letter that his young wife was false to him, clandestinely meeting at a certain house hired from an old negro woman by her lover, named Philip Barton Key, a widower nearly twice her age, a Government lawyer, and the son of the author of "The Star-Spangled Banner." Sickles had the house watched, and found that the news was true. Charged with the offence, his wife confessed all, and explained the system of signals by which, from an upper window, she and Key, watching through an opera-glass from his club, arranged their meetings. Sickles demanded her wedding-ring, toldher to leave his house and return to her parents. Soon afterwards, looking out of his window, he saw the seducer walking towards the house and make a signal with his handkerchief. He went out, and coming up with Key at the street-corner, accused him to his face and shot him. Key attempted to defend himself, but Sickles fired twice more, and then, while Key was on the ground and still breathing, put his revolver to his own head. Twice it missed fire. Sickles then walked away and gave himself up to the police. The case aroused intense excitement, not only in America but in England. The trial lasted some weeks, and so strong was public opinion in the prisoner's favour that he was acquitted, and set free to do his country services in the future. I have been told that, in years after, husband and wife came together again. It is certain that all through the affair, Sickles treated her with the greatest consideration, even allowing her to keep their eldest child, who, grown into a beautiful girl, was present with her father when we met at the Boucicaults' and who soon afterwards was our guest.
Of the distinguished Americans who have been sent to our country as Ambassadors from their own land I have met Mr. Lowell, Mr. Phelps, Mr. Bayard, Mr. Choate, Mr. Page, andMr. Davis. It is a privilege to have known such men; a greater privilege, in the case of Mr. Choate, to have been his host. I don't know whether a charming little story has been in print before—very likely it has—but I can answer for its exactitude as I now tell it, and where the incident occurred.
On one of his visits to us the subject was started—I think by Bishop Boyd-Carpenter—of changing one's identity. My wife turned to her chief guest and said: "Tell us, Your Excellency, who you would rather be if you were not Mr. Choate." The Ambassador, slightly rising from his chair, bowed across the table to his wife, who was at my side, and at once replied: "Mrs. Choate's second husband."
"Of all amusements the theatre is the most profitable, for there we see important actions when we cannot act importantly ourselves."—MARTIN LUTHER.
I
When I was nineteen I ran away from home to become an actor, and have been stage-struck ever since.
Charles Mathews
Of eminent Victorian leaders of my calling the first to be our guest, in very far-away days, was the accomplished Charles Mathews, the most conspicuous comedian of his time. The memory of childhood's play-going days tells me that I once saw Madame Vestris, his first wife, a beautiful and accomplished woman, in one of Planche's extravaganzas calledThe King of the Peacocks, at the Lyceum Theatre. I first met Charles Mathews in 1863, as a star in the theatrical firmament when I was a struggling young actor in Dublin, where I had the great advantage of playing with him in a round of his favourite comedies for a wholemonth; during which I hope I learnt something from his delightful personality of the beautiful art of acting.
Among other accomplishments, he was an amusing after-dinner speaker. When presiding at a theatrical charity banquet, with his own charm of manner, he began: "Douglas Jerrold once said to me that he did not despair of living to see the day when I should be trudging up Ludgate Hill, with an umbrella under my arm, to invest my funds in the Bank of England. I am sorry to say that the great humorist did not live to see that vision realised. The only step I have advanced towards it is, that I have bought the umbrella."
When Mathews left England for a tour in Australia, a banquet was given in his honour at which he presided; himself proposing the toast of his own health in these words:
"The most important task assigned to me has now to be fulfilled, and I rise to propose what is called the toast of the evening with a mixture of pleasure and trepidation. I was going to say that I was placed in a novel but unprecedented position, by being asked to occupy the chair. But it is not so. There is nothing new in saying that there is nothing new. InThe Timesof October 3rd, 1798, there is an advertisement of a dinner given to Mr. Foxon the anniversary of his first election for Westminster: 'The Hon. Charles James Fox in the chair.' Here is a great precedent; and what was done by Charles James Fox in 1798 is only imitated in 1870 by Charles James Mathews. I venture to assert that a fitter man than myself to propose the health of our guest could not be found; for I venture to affirm that there is no man so well acquainted with the merits and demerits of that gifted individual as I am. I have been on intimate terms with him from his earliest youth. I have watched over his progress from childhood, have shared in his joys and griefs, and I assert boldly that there is not a man on earth for whom I entertain so sincere a regard and affection. Nor do I go too far in stating that he has an equal affection for me. He has come to me for advice in the most embarrassing circumstances, and what is still more remarkable, has always taken my advice in preference to that of any one else."
Needless to say the speech was interrupted at every point by laughter. Here is a characteristic letter I received from him during a winter which he was passing at Nice:
"It is hard to be obliged to come indoors on such a heavenly day to write a letter, and you will no doubt think it harder to beobliged to read it. But friendship calls, and I sacrifice myself upon its altar. Do thou likewise.
"A very nice fellow has written a comedy. ('O Lord!' I hear you say.) All I ask of you is to read it, have the parts copied out and produce it, playing the principal part yourself—nothing more. Your new piece, of course, will not run more than two or three years, and then you will have this ready to fall back upon. The human mind naturally looks forward, and managers cannot make their arrangements too soon. If by any unforeseen and improbable chance you may not fancy the piece (such things have happened), please drop me a sweet little note, so charmingly worded that the unhappy author may swallow the gilded pill without difficulty. There is something in the piece—or I would not inflict it upon you. If well dressed, and carefully put upon the stage, itmightbe effective.
"This is what is called writing justone line. You will of course say it 'wants cutting,' like the piece. So I will cut it—short.
"On reading this rigmarole, I find I have only used the word 'piece' four times. When you give my letter to the copyist, you can make the following alterations: For 'piece' (No. 1) read 'play.' For 'piece' (No. 2) read 'production.' For 'piece' (No. 3) read 'work.' For 'piece' (No. 4) read 'comedy.'"
"Our Boys"
As an instance of his good judgment, on the first night of Byron's comedy,Our Boys, which had a phenomenal run, I was in the billiard room of the Garrick Club; a group of men came in who said they had been to see a new comedy at the Vaudeville Theatre. Various opinions were expressed, several present thinking the comedy would only have a moderate run, when Mathews, who was playing pool, said, quietly: "I don't agree with you fellows. I was there, and haven't laughed so heartily for a long while. Byron this time—he doesn't always—has taken his goods to exactly the right shop. That play is sure to run."
Charles Mathews was originally an architect of considerable skill and promise. Although he did not go upon the stage until he was thirty, he became one of the most beloved of the public's favourites. Mathews was distinctly an actor of manners: it was beyond his range to portray emotion. Later on, Charles Wyndham, at one time in his career, had some of his attributes, and so, very strongly, had Kendal. Nowadays, the actor who at times recalls him to me in the delicacy and refinement of his comedy is Gerald du Maurier.
Pictorially, Charles Mathews lives again inthe interesting series of stage portraits on the walls of the Garrick Club with which I was first familiar on the staircases when he lived in Pelham Crescent and Belgrave Road.
In a defence of himself and the view he took of his art, he once said: "It has been urged against me that I always play the same characters in the same way, and that ten years hence I should play the parts exactly as I play them now; this I take as a great compliment. It is a precision which has been aimed at by the models of my profession, which I am proud to follow, and shows, at least, that my acting, such as it is, is the result of art, and study, and not of mere accident."
Charles Fechter
I can also take the reader back to another link with the past and tell him briefly something of Charles Fechter, also of Victorian fame, whose name opens up a mine of memories. In our early married days we lived in St. John's Wood; Fechter was our neighbour and once our guest. I regard him as the finest actor of the romantic drama I have ever seen. The eye, the voice, the grace—all so needed—were at his command. He was the original of the lover inLa Dame aux Camélias. I was present at his début in London, so long ago as 1860, when, as Ruy Blas, he forsook the French for the English stage, and I saw his firstperformance ofThe Corsican Brothers, in which play he also acted originally in Paris. This was at the old Princess's Theatre in Oxford Street, which, a decade earlier, had been the scene of the Charles Kean Shakespearean revivals, most of which I saw in my 'teens. They were a great advance scenically on all that had been done by Macready, while their splendours and pageantry were in turn eclipsed first by Irving and afterwards by Tree; but genius has no part in plastering treacle on jam.
So vivid is my remembrance of Fechter's acting inHamlet, which took the town by storm, that I can describe and illustrate much of it after a lapse of more than fifty years. He made the Prince a fair-haired, almost flaxen, Dane. Dickens said: "No innovation was ever accepted with so much favour by so many intellectuals as Fechter's Hamlet."
Quite recently I came across the impressions of Clement Scott, for many years one of the most prominent of our dramatic critics. He wrote: "Let me candidly own that I never quite understoodHamletuntil I saw Fechter play the Prince of Denmark. Phelps and Charles Kean impressed me with the play, but with Fechter, I loved the play, and was charmed as well as fascinated by the player." Heafterwards failed as Othello, while his performance of Iago was a triumph. It is a coincidence that Fechter should have received valuable help during his reign at the Lyceum from Kate Terry, whose younger sister, Ellen, in a similar position, did so much for Irving in the same theatre later on.
Fechter died in America in 1879. His last years were sad. But a decade or so before, the idol of the playgoing public, the compeer of all distinguished in the arts, the welcome guest of Charles Dickens at Gad's Hill, he died beyond the seas neglected, friendless, almost forgotten. Few actors at their zenith have held greater sway; few could compare with him in romantic parts; fewer still could claim to have stirred two nations of playgoers in different tongues; but such is the fleeting nature of our work, so faint the record of it left behind, that one might ask how many now can speak of Fechter as he really was, how few will even know his name? "Out, out, brief candle!" His talent was not confined to the stage, as a spirited bust of himself, his own work, now in the Garrick Club, will show.
Salvini
Later on, there came the eminent Italian actor, Salvini, whose visit to this country in 1875 may still be remembered by a dwindling few. He was the greatest tragedian I haveseen—he was never a tenor trying to sing a bass song. On the stage the Italians, to my mind, have the advantage over other actors in being beyond question the finest pantomimists in the world—they can say so much without speaking. Those two great actresses, Ristori and Duse, made masterly use of this gift.
At an afternoon performance ofOthelloby Salvini, specially given at Drury Lane Theatre to the leading representatives of the English Stage, who chiefly composed the vast assemblage, I was present. Salvini's superbly delivered address to the Senate at once convinced the remarkable audience that no ordinary actor was before them—so calm, so dignified, so motionless—broken only by the portrayal of love as he caught sight of Desdemona entering on the scene. No ovation that I have taken part in equalled in enthusiasm the reception from his up-standing comrades at the close of the third act. His death scene I took exception to as being too shocking, too realistic, too like an animal dying in the shambles or on a battle-field. There I thought the Italian was surpassed by the Irishman, G. V. Brooke, the only actor I have seen who shared Salvini's natural gifts of voice and bearing, and who, but for his unfortunate intemperate habits, might have achieved lastingfame upon the stage. His death inOthelloseemed to me as poetic in conception as it was pathetic in execution. Acting, although not speaking, the closing words, "Killing myself, to die upon a kiss," he staggered towards the bed, dying as he clutched the heavy curtains of it, which, giving way, fell upon his prostrate body as a kind of pall, disclosing, at the same time, the dead form of Desdemona. I agree with the great Frenchman who said: "Even when it assassinates, even when it strangles, tragedy remembers that it wears the crown and carries a sceptre."
In a little letter to my wife, Salvini wrote:
"CHÈRE MADAME,—Que vous êtes aimable! Je tiendrai votre joli cadeau comme un doux souvenir de votre sincère amitié. Ce sera un précieux talisman qui suivra le reste de ma carrière artistique, et qui, je suis sûr, m'apportera du bonheur."
The perfect Hamlet
In a conversation I had with Salvini, he modestly said his nationality and Southern blood made it comparatively easy for him to play the jealous Moor, while they stood in his way when he attempted the part of the Northern moody Dane, to which his robust physique was not suited. Salvini's performance, however, ofHamlethas left mememories almost as keen as those bequeathed by Fechter. In his arrangement of the play he acted the long speech of his father's ghost. You only heard, and hardly saw the Phantom. His scene with his mother was very fine: his management of the foils in the fight with Laertes as superb as it was original: his death the most touching I can recall: it was the "Kiss me, Hardy" of Nelson; he felt for Horatio's head and drew it down to his face as the spirit fled. To make a perfect Hamlet I should weld together ever to be remembered portions from the performances of Fechter, Salvini, Irving and Forbes-Robertson.
It is interesting to read what Macready, the greatest of the Victorian classic actors, said of this complex, fascinating character:
"It seems to me as if only now at fifty-one years of age, I thoroughly see and appreciate the artistic power of Shakespeare in this great human phenomenon: nor do any of the critics, Goethe, Schlegel, or Coleridge, present to me, in their elaborate remarks, the exquisite artistical effects which I see in this work, as long meditation, like long straining after light, gives the minutest portion of its excellence to my view."
From my childhood I have always lookedupon Macready as the head of my craft, and regarded him with the reverence a young curate would feel, I suppose, towards the Archbishop of Canterbury.
I regret that I never saw Macready act. I was not ten years old when he left the stage. I had the pleasure, long afterwards, to know his son, Jonathan, a clever surgeon, whose son, Major Macready, I now know; and I rejoice in the friendship of the tragedian's youngest child, General Sir Nevil Macready, whom I first saw at his father's funeral, when he was lifted from a mourning coach—a little fellow of about ten.
My wife was the last stage link with Macready. At one of the farewell performances he gave when he retired she appeared as the child apparition inMacbeth.
I am wandering from my departed guests, but may mention that in my boyhood I saw much of that fine actor, Samuel Phelps, who had so wide a range and to whom no character seemed to come amiss. I have always felt, however, that he was a disciple of Macready, to whom undoubtedly he owed much, and whom he followed as Richelieu, Werner and Virginius.
I may just say that, in my early career, I have acted with Phelps, as well as with Charles Kean and G. V. Brooke, and it may surpriseyoung actors of to-day to know that, in my provincial novitiate of four years and three months, I played no fewer than three hundred and forty-six different parts, with the advantage of repeating many of the Shakespearean characters with different leading actors.
A tribute from Got
I met and knew the great French comedian Edmond Got, for many years doyen of theComédie française, in the far-off days of the Commune. The chief members of the troupe were here in exile for many months, when it was a privilege to entertain them. It was strange to learn that Got had served in the French cavalry before he went upon the stage. I append a gracious letter I received from him:
"Je veux vous remercier de la gracieuse hospitalité que vous avez bien voulu nous offrir, et vous prier de mettre aux pieds de Mme. Bancroft l'hommage de mon respect et de ma très sincère admiration.
"Quant à vous, monsieur, vous avez montré ce que peut obtenir de ses artistes un habile administrateur, doublé d'un parfait comédien, c'est-à-dire un ensemble que je souhaiterais rencontrer sur beaucoup de scènes parisiennes, et quelquefois sur la nôtre."
Two often welcomed guests were the brothers Coquelin,ainéandcadet. The elder was a great actor, the younger a good actor and abrilliantdiseur. Coquelin, as well as his distinguished comrade, Mounet-Sully, also his eminent compatriot, Clemenceau, belonged to "The Vintage."
Coquelin
My friendship for Coquelin was one of many years. No stage-struck youth perhaps was more unlikely to succeed; but his teacher at the Conservatoire—the great Regnier—always argued that to make a really fine actor a man should have to fight against some physical drawback.
Coquelin was the most outspoken admirer of my wife's acting. He said: "her splendid vitality was contagious: her winning magnetism would fill the largest stage." If my saying so does not detract from this praise, I may add that he showered encomiums in a Parisian journal on my performance inThe Dead Heart, when I acted with Irving. He once wrote to me:
"CHER BANCROFT,—Vous avez un excellent théâtre que vous dirigez en maître—et en maître artiste—que pouvez-vous désirer de plus? Ah, cette fois-ci, Bravo, et sans restriction. Cet orchestre qu'on ne voit pas, cette rampe presque imperceptible, cette absence du manteau d'Arlequin, ce cadre contournant la scène! Le spectateur est devant un tableau dont les personnages parlent et agissent. C'estparfait pour l'illusion et pour le plaisir artistique. Votre ami,—C. COQUELIN."
I have a valued souvenir of him in his autographed portrait as Cyrano.
In his home his gaiety was delightful, while his love for his simple old mother was enshrined in his heart as it would seem always to be in that of a good Frenchman.