[Frontispiece: Marie Bancroft]
EMPTY CHAIRS
BY
SQUIRE BANCROFT
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1925
FIRST EDITION ... _March_ 1925
_Reprinted_ ... April 1925
_Printed in Great Britain by
Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
TO
MY SON
PREFACE
These pages are mainly concerned with men and women who, in days gone
by, have done my wife and me the honour to sit at our table, and have
now left us. I think of their Empty Chairs from a warm corner of my
heart: their friendship has brightened my life and stored my mind
with rosemary.
Having already written _Recollections_, I am bound to repeat myself,
so let me plead forgiveness for the besetting sin of advanced years.
My apology for the book is its last chapter.
S. B.
CONTENTS
I. King Edward VII
II. _Place aux Dames_
III. The Church
IV. The Law
V. Painting: Sculpture: Music
VI. Literature
VII. More Men of Mark
VIII. The Stage: I
IX. The Stage: II
X. One other Empty Chair
{1}
EMPTY CHAIRS
I
KING EDWARD VII
"Blessed are the peacemakers"
All who were born, as I was, in 1841 must count it an honour to have
come into the world in the same year as King Edward the Peacemaker.
And the honour appeals especially perhaps to one who owes many of his
friends and much of his happiness to the stage, for the stage has
never found among Royal heads a firmer friend than was the late King;
his gracious words and acts went far to conquer a decaying prejudice.
The first time that either my wife or I met or had speech with the
Prince of Wales (as he was for many years) was so far back as in
1868, when he, with the present Queen Alexandra, attended an early
performance of one of Robertson's comedies during our managerial {2}
career at the old Prince of Wales's Theatre (which he had graciously
given his permission, through the Lord Chamberlain, to name after
him). On this occasion the Prince came for the first time behind the
scenes, and honoured our little green-room with a visit. His love of
exactitude in all matters of costume enabled us then, I remember, to
correct a slight error in a military uniform.
His Royal Highness was accompanied by Frederic Leighton, then young
and handsome, who ten years later was elected President of the Royal
Academy; and by Carlo Pellegrini, whose caricatures, bearing the now
historic signature "Ape," were then attracting both attention and
admiration. The celebrated "originals," I imagine, have now all
passed away. Lord Chaplin was the last survivor of the unpublished
"set" which enrich the Marlborough Club.
The weather was foggy, and during the performance became so dense
that at the close the streets were dangerous. The Royal carriages,
after great difficulty, arrived safely, surrounded by a body of
police, bearing torches, who escorted our visitors to Marlborough
House. In all the years of our management the Prince never came
again without asking, upon his arrival, to be {3} informed at which
interval it would be convenient for my wife to receive his visit to
the green-room.
[Sidenote: A domestic drama]
One of these visits to our theatre caused, indirectly, the plot of a
domestic drama.
The Royal box was constructed by throwing two private boxes into one,
and on a certain Friday night news reached the theatre that it was
required by the Prince for the following evening. This was before
the days of telephones. Both boxes had been taken--one at the
theatre, the other at a librarian's in Bond Street--and nothing
remained unlet but a small box on the top tier. Not to disappoint
the Prince of Wales, it was decided that every effort should be made
to arrange matters. The box which had been sold at the theatre was
kindly given up by the purchaser, and a visit to Bond Street
fortunately disclosed the name of the possessor of the other. The
gentleman was a stockbroker; so a messenger was at once sent to his
office in the City, only to find that he had just gone. After a
great deal of difficulty our invincible messenger succeeded in
learning his private address, where, on arrival, he was told that
"Master went to Liverpool on business this morning, and won't be back
till Monday."
The door of a room leading from the hall {4} was opened at this
moment, and a portly lady appeared upon the scene.
"Went to Liverpool!" echoed the messenger. "Nonsense! He's going to
the Prince of Wales's Theatre this evening."
The lady now approached, and asked if she could be of any service.
The messenger repeated his story and stated his errand. The lady
smiled blandly, and said that, if the small box on the upper tier
were reserved, matters no doubt would be amicably arranged in the
evening, and so that man went away rejoicing.
At night, not long before the play began, the gentleman who had in
vain been sought so urgently arrived in high spirits, accompanied by
a lady, handsome but not portly. When the circumstances were
explained to him, he agreed to use the smaller, and upstairs box.
There ended our share in the transaction; but hardly were the
unfortunate man and his attractive companion left alone than the
portly lady reached the theatre and asked to be shown to Box X. She
was conducted there; the door was opened. Tableau! What explanation
was given as to the business trip to Liverpool we never knew, or
whether the third act of this domestic drama was afterwards played at
the Law Courts before "the President."
{5}
[Sidenote: Grave illness]
It was in the winter of 1871 that the Prince fell seriously ill from
typhoid fever. The national excitement reached so high a pitch and
the craving for the latest news of his condition grew so great, that
the bulletins from Sandringham were read out in the theatres between
the acts, and the National Anthem and "God Bless the Prince of Wales"
were nightly played by the various orchestras.
The Prince was hardly expected to survive from hour to hour, but when
reassuring bulletins were issued I vividly remember the relief they
caused. The extraordinary manifestation of loyalty to the Throne and
attachment to the Prince which this illness set ablaze culminated on
the day of General Thanksgiving, when London was _en fête_, and Queen
Victoria, with her convalescent son, went to the service held at St.
Paul's. My wife and I were fortunate in being invited by the Lord
Chamberlain to represent the stage--young managers as we then
were--at the Cathedral. I shall never forget the effect when the
great west door was thrown open and a loud voice announced "The
Queen." The imposing ceremony, the aspect of the building, with its
splendid assemblage of people, have only since been equalled at the
Jubilee Thanksgiving of 1887 in Westminster Abbey, at which we were
{6} also present. On the day which followed I remember being at the
corner of Pall Mall and St. James's Street while the decorations were
being taken down. I said to a police constable: "You fellows must
have had a long and very tiring day, yesterday." "Yes, sir, we had,"
the man replied, "and we'd willingly go through it all for her again
to-morrow."
I also recall an amusing incident which took place at that time in
the grounds of Chelsea Hospital. There was a parade of the old
Pensioners, looking as if they had stepped from the canvas of
Herkomer's "Last Muster." The Prince and Princess of Wales, with
other Royalties, including the Duchess of Teck, who was in a
bath-chair, passed along the line, the Prince in his kindly way
stopping now and then to say a pleasant word. The breast of one old
man was ablaze with medals--the Prince handled them and said: "You
have indeed seen a deal of service, my man." The old fellow drew
himself up, saluted, and answered: "Yes, your wusshup!" The Prince
controlled his amusement at the new title and passed along, but, as
she was drawn after him in her chair, the Duchess did not repress the
merry laughter for which she was loved by all sorts of people.
[Sidenote: Dinners to actors]
Among my treasured memories is that of {7} the dinner given by the
Prince at Marlborough House to the principal actors of London--one of
the many acts by which he endeared himself to the theatrical
profession. On this occasion I was honoured by being placed on the
right-hand of our host. This was in 1882. Without having realised
it, I found that I had already been the senior manager in London for
some years. Thirty-eight were at table, the actors present being
Henry Irving, J. L. Toole, John Hare, Charles Wyndham, Charles
Coghlan, W. H. Kendal, John Clayton, David James, Arthur Cecil, Henry
Neville, Lionel Brough, Hermann Vezin, George Grossmith the elder,
and myself. H. J. Byron was invited, but serious illness kept him
away. I am the only survivor of that happy company. Of the guests
invited to meet us, Lord Lincolnshire (then known to his intimates as
"Charlie Carington") alone is with us still. Lord Knollys, a
charming guest, the trusted servant of three monarchs, and Sir
Dighton Probyn, for so many years Queen Alexandra's devoted henchman,
have both recently gone from us.
The Prince gave a similar dinner a year or two later at the
Marlborough Club, and also honoured the actors by accepting an
invitation to dine with them at the Garrick.
{8}
During an interval in a performance of Robertson's comedy, _Ours_, at
the Haymarket Theatre, I was conducting the Prince to the green-room,
when, on crossing the stage, there was a congested condition of some
scenery. I turned to our master-carpenter, whose name chanced to be
Oliver Wales, and said, "Which way, Wales?" I realised the effect of
the words by an amused look on the Prince's face. My wife on that
evening had taken her autograph book to the theatre to ask the Prince
to add his name to it; he wrote at once, "Not '_Ours_,' but Yours
sincerely, EDWARD P."
My wife and I were naturally proud of the personal interest taken by
King Edward in the farewell performance which we gave on our retiring
from management in 1885. The Prince (as he still then was) suggested
the date, in order that with the Princess of Wales he might be
present. They were accompanied by the three young princesses.
On November 9th, 1891, some of the leading actors, including Hare and
myself--Irving was in America at the time--went to Sandringham as a
deputation, to present H.R.H. on his fiftieth birthday with a cigar
and cigarette box, in gold, with the feathers mounted in brilliants,
the gift of members of the theatrical profession. The Prince was
greatly pleased with {9} what was really a handsome present, and, to
my knowledge, he never missed an opportunity, when the box was placed
by his order in front of him after dinner, to say what it was and who
gave it. On the occasion, after a happy luncheon, we were, as was
customary, I was told, weighed in the hall, much to the annoyance of
one of the party, who had a superstitious objection to the proceeding.
[Sidenote: Alone in the storm]
London was visited by violent blizzards in March 1892. On an
afternoon in that month I determined to go out and face one of the
worst of them. I dressed for the enterprise, and as the door of our
house--then in Berkeley Square--was opened for me, a solitary
pedestrian passed the portico, wearing a black Inverness cape and,
with difficulty, holding up an umbrella. In spite of the driving
sleet and snow I could not help noticing a remarkable resemblance
borne by the passer-by, who was walking towards Piccadilly, to the
Prince of Wales. I followed at short distance, and was more and more
surprised by what I thought must be a striking "double." At the
corner of Hay Hill the pedestrian stopped, turned round, stared at me
as I was slowly approaching, and after some hesitation trudged on
down Berkeley Street. By this time I felt certain it must be the
Prince, so I crossed the road and {10} continued my walk by the side
of the wall enclosing the gardens of Lord Lansdowne and the Duke of
Devonshire. As I reached the passage which divides them, the Prince
again stopped and looked at me; he then crossed the slushy road with
the evident intention of speaking. I advanced towards him. The
Prince begged me to put on my hat and walked with me to the pavement
I had left; he stood there and spoke of the recent death of the Duke
of Clarence, of the grave illness of Prince Louis of Hesse, of the
disastrous fire at Sandringham; since when, he said, according to an
old superstition, he had known no luck, adding that he was starting
that evening with the Princess for the south of France and a stay at
Cap Martin, that meanwhile "he did not know what to do with himself,
as they were so steeped in sorrow." After some minutes I said that I
must not keep him standing longer in such weather. The Prince then
shook me cordially by the hand, and said, very simply, "I am so glad
to have had this talk with you." He hesitated again as I left him,
then turned back and passed out of my sight up Hay Hill.
[Sidenote: Visiting the sick]
On the evening of the same day it chanced that my wife and I had been
invited to a musical party given by Lady Londesborough. {11} We took
our places in a row of chairs; a few minutes later the one next to
mine was occupied by the then Lord Wharncliffe, whom, as Chairman of
the Beefsteak Club and in other ways, I knew. He turned to me and
said: "Bancroft, if there is such a thing as a ghost, I saw one this
afternoon, for as I was slithering down Hay Hill in a hansom, hanging
on to the doors through the dangerous condition of the road, a man
was walking on the pavement, so like the Prince of Wales, that I
instinctively raised my hand to take off my hat, when I remembered
that it could only be some amazing resemblance to the Prince, who
never walks in the streets alone." I was able to convince him that
it had been no ghost.
A few weeks afterwards I went to Monte Carlo. On my arrival I heard
that Arthur Sullivan was lying very ill at Eze. I went to his villa
on a broiling hot day, and was talking under the verandah with his
devoted nephew, Herbert Sullivan, then a young fellow, when the sound
of a carriage stopping at the gate was followed by the figure of a
visitor walking up the garden path alone. I saw at once it was the
Prince of Wales, who, directly he came close to us, greeted me with
the words: "Very different weather from when we last met." The
Prince, among other kind acts, {12} sent his own doctor to see the
sufferer, who was too ill to be allowed to receive anyone.
At that time I was much occupied by the readings of Charles Dickens's
_Christmas Carol_, which I gave on behalf of hospitals. A great
stimulus to their success was one of the many acts of kindness which
I have received from the then Prince of Wales. Soon after I started
them I had the good fortune to meet the Prince, by the invitation of
the late Lord Burnham, at Hall Barn, where he was staying for a shoot
extending over several days. The Prince spoke to me warmly about the
"Carol," and asked if I would like to give the reading at Sandringham
at the coming Christmas-time, when the house would be full of guests.
Needless to say, I could have wished for no greater help to any
project that I had a part in.
[Sidenote: At Sandringham]
On my arrival at Sandringham I was met by Sir Dighton Probyn. We
were soon joined by my host, who took a personal interest in the
preparations for my evening's work. In the drawing-room, before
dinner, I found among the "house-party" two old friends, Sir Charles
du Plat and Sir Charles Hall. On entering, the Princess of Wales
paused to look round the room; she then left the Prince's arm,
advanced towards me, and most graciously welcomed me. {13} At the
table, also, were the present King and Queen. The audience for my
reading was completed by invitations given to many friends and
neighbours, the household, the tenants, and the servants--the
ballroom being full. The reading was accompanied by laughter and
applause, a special tribute being paid to my impromptu description of
the memorable turkey as "real Norfolk." In the billiard-room, later
in the evening, I had suitable opportunity to show the Prince the
cigar-case which was given to me by Queen Victoria at Balmoral,
saying that it was the first occasion on which I had carried it. The
Prince at once replied, suiting the action to the word, "Perhaps you
would like me to be the first to take a cigar from it?"
When in 1897 the late Marquess of Salisbury submitted to Queen
Victoria that the honour of Knighthood should be conferred upon me,
none of the many congratulations that my wife and I received were
more charmingly or warmly expressed than those of the Prince of Wales.
It was, however, at Marienbad, where King Edward went annually to
take the waters, that he might be seen at his friendliest, free from
the cares of his high estate and able, as the "Duke of Lancaster," to
relax something of Royal {14} ceremony; but, however unbending, the
King had great unconscious dignity. Happy luncheons and pleasant
dinners have I enjoyed in his company there, charmed by a perfect
host, put entirely at ease by his geniality and constantly impressed
by his wide knowledge and deep interest in the affairs of the world.
Among fellow guests I may mention Pinero, Tree, and Hawtrey.
The one exception to "Marienbad dress" was when the King gave a
dinner on the fête-day of Francis Joseph, the old Emperor; then the
card bore the words, "Evening dress and decorations." I was honoured
with an invitation, and that year had no tail-coat with me. A
soldier friend said if his decorations, for which he had telegraphed,
did not arrive in time he would lend me his "tails." After luncheon,
however, I bolted up to the golf-course, hunted down Sir Edward
Goschen's attaché, a charming tall fellow, and, knowing he would have
to wear diplomatic uniform at the dinner, asked if he would lend me
his ordinary evening coat. On the night of the ceremony the guests
were assembled waiting for the King, who went the round of the
half-circle with a happy word in several languages to all. His
humorous salutation to me was, "A very becoming coat, Bancroft."
{15}
I recall an amusing incident told me by my neighbour at table, who
was High Sheriff of his county. At a ceremony which the King had
journeyed from London to perform, a provincial Mayor, after being
himself presented, nervously said: "May I present Your Majesty to the
Mayoress?" The King immediately replied: "Certainly; the Mayoress is
generally presented to me, so it will be a novelty."
[Sidenote: His love of precision]
I have referred to King Edward's well-known love of exactitude in
matters of etiquette and ceremony, and I remember a curious instance
of this quality. On one of the occasions when I was His Majesty's
guest, a discussion arose about the period of some incident that had
been mentioned in the course of conversation; one of the guests said
that it took place early in the reign of Queen Victoria.
"No," said our host, "you are mistaken; it happened towards the close
of the reign of the late King."
Not for a moment or two did those present realise that by "the late
King" His Majesty was referring to King William IV, who, sure enough,
was strictly "the late King," although full seventy years had passed
since the "sailor King" sat on the throne of England, and he had {16}
died before anyone then at the table was born. I had occasion to
notice also that King Edward was always punctilious to give his
predecessors their Royal title. Should anyone, for instance, allude
to "the statue of Charles I" at Charing Cross, the King would be sure
to reply with a reference to "the statue of King Charles I."
In 1909, the year of the King's last visit to Marienbad, my memory
for dates was appealed to at His Majesty's table with regard to the
year of Lord Fisher's birth. I answered that the great little
"Jacky" was born in the same year as the King and, as it happened,
myself. This led to other names, all friends of our host, being
similarly mentioned. I told the King that I held the Royal vintage
to be a good one. He was both amused and interested, and wished the
list of names to be made out for him, adding: "I must ask you all to
dinner."
[Sidenote: His end]
Alas, too soon afterwards came his death--a national sorrow! King
Edward impressed the world by his conduct on the throne, which he
filled greatly and with a great humanity from the hour he was called
to it. He was beloved by all sorts and conditions of men, who felt
that when he died they had lost a great friend, the State a great
servant, our country {17} a great King. "The King is dead: long live
the King."
Of the present Prince of Wales it may be truly said, in the words of
Shakespeare: "Thy noble grandfather doth live again in thee."
{18}
II
PLACE AUX DAMES
"For some we loved, the loveliest and the best"
It is a long cry back to 1878, when we had Jenny Lind for our guest
and we had the pleasure of hearing her sing; there cannot be many
people living who have listened to a trill from the throat of the
"Swedish Nightingale." My wife and I first met her at Pontresina,
where she was staying with her husband--"Little Otto," as we called
Mr. Goldschmidt. It is difficult to describe that gifted
creature--plain in feature, insignificant in figure--until she opened
her lips: then everything changed--she cast a spell round her and
became idealised.
[Sidenote: The black box]
I remember, too, the humour with which the great lady told and acted
an amusing incident that occurred on one of her travelling operatic
tours when she appeared at a different place every evening. This was
not altogether lost; my wife reproduced it afterwards. All the
members of the company were seated in the train except the tenor, a
funny-looking little {19} fat man who stammered painfully when
speaking, but sang without a trace of his affliction. Just on the
point of starting he appeared in a state of excitement at the door of
the great songstress's compartment, having discovered that a large
black box which contained her wardrobe had been left behind. He
hurriedly opened the door and stammered violently: "Mad-ame,
Mad-ame." "Yes, yes." The poor tenor got a step further: "The
b-b-b-b--" The bewildered lady cried, "What is it? What's the
matter?" Still the afflicted tenor, stammering more and more, could
only answer, "The b-b-b-----" "Yes, yes, yes, but what is the
b-b-b--, my dear fellow?" The stammer nearly choked the wretched
creature as he gasped, "The bl-bl-bl-bl----" "Sing it, sing it, for
mercy's sake, sing it!" cried the diva. The tenor lapsed
dramatically into recitative: "All, I fear, is lost!" "Go on, go on.
What's lost?" "I fe-ar--is lost!" "Go on, tell us, go on, what's
lost?" The wretched tenor struck an attitude as he sang, "The black
box!" "Yes, yes, what about it?" The only answer was, "The black
box!" "What of it, man?" cried the poor lady in despair. The tenor
reached his highest note as he shrieked, "The black box has been
for-got-t-en!" Jenny Lind fell back in her corner and {20} muttered:
"Great Heaven! I shall have no clothes!"
The whistle sounded, the tenor was hoisted into his compartment, and
the train started.
I recall another story of how when a great composer--I think it was
Meyerbeer--died, a pushing musician sent a great musician the score
of a funeral march, which he had written in honour of the illustrious
man who had passed away, with the hope that it might be played at his
burial, and asking for a candid opinion of its merits. He was
rebuffed by a judgment to the effect that things would have shaped
better had he himself died and Meyerbeer undertaken to compose a
funeral march.
It is bewildering to contrast the modest fees earned in Jenny Lind's
day, and by gifted creatures like Malibran, Grisi and Mario (the pair
sang in large houses for about thirty guineas) with the fabulous
figures reached by such artists as Melba, Caruso and Paderewski in
recent times.
There is a pretty medallion of Jenny Lind on the walls of Westminster
Abbey, and I am glad that a statue has now been erected to her memory
in the capital of her native land.
Another glorious songstress, Adelina Patti, was our friend for many
years. She invited {21} us to stay at her Welsh castle, but we could
not go. She amassed wealth and also charmed the world longer than
any of her rivals. It has been truly said that the harp-strings
slumber until touched by a magic hand: the echo of her wonderful
voice still beats in human hearts, although its music has ended in
the silence that waits for us all.
[Sidenote: "Sarah"]
In this little chapter--devoted to honoured women who have been our
guests--mention must be made of one so famed as Sarah Bernhardt, the
first actress to receive the Legion d'Honneur. My wife and I met
her, and sat by her side, at the Mansion House, the occasion being a
luncheon given by the then Lord Mayor in 1879 to the members of the
Comédie Française, which comprised a group of players no theatre then
could equal or has ever equalled since. I recall an amusing incident
which occurred at the banquet concerning two busts--one of Nelson,
the other of Wellington--which prominently adorned the room we were
in, called the Long Parlour. We were obliged to assure "the divine
Sarah" and her angry comrades that the Lord Mayor meant no slight to
them or to their country in not having the offending busts removed,
and also had to defend his lordship for not wearing his robes and
chain of office, and for being {22} unaccompanied by sword and mace
bearers. Incredible, but true.
The finest piece of acting I ever saw from "Sarah" was at the
_répétition générale_ in Paris of Sardou's play _Fédora_. She rose
to great heights, and held a brilliantly composed audience under a
spell and in her grasp. Among those present, I remember well, were
Alexandre Dumas, Alphonse Daudet, and Georges Ohnet; Got and
Coquelin; Blanche Pierson and Maria Legault.
Edward Pigott, who was then the official Reader of Plays, wrote to me:
"The English version of _Fédora_ is an admirable piece of literary
workmanship. It reads almost like an English original. The part is
all Sarah. It is written exactly to her measure--that electric play
of feature and gesture, that nervous intensity, that range of power
and variety of accent, and sudden changefulness of mood, which belong
to the feline instinct or temperament."
Later on, when I saw that great actress--so soon to be a legend, a
tradition--Eleanora Duse, play in _Fédora_ I learnt that Sardou and
Sarah had left some things unthought of.
Here is a little letter from the brilliant Frenchwoman:
{23}
"BIEN CHÈRE, MADAME,
"Je vous remercie mille fois pour vos si belles roses et l'aimable
lettre de Monsieur Bancroft. Je suis très heureuse que vous ayez
pris plaiser à m'entendre, et très touchée que deux artistes de votre
valeur m'accordent du talent.
"Veuillez me croire reconnaissante, et agréez, Madame, je vous prie,
mes meilleurs sentiments.
"SARAH BERNHARDT."
Years afterwards, on the fiftieth anniversary of the great actress's
first appearance on the stage, my wife was chosen to present a
testimonial which had been prepared in her honour, in the presence of
a remarkable gathering in which Monsieur Paul Cambon, the honoured
French Ambassador to our Court for so many years, took a prominent
part.
These were some of her words:
"Dear Madame Bernhardt, or, as you have so closely fastened yourself
to our hearts 'with hoops of steel,' I hope you will allow me to say,
dear Sarah. My words will be brief, but they come from my heart--the
heart of a comrade and friend. Since my retirement no greater
pleasure has befallen me than I feel at this moment, and when I was
invited to perform {24} this delightful ceremony I was proud to be
remembered and to be thought worthy to have the honour of presenting
this tribute to your genius; an endorsement, as it were, of the force
and value of the _Entente Cordiale_ which so happily unites our two
great countries. Your fame belongs to all the world--the homage of
every land is yours. Your name will live with those of Siddons,
Rachel and Ristori. You have shed lustre and glory on the beautiful
art you have so long and nobly served and in which you reign supreme."
The great woman took the opportunity to repeat her opinion given to a
mutual friend, Hamilton Aidé, years before, of my wife's acting as
Peg Woffington.
[Sidenote: Aimée Desclée]
But great as she was, unequalled in technique, wonderful in the range
of her art, perfect in her command of every tone in her beautiful
language, Sarah Bernhardt was never to my mind quite free from the
blemish--it may be thought heresy to say so--of being something of a
show-woman. The drum was too big in her orchestra, while I always
considered her to be surpassed in the reality of emotion and passion
by one other woman I have seen upon the stage--Aimée Desclée. No
other serious actress, to my mind, took more absolute {25} possession
of her audience. I doubt if even Rachel could have eclipsed her.
Her acting in _Froufrou_, her original part, was supreme. The
quarrel with her sister I can best describe as a whirlwind of
dramatic art in its highest form, as was the pathos with which--when
she had wrecked her life and gone away with her lover--she moaned:
"_Une heure de colère, et voilà ou j'en suis._" Only those who are
now quite old can have seen Desclée. Her fame was achieved in a few
brief years, as she died in the flower of youth, being little more
than thirty, if my memory serves me, in 1873. When Sarah then was
asked her opinion of Desclée's acting she answered, "Truth!" She
made no claim to beauty, but possessed more "magnetism"--I know no
better word--unclouded by exaggeration than any of her rivals. Had
Desclée been spared to act for twenty years her name would have lived
among the immortals.
Alexandre Dumas thus wrote of her:
"Nothing remains of what was once so dear. Let us regret this great
artist, but pity not her death. She has won the rest for which she
prayed. Her best reward is death. Of the details of her actual life
I have told you nothing. Where was she born? How was she brought
up? Where did she first appear? {26} What became of her? What
matters it at all? A woman like her has no biography. She touched
our souls: and she is dead. There is her history."
[Sidenote: Réjane]
Another Frenchwoman whose name and fame give her an honoured place
among the great ones, was Réjane. Our acquaintance began with a
visit she paid us behind the scenes at the Haymarket when she was
quite young. My wife at the time was acting the part first played by
Réjane in a play by Sardou, called _Odette_.
She was never a guest at our table at home, but only when we met in
France. Her art was the embodiment of abiding charm in _Ma Cousine_,
in _La Vierge Folle_, in _Madame Sans-Gêne_, and many another play.
Paris loved her and she loved Paris. How they must miss each other!
She was proud of her Montmartre origin, where she passed a poor and
hard-working youth, painting fans and teaching. She told the company
assembled to celebrate her nomination to the _Légion d'Honneur_, that
it was at Montmartre she learnt her art and at Montmartre, in contact
with lovers of the theatre, that she perfected it.
I remember the days in London when her {27} carriage was drawn by a
pair of Spanish mules and people would struggle for a glimpse of her
fascinating, though not beautiful, face. The last time I saw Réjane
was at the Queen's Hall, during the War, when she recited Émile
Cammaerts's poem, _Carillon_, to the music written for it by the
composer, Edward Elgar, who conducted it himself. All concerned
seemed to be inspired and gave you out of themselves some minutes of
ecstasy; just as Karsavina and Nijinsky did in _The Spectre of The
Rose_ at Covent Garden, before the War. These are things which are
yours while memory lasts.
[Sidenote: Modjeska]
A dear friend and guest was the brilliant Helena Modjeska. Like the
distinguished actor, Fechter, she never quite mastered the
difficulties of the English tongue, but again, as in the Frenchman,
her foreign accent became a fascination. She ran the great Sarah
very close in _La Dame aux Camélias_. Her performance was the more
spiritual: she seemed to have sacrificed purity only through passion
and was ever fighting for Divine forgiveness. You almost had doubts
if she could have so sinned, but none as to her salvation. My wife
could give a most dramatic imitation of their different treatments of
the tragic end, when with difficulty the feeble, outstretched {28}
hands reached a table-mirror and they looked upon their dying faces.
It was hard to decide if the heart-rending, pitiful wail with which
the one murmured, "How changed I am!" was surpassed by the terrifying
awe which slowly spread over the emaciated face of the other. Both
were supreme moments in their beautiful art.
I recall an incident at a dinner given by Madame Modjeska and her
husband, when the subject of an unhappy break-up of what seemed a
happy marriage through an unfortunate lapse on the husband's part
became the topic. The lady by my side said passionately: "That is an
indiscretion, an outrage, a sin, call it what you will, I could never
forgive--whoever the woman might be." She paused for a moment and
added: "With one exception--Ellen Terry. Any man _ought_ to be
forgiven."
Let me say a word about an Irish girl born at Limerick but taken to
America in her childhood; the delightful, alluring Ada Rehan. She
and Irving were our guests, both for the last time, together, I
remember, and when they sat side by side. No words of mine could
compete with those I copy, written by one who had followed Ada
Rehan's art in every phase:
{29}
"The secret of her allurement was elusive. Among its elements were
absolute sincerity, the manifest capability of imparting great
happiness, triumphant personal beauty, touched and softened by a
wistful and sympathetic sadness, and that controlling and compelling
instinct, essentially feminine, which endows with vital import every
experience of love, and creates a perfect illusion in scenes of
fancied bliss or woe."
[Sidenote: Gifted women]
It has been a pleasant task to pay my tribute to brilliant artists of
foreign birth; I do not wish to write of gifted women now before the
public, but let me render homage to comrades of the stage in days
gone by who were born in these isles, and who reigned in their
kingdom with a splendour equal to the great of any land. That
mistress of her beautiful art, Madge Kendal; the incomparable Ellen
Terry; the glorious and unique Mrs. John Wood; and Marie
Bancroft--the salt of the art they adorned, who, in their bright
springtime and their affluent summer, filled the scene: all as
distinct from one another as Raphael from Rubens, as Watts from
Whistler, yet each stamping the mark of her personality on every part
she played, and of whom it might be said the deaf could hear them in
their eloquent faces: the blind could see them {30} in their vibrant
voices. Deep is the debt which never can be paid for the cares they
lightened, for the sorrows they soothed; they dragged creatures from
the books wherein they were born, making them live, their hearts
beating, their pulses throbbing, and enshrined their joyousness in
many grateful memories.
The mantle of the great must be of their own weaving; on other
shoulders it is bound to be a misfit.
It is pleasant to have one's views confirmed; the more so in the
judgment of a distinguished American man of letters whose knowledge
of people connected with the stage was remarkable.
"Our age indeed has no Colley Cibber to describe their loveliness and
celebrate their achievements; but surely if he were living at this
hour, that courtly, characteristic, and sensuous writer--who saw so
clearly and could portray so well the peculiarities of the feminine
nature--would not deem the period of Marie Bancroft and Ellen Terry,
of Clara Morris and Ada Rehan, of Sarah Bernhardt and Jane Hading,
unworthy of his pen. As often as fancy ranges over those bright
names and others that are kindred with them--a glistering sisterhood
of charms and talents--the regret must arise that no literary artist
with just the {31} gallant spirit, the chivalry, the fine insight and
the pictorial touch of old Cibber is extant to perpetuate their
glory."
[Sidenote: Ouida]
I turn to another calling, and can say something of two distinguished
women whose fame was earned as writers of fiction--Ouida (Louise de
la Ramée) and Miss Braddon (Mrs. Maxwell). They were much of an age,
but their careers had no other resemblance; except in their enormous
vogue and hold upon the public of their day.
The name "Ouida" was a nursery corruption of Louisa. She had an
English mother and a French father, but lived chiefly in Italy.
My wife and I first met her at the Langham Hotel, where she stayed
when in London--as odd to look upon as she was pleasant to talk with.
She had strange large eyes of a sort of dark blue and, in her white
satin gown and sandalled shoes, was strangely reminiscent of
mid-Victorian days. She always wore white frocks in the summer time
and, as I was told, black velvet in the winter months.
We hoped Ouida might, as she earnestly wished, write a play for us,
but she got no further than a title. Of her novels, if I remember
rightly, quite a fairly good play was {32} concocted from _Moths_.
She had a great appreciation of my wife, both on and off the stage,
and we valued her friendship. There are few readers nowadays, I
suppose, of _Under Two Flags_, _Puck_, or _Two Little Wooden Shoes_,
which engrossed the public of her time. She was proud of the fact
that Bulwer Lytton read every book she wrote.
As an instance of her "style," here is a description of a young
Italian peasant girl:
"The marigolds and the sunflowers had given her their ripe rich gold
to tint her hair; the lupins had lent their azure for her eyes; the
moss-rose buds had made her pretty mouth; the arum lilies had
uncurled their softness for her skin; and the lime blossoms had given
her their frank, fresh, innocent fragrance."
Ouida would have had no vogue in these times. She violently opposed
female suffrage and expressed her view that "millions of ordinary
women have as little of the sage in them as of the angel."
As for the new woman, she wrote of her as "violating every law alike
of common sense and of artistic fitness, and yet comes forward as a
fit and proper person to make laws for others." She was strong in
her views that {33} the private lives of all artists are not fit
objects of curiosity, and was firm in declining, in unedited
language, to be interviewed. Ouida was undoubtedly an eccentric,
with a golden heart, and a passion for dogs. She died in her beloved
Italy, alas! in abject poverty, mainly due, I fear, to her
unpractical nature and her uncurbed generosities. No one is left to
tell us what became of all the lovely things by which she was
surrounded in her prosperous days at the Florentine Villa Farinola.
I think she rests in peace.
Not long before the end my wife received this letter from her:
"DEAR THALIA,
"I have been and am still very ill. For two days I was near death.
I should grieve to leave my dear dogs. Their lives are too short in
comparison with their devotion. I got your long letter after some
delay and fear many letters are lost between Italy and England. I
have seen a bag filled with the contents of pillar-boxes reposing in
sweet solitude on the pavement of a deserted street in Florence!
"I am so glad that you and your dear husband are well and happy....
I wish I could come and see you all and the dear old country where
its sons and daughters {34} are never content except when they are
out of it.
"Love to you and Sir Squire. Believe me, always your and his admirer
and friend.
"OUIDA."
[Sidenote: Miss Braddon]
I was a young actor in the country, full sixty years ago, when a new
novel appeared which made the writer of it--a girl in her
twenties--famous throughout the land. The book was _Lady Audley's
Secret_. The girl was Miss Braddon. The fame of the new novel
spread like wildfire and the rush for its three volumes--most novels
were so published in those days--was extraordinary.
From one of the old Strand Theatre burlesques I recall words like
these: "Always a lady's secret I respect, save _Lady Audley's Secret_
which that deep Mudie lets out and won't let people keep."
Dickens and Thackeray were still alive and at work, as were George
Eliot, Bulwer Lytton and Wilkie Collins.
Miss Braddon's own share reached more than seventy novels in more
than fifty years of work. We knew her for many of those years, and
loved her company, here in London, as in Switzerland and Italy.
In a long railway journey we took together {35} from Lugano to
Boulogne some anxiety arose as we neared the sea about what the
"crossing" would be like. I remember Mrs. Maxwell's amusement at my
wife's saying: "I don't feel comfortable about it; the small boats
and fishing-smacks in harbour are too polite to each other, with
their little bows and curtseys. I fear we shall find things more
quarrelsome when we have crossed the bar."
The famous novelist was an open-air woman, at home in a saddle, loved
to follow the hounds, and was devoted to her dogs, her cats and her
birds. She adored Dickens, had great admiration for Balzac, and
placed George Eliot on a lofty pedestal. The way she did her work
was the oddest thing in the world. She huddled herself up in a
little low chair, made a desk of her knees, and wrote for hours in
that position.
Happily, she bountifully bequeathed her power over the pen to her son
"Willie," who has the affection of his troops of friends.
I will close this chapter with a reference, full of kind thoughts and
remembrances, to one of the most remarkable, as she was one of the
most delightful, women my wife and I ever had the privilege to
know--Lady Dorothy Nevill. She was a great little lady--happy,
blithesome, clever, and so gay.
{36}
At her Sunday luncheon parties in Charles Street, one met everybody
worth knowing and heard pretty well everything worth listening to.
There assembled folk of all opinions and of every class and
calling--honey gathered from many a hive.
[Sidenote: A great little lady]
Few people could have had--and kept--three such different friends as
Cobden, Disraeli and Chamberlain; but the little lady knew how to
deal with contradictions. Her sense of humour was as keen as a razor.
Happily for us, Lady Dorothy loved a play and rejoiced in visits to
our theatre. She had a great affection for my wife. Often and
often, generally in the early winter evenings, she would dismiss her
carriage at our door, walk upstairs to the second floor, and sit for
hours with her. When she left she declined all help or offer to be
seen safely home, preferring to walk there in the dark, facing two
crossings on her way, and this when she was more than eighty years of
age.
Her reminiscences, edited by her son, Ralph Nevill, are delightful
reading, while the characteristic portrait painted of her in early
life by Watts--so happily reproduced--will tell you what she looked
like. It helps you to feel that she uttered no ill of anyone.
{37}
Lady Dorothy once said to me: "One of the greatest treats I can now
be given is to be taken by a strong young man to Piccadilly, there to
be hoisted on to the top of a 'bus, and driven through the City to
Whitechapel, with time to look in at the London Hospital on my way
back."
I repeat--a great little lady.
{38}
III
THE CHURCH
"There is, I know not how, in the minds of men, a certain presage, as
it were, of a future existence; and this takes the deepest root, and
is most discoverable in the greatest geniuses and most exalted
souls."--CICERO.
We have not been honoured with the friendship of distinguished
members of the Church so intimately as to leave many empty chairs
once filled by them, but I can write something in affectionate
remembrance of a few.
[Sidenote: J. M. Bellew]
The first prominent clergyman whom we knew was that strange creature
Bellew, first as the Reverend J. M. Bellew, when he preached at a
church in Bloomsbury and drew large congregations, having previously
enjoyed great popularity at St. Mark's, Hamilton Terrace. He was
gifted with an exceptionally fine voice and a striking appearance. I
never heard the death chapter from the Corinthians better read than
by him--it was dramatic without being theatrical. There was,
however, a pitfall into which he used to stumble when he attacked the
Commandments--in the Fifth {39} he thundered out the first three
words "Honour thy father," then dropped his voice to its softest
tones, quietly murmuring, "and thy mother."
Later on, he became both friend and neighbour.
I will repeat a story he told of another neighbour, a canon of the
Church, who wore the most palpable of wigs, which took every shade of
colour in the sunlight, but was blindly convinced in his own mind
that no one shared his secret. Bellew met this friend one morning as
he was leaving his house, and suggested their proceeding together.
"Delighted," said the owner of the many-coloured "jasey"; "I am going
to Bond Street _to get my hair cut_." The pretender went so far as
to have various wigs of different lengths to aid the evident
deception.
In middle life Bellew appeared as a public reader and reciter here
and in America, having left the Church of England, and become a
devout Roman Catholic, in which faith he died.
Henry White, the Chaplain of the Chapel Royal, Savoy, as it then was,
was many a time a welcome Sunday guest, almost invariably punctual,
though always begging to be forgiven should he not be. His letters,
carefully {40} sealed with the Savoy arms, were full of quotations,
such as, "I cannot tell you how much I value the friendship you have
allowed me to enjoy so long: 'my love's more richer than my tongue,'"
while his interesting sermons were often described as "elegant
extracts." His reading of the Litany was peculiarly impressive. The
Baroness Burdett-Coutts was a frequent member of his restricted
congregation. I left an evening party in his company long years ago,
when we walked together towards our different homes. On the way I
put a straight question to him on a sacred subject. His answer was
frank enough: "If it is in my power to be of use to you, or indeed to
any man, it can only be from my pulpit." He tried his utmost to
persuade me to read the Lessons in the Chapel Royal. I firmly
declined, adding that if I consented I should ask to be allowed to
select them. "Even that," he said, "might be arranged."
An old, and to us, dearly-loved friend who also enjoyed his Sunday
visits, was the Sub-Dean of the Chapels Royal, Canon Edgar Sheppard.
Our hospitality was returned by him and Mrs. Sheppard at their quaint
old home adjoining Marlborough House Chapel: and I also knew the
Canon in his other home, {41} so picturesque, in the precincts of
Windsor Castle. One of his last public services was held for me when
my sorrow came. His friendship had so long been valued by my wife;
the kindness shown to me then, as well as by his son, the present
vicar of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, dwells sacredly in my memory, and
will be referred to in the final chapter of this book.
[Sidenote: Archdeacon Wilberforce]
Archdeacon Wilberforce--who belonged to the 1841 "Vintage"--was also
our friend. He drew large congregations to the church of St. John
the Evangelist, Westminster--that odd-looking building which looks
rather like an elephant sprawling on his back with his short legs in
the air. I recall an afternoon when we were the guests of Mrs.
Wilberforce and himself in Dean's Yard; he took us aside and said
they were asking some of their friends to linger when the party broke
up, as they had a treat to follow. We gladly did so, and were well
repaid, being conducted to the Abbey by the Archdeacon, and seated in
the choir. Presently Sir Frederick Bridge--("Westminster Bridge
")--another old friend who has left an empty chair--broke the
silence--the tones of the organ swelled out--when, from by his side
in the loft and out of sight, the wonderful voice of Clara Butt {42}
sang "Abide with Me." There are moments in life, and that was one,
the remembrance of which can never fade; this we felt, as afterwards
we went from the Abbey in the falling light.