practice and become an eye specialist, and Sir William Fergusson, the
eminent Victorian surgeon, were present together. Critchett told Sir
William that Collins had confided to him what was the dose of
laudanum he then took every night, and had his permission to ask Sir
William if it was not more than enough to prevent any ordinary person
from awaking. Fergusson replied that the dose of opium named would
suffice to kill the twelve men who sat round the table.
[Sidenote: T. W. Robertson]
It is impossible for me not to recall, however briefly, from the
shadowy past the name of T. W. Robertson, whose empty chair was left
vacant more than fifty years ago. He was the first of my friends to
speak and write to me as {105} "B." There are few to whom the
once-famous name of Tom Robertson now has full meaning, although his
comedies made so deep a mark in their day and so largely influenced
the future of the stage. Time has not lessened my remembrance of the
charm with which he read his comedies; a melody sung sweetly in the
long-ago. My wife was always very proud that he dedicated to her the
best of them, his masterpiece, _Caste_.
I look back with sorrow at the small reward he received from them,
and the brief time he enjoyed their fame. The fees paid to dramatic
authors were miserably poor in those days, although we advanced them
materially, added to which, there was no copyright for foreign
authors in America. Expert shorthand writers were cunningly
scattered in different parts of our theatre on successive nights,
until the text of Robertson's principal comedies was completely taken
down, and they were played throughout the United States without a
dollar being sent to the author. No wonder that Robertson was
sarcastic and bitter.
The unusual compliment of closing our theatre when he died was, I
fear, but a small set-off against the pain he must have endured
before he once said to me: "My dear B, I have often dined on my pipe."
{106}
[Sidenote: Edmund Yates]
Edmund Yates was an old friend. He knew my wife in her girlhood, and
I first met him at Epsom on the historic day, in 1867, that Hermit
won the Derby in a snowstorm. My mention of that incident reminds me
that, years afterwards, at a public sale, among effects which had
belonged to Mr. Baird--known on the turf as "Mr. Abingdon"--I came
across a letter-case made from the coat of Hermit, and so inscribed
on a silver shield. I bought it, that I might have the pleasure of
giving it, on the thirtieth anniversary of the race, to Mr. Henry
Chaplin, as he then was, the great horse's owner. Yates at that time
held a position in the General Post Office and told me, soon
afterwards, that he made an early marriage upon a small income and
was handicapped for many a long year by a domestic calamity--the
birth of three sons in eleven months.
Yates was an admirable after-dinner speaker and story-teller, a power
which doubtless owed something to inheritance, both his parents
having held prominent positions on the stage. At one dinner party,
Edmund Yates, Dion Boucicault and George Augustus Sala, all being
present, were asked in turn if they regretted and repented of any
"backslidings" they had to answer for. Boucicault at once {107} said
he was sorry for his sins; Sala admitted that he hoped some day to be
sorry; Yates, after a pause, smote the table and muttered "No." He
was a fierce fighter.
A mutual friend was rather severely caricatured in _Vanity Fair_. I
asked Yates what he thought the original would say about it. "Say,
my dear B.? He'll _say_ he thinks it delightful, but will go
upstairs to his bedroom, lock the door, and rub his head in the
hearthrug." When his trouble came, as it did soon afterwards, I
wonder what his own conduct was.
His tragic end was connected with the revival of a comedy in which my
wife appeared for her old friend John Hare, at the Garrick Theatre.
Yates was seated in the centre of the stalls, and throughout my
wife's performance had laughed and applauded heartily. At its close,
when she was loudly called for by the audience, he gave her his last
smile, turned to his neighbour and said: "The old brigade, the old
brigade--it will take a deal to beat it!" He stooped for his hat,
fell forward in a fit, and never recovered consciousness. "How oft
when men are at the point of death have they been merry!"
[Sidenote: W. S. Gilbert]
I made the acquaintance of W. S. Gilbert during the year I spent in
Liverpool; he had just been "called" and was a briefless barrister
{108} on the Northern Circuit. Having failed to become attached to
the staff of Punch, he was already a contributor to a comic journal
called _Fun_, in which his _Bab Ballads_ first appeared. Soon
afterwards he began to write for the theatre. _The Palace of Truth_
and _Pygmalion and Galatea_ both had great success at the old
Haymarket; the latter was perhaps a starting point in the brilliant
career of Madge Robertson (Mrs. Kendal).
He will, of course, be best remembered through the enduring success
of the comic operas he wrote in conjunction with Arthur Sullivan, the
most memorable of artistic partnerships.
What humorous things he was constantly uttering! I will endeavour to
repeat one or two which may not have been heard. When the beautiful
Scala Theatre was built on the site of our old Prince of Wales's, my
wife was appropriately invited to perform the opening ceremony. At
the end of the pretty speech she made, Gilbert joined her on the
stage, and said he had been to the back of the dress circle, where he
heard every word of it; adding that the voice was as beautiful as
ever and that, if she continued to take pains and work hard, she
might be sure of having a great career _behind_ her.
Talking with a Mr. Such Granville, who was {109} on the stage and
said to Gilbert: "My name is Such, but I act as Granville," he at
once replied: "I wish your name were Granville and you'd act as such."
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 is {110}
it?" _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 the _Daily Telegraph_ as 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 for _Punch_ good jokes and things {111} from 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.
[Sidenote: Editors of "Punch"]
The allusion to _Punch_ reminds 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 saw _Diplomacy_, 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 called _Diplunacy_.
Years ago my son was at Ramsgate, reading for an examination in the
law. He met {112} Burnand, 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 were _Lady Windermere's Fan_ and
_The Importance of Being Earnest_.
He was talking with us about one of his comedies, just produced, when
my wife {113} remarked 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.
[Sidenote: 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 especially _A Royal Family_, _His Excellency the
Governor_, _The Second in Command_, and _The 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 of {114} approaching 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.
[Sidenote: 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 sending {115} telegrams?" 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 in _The 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."
{116}
VII
MORE MEN OF MARK
"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.
[Sidenote: 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. {117} 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, {118} 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. _Horace_ Farquhar!"
When we first knew Macduff we were neighbours, {119} 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.
[Sidenote: 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 of _Caste_, 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."
{120}
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 both {121} Houses 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.
[Sidenote: 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 Corry
{122} chiefly passed his time in making rhymes on the names which
appeared in _The Times_ of 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."
[Sidenote: "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. {123} 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, and {124} wrote 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."