In France at the outbreak of war--The _tocsin_--The "Voice of the
Bell" at Harrow--Canon Simpson's theory about bells--His "five-tone"
principle--Myself as a London policeman--Experiences with a celebrated
church choir--The "Grillroom Club"--Famous members--Arthur Cecil--Some
neat answers Sir Leslie Ward--Beerbohm Tree and the vain old
member--Amateur supers--Juvenile disillusionment--The Knight--The
Baron--Age of romance passed.
In July, 1914, I was in Normandy, undergoing medical treatment for a
bad leg. Black as the horizon looked towards the end of that month, I
personally believed that the storm would blow over, and that the
clouds would disperse, as had happened so often previously when the
relations between Germany and France had been strained almost to the
breaking-point by the megalomaniac of Potsdam.
On the fateful Saturday, August 1, 1914, I was at a little old Norman
chateau standing on the banks of the placid river Mayenne. It was a
glorious afternoon, and I was in a boat on the river fishing with the
two daughters of the house. We suddenly saw the local station-master
running along the bank in a state of great agitation, brandishing a
telegram in his hands. He asked us where he could find "M. le Maire,"
for my host, amongst other things, was mayor of the little
neighbouring town, and added with a despairing gesture, "Helas! C'est
la guerre!" showing us the official telegram from Paris. We at once
landed and accompanied the station-master up to the house, where our
host was dumbfounded at the news, for, like me, he had continued to
hope against hope. Five minutes later he was knotting the official
tricolour scarf round his waist, for it fell to his duty as Maire to
read the Decree of Mobilisation in the town, and I accompanied him
there. I shall never forget that sight. Sobbing and weeping women
everywhere; the older men, who remembered 1870 and knew what this
mobilisation meant, endeavouring to master their emotion and to keep
up an appearance of calm; the younger men, who were to be thrust into
the furnace, standing dazed and anxious-eyed at the prospect of the
unknown to-morrow which they were to face. My host, after reading the
Decree, added a few words of his own, such words as appeal to the
French temperament; brief, full of hope and courage, and breathing
that intensely passionate love of France which lies at the bottom of
every French soul. The Maire then ordered the _tocsin_ to be sounded in
half an hour's time, when it would also ring out from every church
steeple in France.
The rolling Normandy landscape lay bathed in golden sunshine, the
wheatfields ripe for the sickle, and the apple orchards rich in their
promise of fruit. There was not one breath of wind to ruffle the sleek
surface of the Mayenne, and the wealth of timber of leafy Normandy
stood out faintly blue over the tawny stretches of the wheatfields.
The whole scene, flooded with mellow sunshine, seemed to breathe
absolute peace.
Suddenly, from a distant church steeple, came two sharp strokes from a
bell, then a pause, and then two strokes were repeated. The town we
had just left rang out two louder notes, also followed by a pause. It
was the _tocsin_ ringing out its terrible message; and yet another
steeple sounded its two notes, and another and another. The news rung
out by those two sharp strokes is always bad news. The _tocsin_ rings
for great fires, for revolution, or, as in this case, for a Declaration
of War. Before us lay Normandy, looking inexpressibly peaceful in the
evening sunlight, and over that quiet countryside the _tocsin_ was
sending its tidings of woe, as it was from every church tower in
France. Next morning the only son, the gardener, the coachman, and the
man-servant left the old Norman chateau to join their regiments; the
son and the gardener never to return to it. To the end of my life I
shall remember the weeping women, and the haggard-eyed men in that
little town, and the two sharp strokes of the _tocsin_, sounding like
the knell of hope.
Nothing can carry a more poignant message than a bell. In my time at
Harrow, should a member of the school actually die at Harrow during
the term, the school bell was tolled at minute intervals, from 10 to
10.30 p.m., with the great bass bell of the parish church answering
it, also at minute intervals. The school bell, which rang daily at
least ten times for school, for chapel, for Bill, or for lock-up, had
an exceedingly piercing voice. We were used to hearing it rung
quickly, so when it sent out its one shrill note into the unaccustomed
night, a note answered in half a minute by the great boom of the
bourdon from the Norman church steeple, the effect was most
impressive. In my house it was the custom to keep absolute silence
during the tolling of the passing-bell. The British schoolboy is
really a highly emotional creature, though he would sooner die than
betray the fact. When the tolling began, boys would troop in their
night-clothes into one another's rooms for companionship, and remain
there in silence, ill at ease, until the tolling, to every one's
relief, ceased. There was another ordeal to be faced, too, at the
final concert. Amongst our school songs was one called "The Voice of
the Bell," describing the various occasions on which the school bell
rang. It had a bright, cheery tune, and was very popular, but there
was a special verse, only sung when a boy had actually died at Harrow
during the term. The melody of the special verse was the same as that
of the other verses, but the harmonies were quite different. It was
sung very slowly as a solo to organ accompaniment, and it touched
every one. The words were:
"Hard to the stroke, another and another,
Ding, ding, ding.
Tolling at night for the passing of a brother,
Ding, ding, ding,
One more life from our life is taken,
Work all done, and fellowship forsaken,
Playmate sleep--and far away awaken,
Ding, ding, ding;"
the "ding, ding, ding" being taken up by the chorus.
All the boys dreaded the singing of this verse, at least I know that I
did, for no one felt quite sure of himself, and the little fellows
cried quite openly. Three times it was sung during my Harrow days, and
always by the same boy, chosen on account of his very sweet voice. He
was a friend of mine, and he used to tell me how thankful he was to
get through his solo without breaking down, or, as he preferred to put
it, "without making an utter ass of myself." I think that this special
verse is no longer sung, as being too painful for all concerned.
Whilst on the subject of bells, I may say that the late Canon Simpson
of Fittleworth was a great friend of mine. Canon Simpson was an
enthusiast about bells, not only about "change-ringing," on which
subject he was a recognised authority, but also about the designing
and casting of bells. He would talk to me for hours about them, though
I know about as much of bells as Nebuchadnezzar knew about
jazz-dancing. The Canon maintained that very few bells, either in
England or on the continent, were in tune with themselves, and
therefore could obviously not be in tune with the rest of the peal.
Every bell gives out five tones. The note struck, or the "tonic"
(which he called the "fundamental"), the octave above it, termed the
"nominal," and the octave below it, which he called the "hum note." In
a perfect bell these three octaves must be in perfect unison, but they
very seldom are. The "nominal," or upper octave, is nearly always
sharper than the "fundamental," and the "hum note" is again sharper
than that, thus producing an unpleasant effect. Any one listening for
it can detect the upper octave, or "nominal," even in a little
handbell. Let them listen intently, and they will catch the sharp
"ting" of the octave above. The "hum note" in a small bell is almost
impossible to hear, but let any one listen to a big bass bell, and
they cannot miss it. It is the "hum note" which sustains the sound,
and makes the air quiver and vibrate with pulsations. For many years I
have lived under the very shadow of Big Ben, and I can hear its "hum
note" persisting for at least ten seconds after the bell has sounded.
Big Ben is a notable instance of a bell out of tune with itself. In
addition to the three octaves, every bell gives out a "third" and a
"fifth" above the tonic, thus making a perfect chord, and for the bell
to be perfect, all these five tones must be in absolute tune with each
other. Space prevents my giving details as to how this result can be
attained. Under the Canon's tuition I learnt to distinguish the
"third," which is at times quite strident, but the "fifth" nearly
always eludes me. During Canon Simpson's lifetime he could only get
one firm of bell-founders to take his "five-tone" principle seriously.
I may add that English bell-founders tune their bells to the
"nominal," whilst Belgian and other continental founders tune them to
the "fundamental," both, according to Canon Simpson, essentially wrong
in principle.
Three days ago I read a leading article in a great morning daily,
headed "The Renascence of bell-founding in England," and I learnt from
it that one English bell-foundry was casting a great peal of bells for
the War Memorial at Washington, and that another firm was carrying out
an order for a peal from, wonder of wonders, Belgium itself, the very
home of bells, and that both these peals were designed on the "Simpson
five-tone principle." I wish that my old friend could have lived to
see his theories so triumphantly vindicated, or could have known that
the many years which he devoted to his special subject were not in
vain.
Had any one told me, say in 1912, that in two years' time I should be
patrolling the streets of London at night in a policeman's uniform as
a Special Constable, I should have been greatly surprised, and should
have been more astonished had I known of the extraordinary places I
should have to enter in the course of my duties, and the curious
people with whom I was to be brought into contact. I had occasion one
night, whilst on my beat, to enter the house of a professional man in
Harley Street, whose house, in defiance of the "Lighting Orders," was
blazing like the Eddystone Lighthouse. I gave the doctor a severe
lecture, and pointed out that he was rendering himself liable to a
heavy fine. He took my jobation in very good part, for I trust that as
a policeman I blended severity with sympathy, and promised to amend
his ways, and then added hospitably, "As perhaps you have been out
some time, constable, you might be glad of some sandwiches and a glass
of beer. If you will go down to the kitchen, I will tell the cook to
get you some." So down I went to the kitchen, and presently found
myself being entertained by an enormously fat cook. John Leech's
_Pictures from Punch_ have been familiar to me since my earliest
days. Some of his most stereotyped jokes revolved round the
unauthorised presence of policemen in kitchens, but in my very wildest
dreams it had never occurred to me that I, myself, when well past my
sixtieth year, would find myself in a policeman's uniform seated in a
London kitchen, being regaled on beer and sandwiches by a corpulent
cook, and making polite conversation to her. I hasten to disclaim the
idea that any favourable impression I may have created on the cook was
in any way due to my natural charm of manner; it was wholly to be
ascribed to the irresistible attraction the policeman's uniform which
I was wearing traditionally exercises over ladies of her profession.
Between ourselves, my brother Claud was so pleased with his Special
Constable's uniform that when a presentation portrait of himself was
offered to him he selected his policeman's uniform to be painted in,
in preference to that of a full colonel, to which he was entitled, and
his portrait can now be seen, as a white-haired and white-moustached,
but remarkably erect and alert Special Constable, seventy-five years
old.
I had during the war another novel but most interesting experience. A
certain well-known West End church has been celebrated for over fifty
years for the beauty and exquisite finish of its musical Services. As
1915 gave place to 1916, one by one the professional choir-men got
called up for military service, and finally came the turn of the
organist and choirmaster himself, he being just inside the limit of
age. The organist, besides being a splendid musician, happened to be a
skilled mechanic, so he was not sent abroad, but was given a
commission, and sent down to Aldershot to superintend the assembling
of aircraft engines. By getting up at 5 a.m. on Sundays, he was able
to be in London in time to take the organ and conduct the choir of his
church. Meeting the organist in the street one day, he told me that he
was in despair, for all the men of the choir but two had been called
up, and the results of ten years' patient labour seemed crumbling
away. He meant, though, to carry on somehow, all the same, and begged
me to find him a bass for the Cantoris side. I have hardly any voice
at all myself, but I had been used to singing in a choir, and can read
a part easily at sight, so I volunteered as a bass, and for two years
marched in twice, and occasionally three times, every Sunday into the
church in cassock and surplice with the choir. The music was far more
elaborate and difficult than any to which I had been accustomed, but
it was a great privilege and a great delight to sing with a choir
trained to such absolute perfection. The organist could only spare
time for one short practice a week, during which we went through about
one-third of the music we were to sing on Sunday, all the rest had to
be read at sight. Had not the boys been so highly trained it would
have been quite impossible; they lived in a Resident Choir School, and
were practised daily, and never once did they let us down. I do not
think that the congregation had the faintest idea that half the
elaborate anthems and Services they were listening to, though familiar
to the boys, had never been seen by the majority of the choir-men
until they came into church, and that they were being read at sight.
One particularly florid Service, much beloved by the congregation, was
known amongst the choir as "Chu Chin Chow in E flat." The organist
always managed somehow to produce a really good solo tenor, as well as
an adequate second tenor, mostly privates and bluejackets for the time
being, but professional musicians in their former life. It was a point
of honour with this scratch-choir to endeavour to maintain the very
high musical standard of the church, and I really think that we did
wonders, for we gave a very good rendering of Cornelius' beautiful but
abominably difficult eight-part unaccompanied anthem for double choir,
"Love, I give myself to thee," after twenty minutes' practice of it,
and difficult as is the music, we kept the pitch, and did not drop
one-tenth of a tone. At times, of course, the scratch-choir made
mistakes, and then the organ crashed out and drowned us. The
congregation imagined that the organist was merely showing off the
power and variety of tone of his instrument; we knew better, and
understood that this blare was to veil our blunder. It was really
absorbingly interesting work. During Lent we sang, unaccompanied,
Palestrina and Vittoria, and this sixteenth-century polyphonic music
requires singing with such exactitude that it needs the utmost
concentration and sustained attention, if the results are to be
satisfactory. The organist was quite pleased with his make-shift
choir; though, as a thorough musician, he was rather exacting. At
choir-practice he would say, "Very nicely sung, gentlemen, so nicely
that I want it all over again. Try and do it a little better this
time, and with greater accuracy, please." It is the custom in this
church to sing carols from a chamber up in the tower on the three
Sundays following Christmas. They are sung unaccompanied, and almost
in a whisper, and the effect in the church below is really
entrancing. To reach this tower-chamber we had to mount endless
flights of stairs to the choir-boys' dormitory, and then to clamber
over their beds, and squeeze ourselves through an opening about a foot
square (built as a fire-escape for the boys) in our surplices. After
negotiating this narrow aperture, I shall always sympathise with any
camel attempting to insinuate itself through the eye of a needle. In a
small, low-roofed chamber, where there is barely standing-room for
twenty people, it is difficult even for a highly trained choir to do
itself justice. The low roof tends to deaden the pitch, and in so
confined a space the singers cannot get into that instinctive touch
with each other which makes the difference between a good and a bad
choir; still, people in the church below told me that the effect was
lovely. On one occasion, owing to force of circumstances, it had been
impossible for the men to rehearse the carols, though the boys had
been well practised in them. We sung them at sight unaccompanied;
rather a musical feat to do satisfactorily.
I would not have missed for anything my two years' experience with
that church choir; every Sunday it was a renewed pleasure.
During 1915 and 1916 one got used to meeting familiar friends in
unfamiliar garbs, and in a certain delightful club, not a hundred
miles from Leicester Square, which I will veil under the impenetrable
disguise of the "Grill-room Club," I was not surprised to find two
well-known and popular actors, the one in a naval uniform, the other
in an airman's. I might add that the latter greatly distinguished
himself in the air during the war.
The "Grill-room" is quite a unique club. It consists of one room only,
a lofty, white-panelled hall, with an open timber roof. Nearly every
distinguished man connected with the English stage for the last forty
years has been a member of this club; Henry Irving, Charles Wyndham,
Arthur Sullivan, W. S. Gilbert, George Grossmith, Corney Grain, George
Alexander, Herbert Beerbohm Tree, and Arthur Cecil are only a few of
the celebrities for whom this passing show is over, but who were
members of the club. It is unnecessary for me to give a list of the
present members; it is enough to say that it comprises every prominent
English actor of to-day.
Arthur Cecil had a delightful nature, with a marked but not unpleasant
"old-maidish" element in it. For instance, no mortal eye had ever
beheld him without a little black handbag. Wherever Arthur Cecil went
the little bag went with him. There was much speculation amongst his
friends as to what the contents of this mysterious receptacle might
be. Many people averred, in view of his notoriously large appetite,
that it was full of sandwiches, in case he should become smitten with
hunger whilst on the stage, but he would tell no one. As I knew him
exceedingly well, I begged on several occasions to have the secret of
the little black bag entrusted to me, but he always turned my question
aside. After his death, it turned out that the little bag was a fully
fitted-up medicine-chest, with remedies for use in every possible
contingency. Should he have fancied that he had caught a chill, a
tea-spoon of this; should his dressing-room feel over-hot, four drops
of that; should he encounter a bad smell, a table-spoonful of a third
mixture. Poor Cecil's interior must have been like a walking
drug-store. He was quite inimitable in eccentric character parts, his
"Graves" in _Money_ being irresistibly funny, and his "Baron Stein" in
_Diplomacy_ was one of the most finished performances we are ever
likely to see, a carefully stippled miniature, with every little detail
carefully thought out, touched up and retouched. I do not believe that
the English stage has even seen a finer _ensemble_ of acting than that
given by Kendal as "Julian Beauclerc," John Clayton as "Henry
Beauclerc," and Squire Bancroft as "Count Orloff" when the piece was
originally produced at the Hay-market, in the great "three-men" scene
in the Second Act of _Diplomacy_, the famous "Scene des trois hommes"
of Sardou's _Dora_; nothing on the French stage could beat it. Arthur
Cecil bought a splendid fur coat for his entrance as "Baron Stein," but
after the run of the piece nothing would ever induce him to wear his
fur coat, even in the coldest weather. He was obsessed with the idea
that should _Diplomacy_ ever be revived, his fur coat might grow
too shabby to be used for his first entrance, so it reposed
perpetually and uselessly in camphor. Arthur Cecil was cursed with the
Demon of Irresolution. I have never known so undecided a man; it
seemed quite impossible for him to make up his mind. Sir Squire
Bancroft has told us in his _Memoirs_ how Cecil, on the night of
the dress rehearsal of _Diplomacy_, was unable to decide on his
make-up. He used a totally different make-up in each of the three
acts, to the great bewilderment of the audience, who were quite unable
to identify the white-moustached gentleman of the First Act with the
bald-headed and grey-whiskered individual of the Second. This
irresolution pursued poor Cecil everywhere. Coming in for supper to
the "Grill-room" after his performance, he would order and
counter-order for ten minutes, absolutely unable to come to a
decision. He invariably ended by seizing a pencil, closing his eyes
tightly, and whirling his pencil round and round over the supper-list
until he brought it down at haphazard somewhere. As may be imagined,
repasts chosen in this fashion were apt to be somewhat incongruous.
After the first decision of chance, Cecil would murmur to the patient
waiter, "Some apple-tart to begin with, Charles." Then another whirl,
and "some stuffed tomatoes," a third whirl, and "salt fish and
parsnips, Charles, please. It's a thing that I positively detest, but
it has been chosen for me, so bring it." Cecil went for an annual
summer holiday to France, but as he could never decide where he should
go, the same method came into play, and with a map of France before
him, and tightly closed eyes, the whirling pencil determined his
destination for him. He assured me that it had selected some unknown
but most delightful spots for him, though at times he was less
fortunate. The pencil once lit on the mining districts of Northern
France, and Cecil with his sunny nature professed himself grateful for
this, declaring that but for the hazard of the whirling pencil, he
would never have had an opportunity of realising what unspeakably
revolting spots Saletrousur-Somme, or Saint-Andre-Linfecte were. He
was a wonderfully kind-hearted man. Once, whilst playing at the Court
Theatre, he noticed the call-boy constantly poring over a book. Cecil,
glancing over it, was surprised to find that it was not _The Boy
Highwayman of Hampstead_, but a treatise on Algebra. The call-boy
told him that he was endeavouring to educate himself, with a view to
going out to India. Cecil bought him quite a library of books, paid
for a series of classes for him, and eventually, thanks to Cecil, the
call-boy passed second in a competitive examination, and obtained a
well-paid appointment in a Calcutta Bank. Cecil, or to give him his
real name, Arthur Blount, was also an excellent musician, and his
setting of _The Better Land_ is to my mind a beautiful one. He was an
eccentric, faddy, kindly, gentle creature.
At the "Grill-room," actor-managers are constantly pouring out their
woes. One well-known actor-manager came in full of a desperate row he
had had with his leading lady because the printer in the bills of the
new production had forgotten the all-important "and" before her name.
She merely appeared at the end of the list of characters, whereas she
wanted "AND Miss Lilian Vavasour." "Such a ridiculous fuss to make
about an 'and,'" grumbled the actor-manager. "Yes," retorted
Comyns-Carr, "and unfortunately 'and and 'art do not always go
together on these occasions."
The neatest answer I ever heard came from the late Lord Houghton.
Queen Victoria's predilection for German artists was well known. She
was painted several times by Winterhalter, and after his death was
induced by the Empress Frederick to give sittings to the Viennese
artist, Professor von Angeli. Angeli's portrait of the Queen was, I
think, exhibited in the Royal Academy in 1876. Some one commenting on
this, said that it was hard that the Queen would never give an English
artist a chance; after Winterhalter it was Angeli. "Yes," said Lord
Houghton, "I fancy that the Queen agrees with Gregory the Great, and
says, 'non Angli sed Angeli.'"
Of minor neatness was an answer made to my mother by a woodman at
Baron's Court. Apparently at the time of her marriage the common
dog-wood was hardly known in England as a shrub, although in the moist
Irish climate it flourished luxuriantly. Every one is familiar with
the shrub, if only on account of its bark turning a bright crimson
with the early frosts. My mother on her first visit to Baron's Court
saw a woodman trimming the dog-wood, and inquired of him the name of
this unfamiliar red-barked shrub. On being told that it was dog-wood
she asked, "Why is it called dog-wood?" "It might be on account of its
bark," came the ready answer.
Pellegrini the caricaturist, the celebrated "Ape" of _Vanity Fair_, was
a member of the "Grill-room," as is his equally well-known successor,
Sir Leslie Ward, the "Spy" of that now defunct paper, who has drawn
almost every notability in the kingdom. Sir Leslie is, I am glad to
say, still with us. Leslie Ward has the speciality of extraordinary
accidents, accidents which could befall no human being but himself. For
instance, in pre-taxi days Ward was driving in a hansom, and the cabman
taking a wrong turn, Ward pushed up the little door in the roof to stop
him. The man bent his head down to catch his fare's directions, and
Leslie Ward inadvertently pushed three fingers right into the cabman's
mouth. The driver, hotly resenting this unwarranted liberty, bit Leslie
Ward's fingers so severely that he was unable to hold either pencil or
brush for a fortnight. This is only one example of the extraordinary
mishaps in which this gifted artist specialises.
In the recently published _Life of Herbert Beerbohm Tree_, the
collaborators do not allude to that curious vein of impish humour
which at times possessed him, turning him into a sort of big
rollicking schoolboy. There was one episode which I can give with
Tree's actual words, for I wrote them down at the time, as a supreme
example of the art of "leg-pulling." Amongst the members of the
"Grill-room Club" was an elderly bachelor, whom I will call Mr.
Smith. "Mr. Smith," who has now been dead for some years, was wholly
undistinguished in every way. He ate largely, and spoke little, but
Tree had discovered that under his placid exterior he concealed a vein
of limitless vanity. One evening "Mr. Smith" startled the club by
breaking his habitual silence, and bursting into poetry. Apropos of
nothing at all, he suddenly declaimed two lines of doggerel, which, as
far as my memory goes, ran as follows:
"I and my doggie are now left alone,
Johnstone, to-morrow, will give him a bone."
He then relapsed into his ordinary placid silence, and soon after went
home. Beerbohm Tree made at once a bet of 5 pounds with another member
that he would induce old Mr. Smith to repeat this rubbish lying at full
length under the dining-table, seated in the firegrate (it was
summer-time), and hidden behind the window-curtains. The story got
about until every one knew of the bet except Mr. Smith, so next night
the club was crowded. The unsuspecting Smith sat silently and placidly
ruminating, when Tree appeared after his performance at His Majesty's
and lost no time in approaching his subject. "My dear Smith," he
began, "you repeated last night two lines of poetry which moved me
strangely. The recollection of them has haunted me all day; say them
again, I beg of you." The immensely gratified Smith at once began:
"I and my doggie are now left alone,
Johnstone, to-morrow, will give him a bone."
"Exquisite!" murmured Tree. "Beautiful lines, and distinctly modern,
yet without the faintest trace of decadence. It is the note of implied
tragedy in them that appeals to me, for were Johnstone unfortunately
to die in the night there would, of course, be no bone for the
faithful four-footed friend. Repeat them again, please." After a
second repetition Tree went on: "You have _l'art de dire_ to an
amazing extent, Smith, and you have the priceless gift of _les
larmes dans la voix_. I know that no pecuniary inducements I might
offer would make any appeal to you; still, could I but get you to
repeat those beautiful lines on the stage of my theatre, all London
would flock to hear you. I should wish now for them to float vaguely
to my ears, as the sound of village chimes borne on the breeze; out of
the vague; out of the unknown. Ha! I have it! Would you mind, Smith,
lying under the table here, and exercising your gift as a reciter from
there. I, on my side, will put myself into a fitting frame of mind by
eschewing such grossly material things as tobacco and alcohol, and
will eat of the simple fruits of the earth. Waiter, apples, many
apples! Now, Smith, I beg of you," and Tree, munching an apple, made a
gesture of appeal, and stood on the table, a second apple in his left
hand.
"Really I," faltered Mr. Smith with a gratified smile, "really...
Well... do you mean it?" and he slid obediently under the table, and
repeated the idiotic lines. "Gorgeous! Positively gorgeous!" sighed
Tree. "Now, Smith, Bismarck once, when at the zenith of his power,
electrified an audience of German _savants_ by repeating two simple
lines of German poetry seated in the fireplace. I must emphasise the
fact that it was when he was at the very zenith of his power, for
otherwise, of course, he would have been unable to produce this effect.
I should like to see whether your touching lines would move me as
strongly coming from so unexpected a quarter. See! I will place _The
Times_ for you to sit on, the _Daily Telegraph_ for you to lean
against. Two of the most powerful organs of public opinion both equally
proud to minister to your comfort. I beg of you, Smith." "Really...
it's rather unusual... but if you want it," smirked Mr. Smith, and the
doggerel was duly repeated from the fireplace. "Now, Smith, I want
those haunting lines to reach me faintly, as from some distant ocean
cavern, or like the murmurs sea-shells whisper into the ear. Ha! the
window-curtains will muffle the sound; say it from behind them, I
pray." When this was over Tree buried his face in his hands, feigning
deep emotion, and Mr. Smith regained his place wreathed in smiles,
convinced that he had achieved an unparalleled triumph as a reciter,
but Tree had won his 5 pounds.
That gifted man Charles Brookfield was also a member of the
"Grill-room." There was a slight note of cynicism, and a touch of
bitterness in his humour, for he was quite conscious that he had not
achieved the success that his brilliant abilities seemed to promise.
It was characteristic of Brookfield that when attacked with the
tuberculosis to which he eventually succumbed, he should draw up the
prospectus and rules of the "Ninety-nine Club" (those who have ever
had their lungs tested will understand the allusion), a document in
which he gave full rein to his vein of cynical and slightly
_macabre_ humour.
Some twenty-five years ago, I and another member of the "Grill-room
Club" used occasionally to "walk-on" in the great autumn Drury Lane
melodramas. We knew the manager well, and upon sending in our cards to
him, we could figure as guests at a ball, or as two of the crowd on a
racecourse. I liked seeing the blurred outlines of the vast audience
over the dazzling glare of the footlights, and the details of the
production of these complicated spectacular pieces amused me when seen
from the stage. In one of these melodramas, I think the _Derby
Winner_, there was a spirited auction scene on the stage, when
Mrs. John Wood bid 30,000 pounds for a horse. I had an almost
irresistible impulse to over-bid her and to shout "forty thousand
pounds." Mrs. John Wood would have proved, I am sure, equal to the
emergency, and would have got the better of me. Between us, we should
probably have run the horse up to a quarter of a million, and the
consternation of the rest of the company would have been very amusing
to witness, but it would not have been quite fair on our friend the
manager, so I refrained.
A great-nephew of mine, then an Eton boy of fifteen, had heard of
these experiences and longed to share them; so, with the manager's
consent, I took him "on" the first day of his holidays. He was one of
the crowd at an imaginary Oxford and Cambridge boat-race, cheering for
all he was worth, when he suddenly saw four of his Eton friends
sitting together in the front row of the stalls, and nodded to them.
The astonishment of these youths at seeing the boy they had travelled
up with that morning, moving about the stage of Drury Lane Theatre as
though he were quite at home there, was most comical. They gaped
round-eyed, refusing to believe the evidence of their senses.
I believe that the appeal of the theatre is simply due to the fact
that the majority of human beings retain the child's love of
"make-believe" but are too unimaginative to create a dream-world for
themselves. Having lost the child's power of creation, a more
material dream-world has to be elaborately constructed for them, with
every adjunct that can heighten the sense of illusion, an element the
unimaginative are unable to supply for themselves. They require all
their "i's" carefully dotted and their "t's" elaborately crossed; so
they love "real water" on the stage, and "real leaves" falling in a
forest scene, and genuine taxi-cabs rumbling about the stage so
realistically that no strain need be put on their imagination.
At the age of seven or eight I came to the conclusion that one would
go through life shedding illusions as trees shed their leaves in
November. I had an illustrated _History of England_ which contained a
picture of knights tilting; splendid beings all in armour, with plumes
waving from their helmets, seated on armoured horses and brandishing
gigantic lances. I asked my governess whether there were any knights
left. She, an excellent but most matter-of-fact lady, assured me that
there were plenty of knights still about, after which I never ceased
pestering her to show me one. One day she delighted me by saying, "You
want to see a knight, dear. There is one coming to see your father at
twelve o'clock to-day, and you may stand on the staircase and see him
arrive." This was an absolutely thrilling episode! One of these
glorious creatures of Romance was actually coming to our house that
day! I may add that my mother was unwell at the time, and that the
celebrated doctor Sir William Jenner, who had then been recently
knighted, had been called in for a consultation. At Chesterfield House
there is a very fine double flight of white marble stairs, and, long
before twelve, wild with excitement, I took my stand at the top of it.
How this magnificent being's armour would clank on the marble! Would he
wear a thing like a saucepan on his head, with a little gate in front
to peep through? It would be rather alarming, but the waving plumes
would look nice. Supposing that he spoke to me, how was I to address
him? Perhaps "Grammercy, Sir Knight!" would do. I was rather hazy as to
its meaning, but it sounded well. It might also be polite to inquire
how many maidens in distress the knight had rescued recently. Would he
carry his lance upstairs and leave it outside my father's door? If so,
I could play with it, and perhaps tilt at the footman with it. Would he
leave his prancing charger in the courtyard in the care of his esquire?
The possibilities were really endless. Presently our family doctor came
upstairs with another gentleman, and they went into my father's room. I
said "Good-morning" to our own doctor, but scarcely noticed the
stranger, for I was straining my ears to catch the first clank of the
knight's armour on the marble pavement of the hall below. Time went on;
our doctor and the stranger reappeared and went downstairs, and still
no knight arrived. At last I went back to my governess and told her
that the knight must have forgotten, for he had never come. I could
have cried with disappointment when told that the frock-coated stranger
was the knight. That a knight! Without armour, or plumes, or lance, or
charger! To console me for my disappointment I was allowed to see my
father in his full robes as a Knight of the Garter before he left for
some ceremony of the Order. This was the first intimation I had
received that we could include a knight in our own family circle. My
father's blue velvet mantle was imposing, and he certainly had plumes;
but to my great chagrin he was not wearing one single scrap of armour,
had no iron saucepan on his head, and was not even carrying a gigantic
lance. It seemed to be the same with everything else. In my
illustrated _History_ there was a picture of the Barons forcing
King John to sign Magna Charta at Runnymede. They had beards, and wore
long velvet dressing-gowns, with lovely, long, pointed shoes, and
carried swords nearly as big as themselves. I asked my governess if
there were any barons left, and she told me that Lord B----, a great
friend of my family's, was a baron. This was dreadful. Lord B---- was
dressed like any one else, had no beard, and instead of beautiful long
shoes shaped like toothpicks, with flapping, pointed toes, he had
ordinary everyday boots. He never wore a velvet dressing-gown or
carried a big sword, and no one could possibly imagine him as coercing
King John, or indeed any one else, to do anything they did not want to
do. I asked to see a noble; I was told that I met them every day at
luncheon. Like all properly constituted boys I longed to live on an
island. I was told that I already enjoyed that privilege. It really
was a most disappointing world!
To remedy this state of things, and as a protest against the prosaic
age in which we lived, my youngest brother and I devised some strictly
private dramas. One dealing with the adventures of Sir Alphonso and
the lovely Lady Leonora lingers in my memory, and I recall every word
of the dialogue. This latter was peculiar, for we had an idea that to
be archaic all personal pronouns had to be omitted. Part of it, I
remember, ran, "Dost love me, Leonora?" "Do." "Wilt fly with me?"
"Will." "Art frightened, fair one?" "Am." Everything in this thrilling
drama led up to the discovery of the hidden treasure which the
far-seeing Sir Alphonso had prudently buried in the garden in case of
emergencies. Treasure had, of course, to consist of gold, silver, and
coin. Some one had given me a tiny gold whistle; though small, it was
unquestionably of gold, and my brother was the proud possessor of a
silver pencil-case. These unfortunate objects must have been buried
and disinterred countless times in company with a French franc-piece.
To the eye of faith the whistle and the pencil-case became gleaming
ingots of gold and silver, and the solitary franc transformed itself
into iron-bound chests gorged with ducats, doubloons, or
pieces-of-eight: the last having a peculiarly attractive and romantic
sound.
In such fashion did we make our juvenile protest against the
drab-coloured age into which we had been born.