years, were an appalling state of martyrdom; no words could paint it.
It was gout in its most terrible form, that is, on the chest. This
malady was due, in the first place, to his early hard life, when rest
and hours of sleep were neglected or set at nought. Too good living
also was accountable. He loved good cheer and had an excellent taste
in wines, fine clarets, etc. Such things were fatal to his complaint.
This gout took the shape of an almost eternal cough, which scarcely
ever left him. It began invariably with the night and kept him awake,
the waters rising on his chest and overpowering him. I have seen him
on the following day, lying spent and exhausted on a sofa and
struggling to get some snatches of sleep, if he could. But as seven
o'clock drew near, a change came. There was a dinner-party; he "pulled
himself together:" began another jovial night and in good spirits. But
he could not resist the tempting wines, etc., and of course had his
usual "bad" night. Once dining with me, he as usual brought his Vichy
bottle with him, and held forth on the necessity of "putting on the
muzzle," restraint, etc. He "lectured" us all in a very suitable way,
and maintained his restraint during dinner. There was a bottle of good
Corton gently warming at the fire, about which he made inquiries, but
which now, alas! need not be opened. When the ladies were gone, he
became very pressing on this topic. "My dear fellow, you must _not_
let me be a kill-joy, you must really open the bottle for yourself;
why should you deny yourself for me? Nonsense!" It suggested Winkle
going to fight a duel, saying to his friend, "Do _not_ give
information to the police." But I was inhospitably inflexible. These
little touches were Forster all over. One would have given anything to
let him have his two or three glasses, but one had to be cruel to be
kind. Old Sam Johnson was of the same pattern, and could not resist a
dinner-party, even when in serious plight. He certainly precipitated
his death by his greed.
I well recall the confusion and grief of one morning in July, 1870,
when opening the _Times_ I read in large capitals, DEATH OF CHARLES
DICKENS. It must have brought a shock more or less to every reader.
Nothing was less expected, for we had not at that time the recurring
evening editions, treading on each other's heels, to keep us posted up
every hour in every event of the day.
I am tempted here to copy from an old diary the impressions of that
painful time. The words were written on the evening of the funeral at
6 p.m.: "Died, dear Charles Dickens. I think at this moment of his
bright genial manner, so cordial and hearty, of the delightful days at
Belfast--on the Reading Tours--The Trains--the Evenings at the
Hotel--his lying on the sofa listening to my stories and laughing in
his joyous way. I think, too, of the last time that I saw him, which
was at his office in Wellington Street, whither I went to ask him to
come to some theatricals that we were getting up. We talked them over,
and then he began to bewail so sadly, the burden of 'going out' to
dinner parties. He said that he would like to come, but that he could
not promise. However, he might come late in the night if he could get
away from other places. I see his figure now before me, standing at
the table, the small delicate-formed shoulders. Then bringing me into
another room to show me one of the gigantic golden yellow _All the
Year Round_ placards, presently to be displayed on every wall and
hoarding of the kingdom. This was the announcement of a new story I
had written for his paper, which he had dubbed 'The Doctor's Mixture,'
but of which, alas! he was destined never to revise the proofs. It
had been just hung up 'to try the effect,' and was fresh from the
printers."
I look back to another of Forster's visits to Dublin when he came in
quest of materials for his _Life of Swift_. He was in the gayest and
best of his humours, and behaved much as the redoubtable Doctor
Johnson did on his visit to Edinburgh. I see him seated in the library
at Trinity College, making his notes, surrounded by the Dons. Dining
with him at his hotel, for even here he must entertain his host, he
lit his cigar after dinner, when an aged waiter of the old school
interrupted: "Ah, you musn't do that. It's agin the rules and
forbidden." He little knew his Forster; what a storm broke on his
head--"Leave the room, you rascal. How dare you, sir, interfere with
me! Get out, sir," with much more: the scared waiter fled. "One of the
pleasantest episodes in my life," I wrote in a diary, "has just
closed. John Forster come and gone, after his visit here (_i.e._ to
Dublin). Don't know when I liked a man more. He was most genial and
satisfactory to talk with. His amiable and agreeable wife with him.
She told a great deal of Boz and his life at home, giving a delightful
picture of his ordinary day. He would write all the morning till one
o'clock, and no one was allowed to see or interrupt him. Then came
lunch; then a long hearty walk until dinner time. During the evening
he would read in his own room, but the door was kept open so that he
might hear the girls playing--an amiable touch. At Christmas time,
when they would go down on a visit, he would entertain them by reading
aloud his proofs and passages not yet published. She described to us
'Boffin,' out of _Our Mutual Friend_, as admirable. He shows all to
Forster before-hand, and consults him as to plot, characters, etc. He
has a humorous fashion of giving his little boys comic names; later to
appear in his stories. Thus, one known as 'Plorn,' which later
appeared as 'Plornish.' This is a pleasant picture of the great
writer's domestic life, and it gives also a faint 'adumbration' of
what is now forgotten: the intense curiosity and eager anticipation
that was abroad as to what he was doing or preparing. Hints of his
characters got known; their movements and developments were discussed,
and the incidents of his story were like public events. We have
nothing of this nowadays, for no writer or story rouses the same
interest. Forster also told us a good deal about Carlyle, whose
proof-sheets, from the abundant corrections, cost three or four times
what the original 'setting' did." Thus the diary.
Once, on a Sunday in Dublin, I brought Forster to the cathedral in
Marlborough Street to hear the High Mass, at which Cardinal Cullen
officiated. He sat it out very patiently, and I remember on coming out
drew a deep sigh, or gasp, with the remark, "Well, I suppose it's all
right."
Forster, whatever might be said of his sire's calling, was at least of
a good old Newcastle border stock of fine "grit" and sturdily
independent. He was proud of his stock, and he has often lamented,
not merely in print, but to myself, how people would confound him with
mere Fosters. "Now we," he would say vehemently, "are Forsters with an
_r_." When he became acquainted with a person nearly connected with
myself, he was immensely pleased to find that she was a Foster; and,
as she was of rank, it was amusing to find him not quite so eager to
repudiate the Foster (without the _r_). "We are all the same, my dear
friend. All Forresters, abbreviated as Forster or Foster, all one; the
same crest." The lady had some fragments of a fine old crimson Derby
service, plates with the Foster escutcheon, and he was immensely
gratified when she presented him with one.
* * * * *
FREDERICK LOCKER was certainly one of the most agreeable and most
interesting and most amiable beings that could be imagined. His face
had a sort of Quixote quaintness, so had his talk, while his humour
had a pleasant flavour. He lived at his place in the country, but I
always looked forward--and now look back, alas!--to the many pleasant
talks we would have together, each more than an hour long, on the
occasion of these rare visits. All his stories were delightful, all
his tastes elegant. His knowledge of books was profound and truly
refined. His taste was most fastidious. Towards the close of his
career he prepared a catalogue of his choice library, which showed to
the world at once how elegant was his taste and knowledge. At once it
became _recherché_. A few copies at a guinea were for sale, with a
view to let the public know something of his treasures, but it is now
at a fancy price. Once when I was in a dealer's shop "haggling" over
an "old play," for which I think two guineas was asked, and which
seemed to me a monstrous price, Locker came in quietly, and took the
book up, which was the interlude of _Jacke Drum_. I told him of the
price--"Take it, I advise you, he said, it is very cheap. I assure you
I gave a vast deal more for my copy." I took it, and I believe at this
moment I could get for my copy ten times that sum, in fact, there has
not been a copy in the market. This interesting man was, I fancy,
happy in both his marriages; the first bringing him rank and
connection, the second lands and wealth. I bring him in here because
he associated with Forster in one of his most grotesque moods. To
Forster, however, this agreeable spirit was taboo. He had offended the
great man, and as it had a ludicrous cast, and was, besides, truly
Forsterian, I may here recur to it. Forster, as I have stated, had
been left by Landor, the copyright of his now value unsaleable
writings, and he was more pleased at the intended compliment than
gratified by the legacy itself. My friend Locker, whose _Lyra_ was
well known, had thoughtlessly inserted in a new edition one, or some,
of Landor's short pieces, and went his way. One day Forster discovered
"the outrage," wrote tremendous letters, threatened law, and, I
believe, obtained some satisfaction for the trespasses. But during the
altercation he found that a copy had been presented to the Athenæum
Club library, and it bore the usual inscription and Minerva's head of
the Club. Forster, _sans façon_, put the book in his pocket and took
it away home, confiscated it in fact. There was a great hubbub. The
committee met, determined that their property had been taken away, and
demanded that it should be brought back. Forster flatly refused;
defied the Club to do its worst. Secretary, solicitors, and every
means were used to bring him to reason. It actually ended in his
retaining the book, the Club shrinking from entering into public
contest with so redoubtable an antagonist.
Forster was sumptuous in his tastes; always liking to have the best.
When he wanted a thing considerations of the expense would not stand
in the way. He was an admirable judge of a picture, and could in a few
well-chosen words point out its merits. When he heard Lord Lytton was
going to India, he gave Millais a commission to paint a portrait of
the new Viceroy. Millais used good humouredly to relate the lofty
condescending style in which it was announced. "It gives me, I assure
you, great pleasure to learn that you are so advancing in your
profession. I think highly of your abilities and _shall be glad to
encourage them_;" or something to that effect. Millais at this time
was at the very top of his profession, as indeed Forster knew well,
but the state and grandeur of the subject, and his position in
expending so large a sum--I suppose a thousand guineas, for it was a
full length--lifted my old friend into one of his dreams. The
portrait was a richly-coloured and effective one, giving the staring
owl-like eyes of the poet-diplomatist. Another of Forster's purchases
was Maclise's huge picture of Caxton showing his first printed book to
the King.
It was a treat and an education to go round a picture gallery with
him, so excellent and to the point were his criticisms. He seized on
the _essential_ merit of each. I remember going with him to see the
collected works of his old friend Leslie, R.A., when he frankly
confessed his disappointment at the general _thinness_ of the colour
and style, brought out conspicuously when the works were all gathered
together: this was the effect, with a certain _chalkiness_. At the
Dublin Exhibition he was greatly struck by a little cabinet picture by
an Anglo-German artist, one Webb, and was eager to secure it, though
he objected to the price. However, on the morning of his departure the
secretary drove up on an outside car to announce that the artist would
take fifty pounds, which Forster gave. This was "The Chess-players,"
which now hangs at South Kensington.
He had deep feeling and hesitation even as to putting anything into
print without due pause and preparation. Print had not then become
what it is now, with the telephone, type-writing, and other aids, a
mere expression of conversation and of whatever floating ideas are
passing through the mind. Mr. Purcell's wholesale exhibition of
Cardinal Manning's inmost thoughts and feelings would have shocked
him inexpressibly. I was present when a young fellow, to whom he had
given some papers, brought him the proofs in which the whole was
printed off without revision or restraint. He gave him a severe
rebuke. "Sir, you seem to have no idea of the _sacredness_ of the
Press; you _pitch in_ everything, as if into a bucket. Such
carelessness is inexcusable." Among them was a letter from Colburn,
the former husband of his wife. "I am perfectly _astounded_ at you!
Have you not the tact to see that such a thing as that should not
appear?" And he drew his pen indignantly across it. That was a good
lesson for the youth. In such matters, however, he did not spare
friend or stranger.
It is curious, considering how sturdy a pattern of Englishman was
Forster, that all his oldest friends were Irishmen, such as Maclise,
Emerson Tennant, Whiteside, Macready, Quain, Foley, Mulready, and many
more. For all these he had almost an affection, and he cherished their
old and early intimacy. He liked especially the good-natured impulsive
type of the Goldy pattern; for such he had interest and sympathy. As a
young man, when studying for the Bar, he had been in Chitty's office,
where he had for companions Whiteside and Tennant, afterwards Sir
Emerson. Whiteside became the brilliant parliamentary orator and Chief
Justice; Tennant a baronet and Governor of Ceylon; and Forster himself
the distinguished writer and critic, the friend and biographer of
Dickens. It was a remarkable trio certainly. Chitty, the veteran
conveyancer, his old master, he never forgot, and was always delighted
to have him to dinner, to do him honour in every way. His son, the
judge, was a favourite _protégé_, and became his executor. He had a
warm regard for Sir Richard Quain, who was beside Lord Beaconsfield
_in extremis_, who literally knew everyone that ought to be known, and
who would visit a comparatively humble patient with equal interest.
Quain was thoroughly good-natured, ever friendly and even
affectionate. Forster's belief in him was as that in a fetish.
The faithful Quain was with his friend to the last moment. Poor
Forster was being gradually overpowered by the rising bronchial
humours with which, as he grew weaker, he could not struggle with or
baffle. It was then that Quain, bending over, procured him a short
reprieve and relief in his agony, putting his fingers down his throat
and clearing away the impeding masses.
Sir Richard was not only physician-in-ordinary, but the warm and
devoted friend, official consultant, as he was of the whole _coterie_.
For a long course of years he had charge of his friend's health, if
health it could be called where all was disease and misery; and it was
his fate to see him affectionately through the great crisis at the
last. There was a deal of this affection in Quain; he was eminently
good-natured; good true-hearted Quain! Many a poor priest of his
country has been to him, and from them he would never take, though not
of his faith. Quain was indeed the literary man's physician; more so
than Sir Andrew Clarke, who was presumed to hold the post by letters
patent. For Clarke was presumed to know and cure the literary
ailments; but Quain was the genial guide, philosopher and friend,
always one of themselves, and indeed a _litérateur_ himself. Who will
forget his quaint little figure, shrewd face, the native accent, never
lost; and his "Ah me dear fellow, shure what can I do?" His
red-wheeled carriage, generally well horsed, was familiar to us all,
and recognisable. How he maintained this equipage, for we are told
what "makes a mare to go," it was hard to conceive, for the generous
man would positively refuse to take fees from his more intimate
friends, at least of the literary class. With me, a very old friend
and patient, there was a perpetual battle. He set his face against the
two guinea fee, but humorously held out for his strict guinea, and
would not bate the shilling. I have known him when a client presented
two sovereigns empty his pockets of silver and scrupulously return
nineteen shillings. And what an adviser he was! What confidence he
imparted! The moment he bade you sit down and "tell him all about it"
you felt secure.
It was always delightful to meet him. He had his moments of gloom,
like most of his countrymen, for he never lost his native "hall mark,"
and retained to the last that sort of wheedling tone which is common
in the South of Ireland. Yet he had none of that good-natured
insincerity, to which a particular class of Irish are given. He was
thoroughly sincere and genuine, and ready to support his words by
deeds. His humour was racy. As when the Prince of Wales was
sympathising with him on a false report of his death, adding, good
naturedly, "I really was afraid, Dr. Quain, that we had lost you, and
was thinking of sending a wreath." "Well, Sir," said the medico,
"recollect that you are now _committed to the wreath_." I did not
note, however, that when the event at last took place the wreath was
sent. I always fancied that he was a disappointed man, and that he
felt that his high position had not been suitably recognised; or at
least that the recognition had been delayed. The baronetcy came late.
But what he had set his heart upon, and claimed as his due, was the
Presidency of the College of Physicians. This he was always near
attaining, but men like Sir Andrew Clarke were preferred to him. I was
a special friend for many years, and have had many a favoured "lift"
in his carriage when we were going the same way. I was glad to be
allowed to dedicate to him some volumes of personal memoirs. The last
time I met this genial and amiable man was at the table of a
well-known law lord, whom he astonished considerably by addressing me
across the table all through dinner by my christian name. He was at
the time seriously ill, in his last illness in fact, when, as he said,
he had been "tartured to death by their operations." He had good
taste in art, was fond of the French school of engraving, and was the
friend and counsellor of many an artist. He was of the old Dickens
school, of the _coterie_ that included Maclise, Jerrold and the rest.
Once, when he and his family were staying close to Ipswich, I asked
him to order me a photograph of the Great White Horse Inn, noted as
the scene of Mr. Pickwick's adventure, and to my pleasure and
astonishment found that he had commissioned an artist to prepare a
whole series of large photographs depicting the old inn, both without
and within, and from every point of view. In this handsome way he
would oblige his friends. He was in immense demand as a cheerful diner
out.
I was amused by a cynical appreciation of a friend and patient of his,
uttered shortly after his death. We had met and were lamenting his
loss. "Nothing, nobody can fill his place," he said.--"It is sad to
lose such a friend."--"Indeed it is," said my companion, "I don't know
what I shall do. No one else ever understood my constitution. I really
don't know whom I am to go to now"--and he went his way in a pettish
mood, as though his physician had rather shabbily deserted him. Alas,
is there not much of this when one of these pleasant "specialists"
departs?
His faithful devotion to his old friend Forster during that long
illness was unflagging. He could not cure, but he did all that was
possible by his unwearying attention to alleviate. How often have I
found the red chariot waiting at the door, or when I was sitting with
him would the door open and the grave manservant announce "Sir
Rich-hard QUAIN." His talk, gossip, news, was part of the alleviation.
After all that must have been an almost joyous moment that brought
poor Forster his release from those awful and intolerable days and
nights of agony, borne with a fortitude of which the world had no
conception. Eternal frightful spasms of coughing day and night,
together with other maladies of the most serious kind. And yet, on the
slightest respite, this man of wonderful fortitude would turn gay and
festive, recover his spirits, and look forward to some enjoyment, a
dinner it might be, where he was the old Forster once more, smiling
enticingly on his favourite ladies, and unflinchingly prepared to go
back to the night of horrors that awaited him!
Mrs. Forster, as her friends knew well, was one of the sweetest women
"under the sun," a sweetness brought out by contrast with the
obstreperous ways of her tempestuous mate. Often when something went
wrong, rather did not go with the almost ideal smoothness at one of
his many banquets (and there never was a more generously hospitable
man), it was piteous to see her trying to smooth away the incident
with the certainty of inflaming the dictator, and turning his wrath
upon herself.
She knew well that not he, but his malady, was accountable. She
believed from her heart in the duality of Forster. There was a hapless
page boy whose very presence and assumed stupidity used to inflame
his master to perfect Bersaker fits of rage. The scenes were
exquisitely ludicrous, if painful; the contrast between the giant and
the object of his wrath, scared out of his life with terror, was
absolutely diverting. Thus the host would murmur "Biscuits!" which was
not heard or not heeded; then louder and more sharply, "BIScuits!"
then a roar that made all start, "BIScuits!!" Poor Mrs. Forster's
agitation was sad to see, and between her and the butler the luckless
lad was somehow got from the room. This attendant was an admirable
comedy character, and in his way a typical servant, stolid and
reserved. No one could have been so portentously sagacious as _he_
looked. It was admirable to see his unruffled calm during his master's
outbursts when something had gone wrong during the dinner. No violence
could betray him into anything but the most placid and correct
replies. There was something fine and pathetic in this, for it showed
that he also recognised that it was not his true master that was thus
raging. I recall talking with him shortly after his master's death.
After paying his character a fine tribute he spoke of his illness.
"You see, sir," he said at last, "what was at the bottom of it all was
he 'ad no _staminer, no staminer_--NO STAMINER, sir." And he repeated
the word many times with enjoyment. I have no doubt he picked it up at
Forster's table and it had struck him as a good effective English
word, spelled as he pronounced it.
Such was John Forster.
* * * * *
End of Project Gutenberg's John Forster, by Percy Hethrington Fitzgerald