Early the next morning, accompanied by a surgeon and an anæsthetist
on whose assistance I could depend, I arrived at Queen Anne's Street.
We were shown at once to the room where my patient waited for me. He
was sitting in a chair near the window. The nurse was standing in the
background, having made all necessary preparations.
"Here you are," he said, rising and greeting me with a cheerful smile,
"and here am I, and there is a Providence over us. Now, the sooner you
put things right the better."
His courage delighted me. I was also much relieved to find that neither
his wife nor father was present.
"With the help of God, I believe I shall put you right," I said, in a
tone of assurance, which I absolutely felt.
An hour and a half later I went into the sitting-room, where
Mainwaring's father and wife were anxiously waiting for my verdict.
"The operation is well over," I exclaimed, "and my patient is at
present sound asleep. When he awakens the moment will have arrived
when we must prove whether I have done anything for him or not. Will
you have the courage to come into the room with me, Mrs. Mainwaring?
I should like him to see you when he opens his eyes. If he recognises
you, I shall know that I have been successful."
To my surprise she shrank back.
"No," she said, "the ordeal is too terrible. Failure means too much
agony. I cannot endure it; I am not strong enough."
"Then what is to be done?" I asked. "In any case, Mainwaring will know
his father. His knowledge of _you_ is the test which I require to tell
me whether I have succeeded or failed."
She smiled faintly and left the room. In a moment she returned, holding
by the hand a beautiful little girl of five years of age. She had a
wealth of red-gold hair falling almost to her waist; her large eyes
were like sapphires.
"This is Nancy," said the mother, "her father's pet and idol. I sent
for her this morning. When my husband awakens, take her into the
room--she is not shy. If her father recognises her, all is well."
"Very well," I replied.
All that day I watched by Mainwaring; in the evening I came for Nancy.
"Come," I said. The child looked at me with her grave eyes--she was
perfectly calm and self-possessed. I lifted her in my arms and left the
room with her.
I entered the bedroom where my patient lay. The child's arms encircled
my neck. My heart was beating quickly, anxiously. Little Nancy looked
at me in surprise.
"Is father ill?" she asked.
Mainwaring's eyes were open. I put the child on the floor.
"Go and speak to him," I said.
She ran up to the bed.
"Are you ill, dad?" she repeated, in a clear, high voice.
"Halloa, Nan!" he said, smiling at her.
He stretched out one of his hands. The child caught it and covered it
with kisses.
"Send your mother to me, my sweet Nan," he said, after a pause.
Then I knew that Mainwaring had got back his ten years.
_Illustrated Interviews._
No. XXX.--MR. EDWARD LLOYD.
It is late in the day to refer to Mr. Edward Lloyd as possessing the
right to the position of our leading British tenor--indeed, it might
be said to that of one of the first tenors in the world. Mr. Lloyd has
won his way to this position simply by the earnest sincerity which
has characterized everything he has undertaken--added, of course, to
great natural gifts. Since eleven years of age he has always been a
working man, and has laboured with a set purpose always before him. His
heart and soul are as much in a simple little ballad as in an operatic
selection. The public have felt this, and have not been slow in letting
it be known. He is, in many ways, a remarkable man. If there is
anyone who is prone to be spoiled by a community ever ready to pamper
a popular individual, it is a tenor. But from what I have seen--and
my opportunities have been peculiar ones--of Mr. Edward Lloyd, he
impressed me as being a man who sets his face against all flattery, no
matter how honestly it may be deserved. There is absolutely nothing
professional about him. In a word, he is about as perfect a specimen
of an Englishman as one would wish to meet, and as one who loves his
home and its associations, may be held up as a model man. Of medium
height and stalwart appearance, with a countenance which is a happy
hunting ground for smiles, you no sooner feel the grip of his hand than
you know you have met a man brimming over with good nature, honest
intention, and unadulterated sincerity.
[Illustration: MR. EDWARD LLOYD.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
Previous to the interview proper we made a hurried trip to Brighton,
where for three or four months every year Mr. Lloyd, together with
his family, migrates, and where he has a pretty little house within a
stone-throw of Mr. Edmund Yates's. Its blue tile window-boxes are full
of the greenest of evergreens, and flowers are working out their own
notions of decorative art everywhere. Here the walls are given up to a
magnificent collection of hunting pictures. The dining-room has many
exquisite bronzes, and passing by an old grandfather's clock in the
hall--picked up in a Devonshire cottage one holiday time, and in which,
to the methodical tick, tick, tick, of the works, a ship keeps time on
some linen waves--a peep into the drawing-room reveals many a portrait
of professional brothers and sisters--Santley, Maybrick, Antoinette
Sterling, Lady Hallé, etc., with a number of water-colours by Danby,
Enoch, and Prout.
I have already referred to Mr. Lloyd's homely disposition, and this may
be the better understood when it is mentioned that on the occasion of
my long chat with him at his beautiful house at Tulse Hill, after my
visit to Brighton, the day was positively converted into a holiday. The
two youngest boys, Ramon Richard and Cecil Edward, had a day's leave
from Sidcup College. Mr. Edward Turner Lloyd, the eldest son, and a
professor at the Royal Academy of Music, was there. Miss Mary Louisa
Lloyd sang many a delightful ballad to us, and Mrs. Lloyd herself,
together with her husband and Mr. N. Vert, an old friend of the family,
made up a very happy party. So, together with this merry company, I
explored the house and grounds of Hassendean.
[Illustration: THE DINING ROOM--BRIGHTON.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
The early months of winter had by no means robbed the garden of a
thousand beauties. Flowers which help to brighten the dark and cold
months of the year were bravely holding up their heads above the soil,
and the trio of tennis-courts looked in perfect condition. Mr. Lloyd
and all the members of his family are enthusiastic tennis players,
and it is no difficult matter for one to picture the pleasant little
parties which gather on the grass and revel in the five o'clock teas
set out impromptu in the cosy arbours.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM--BRIGHTON.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
There is a pause in our journey at the steps which lead to the interior
of Hassendean, a photographic pause for the purpose of a family group.
Even "Ruff," a fine Persian cat, who a minute ago had been engaged in
chasing an innocent sparrow, was called into requisition to face the
camera as being an important representative of the domestic pets of the
house. However, as soon as we got indoors again it was apparent that
pussy could only lay claim to a certain share of favours bestowed.
A voice proceeded from the kitchen: it was the parrot, who had been
sent down below in order to be in close proximity to the kitchen fire,
owing to a temporary indisposition. Still, its much-to-be-regretted
sickness in no way interfered with its powers of speech. Then, as we
stayed for a moment in the conservatory--where, in the midst of the
palms and ferns, a fine statuette of "A Dancing Girl," by J. Lawler,
who sculptured one of the sides of the Albert Memorial, stands in a
conspicuous position--a little canary suddenly bursts into song as Mr.
Lloyd encourages it by running his fingers along the wires of its cage.
This same little canary played a conspicuous part after lunch, when we
repaired to the conservatory, of which more anon.
[Illustration: HASSENDEAN.
_From a Photo by Elliot and Fry._]
The entrance-hall of Hassendean--on the front door of which hangs
a lucky horseshoe--is given up to some admirable examples of
engraving--after Millais, Gainsborough, and Burton Barber; whilst the
staircase leading to Mr. Lloyd's own particular sanctum, in addition to
providing hanging space for many pictures of musical celebrities, has
an artistic selection of Doré's works.
Mr. Lloyd's own room chiefly contains family pictures. On the
mantelpiece are his children; by the window his father, and close
by a reproduction of the stained glass window erected to the memory
of the great tenor's mother at the Ladies' College, Cheltenham. The
dining-room looks out on a great expanse of lawn, studded with fir
trees, and contains some grand canvases by Ogilvie Reid, Knupp, Hughes,
Ladelle, Danby, Cobbett, Hans Poch, of Munich, and J. Stark.
Mr. Lloyd points out with pardonable pride five drawings by Rossetti,
which hang in the drawing-room: he is a hearty admirer of this
brilliant artist's work. The cabinets in this apartment are full of the
choicest of Dresden china and enamelled silver ware, and a prominent
position is given to a Russian silver cigarette case inscribed:
"Presented by His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh to Edward Lloyd,
October, 1884." The motto on it is in Russian, and its translation
reads: "Carry about, don't lose, frequently remember."
The presentments of the features of musical friends are numerous, and,
as Mr. Lloyd takes up a picture of the late Barry Sullivan as _Hamlet_,
he remembers that he was the last friend to see him when he was drawn
out on to the balcony of his house at Brighton, just before he died.
When we remember Mr. Lloyd's profession, one may be permitted to refer
to the music-room as being the most used apartment in Hassendean. It
is really a magnificent room, which the famous tenor had expressly
built for himself; its proportions are perfect, its acoustic properties
everything to be desired. There are two floors to this room at a
distance of 4ft. apart. This realizes an admirable sounding-board.
"Oh, yes!" said Mr. Lloyd, in reply to my question, "I practise here:
but I fear that the public little realize what practice means. I am
never satisfied, though I invariably practise a new work every morning
for two or three months. I first give my attention to the notes, then
study the real meaning of the words. You then begin to see the beauty
of the work and gain a knowledge of the composer's idea. Not until a
work is learnt thoroughly do you begin to realise its countless gems,
and the more I 'live' with the written genius of great composers, the
greater pleasure do I find in their beauties."
[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE-HALL--HASSENDEAN.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
The music-room has a grand ceiling. Its walls are incrusted with
crimson, with a fresco of black oak. The engravings are after Millais,
Alma Tadema, Sir Frederick Leighton, Luke Fildes, Orchardson, Leader,
and Rosa Bonheur. The blue china, which is set out on the great
mantel-board, once belonged to Rossetti, and the grand piano was made
by Schidemeyer, of Stuttgart.
[Illustration: THE STUDY--HASSENDEAN.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
After lunch, I not only listened to the fine tones of the
Schidemeyer--but something more. It was a most charming _entr'acte_
to our chat together. We were all sitting in the conservatory, and
Dick, the canary, was trilling some of his purest notes. At an almost
unnoticed sign from her mother, Miss Lloyd quietly left her chair and
was followed by her elder brother; the opening bars of a delightful
song of Spain were played, and then the voice of Miss Lloyd was heard
in all its girlish sweetness. The little canary remained silent until
the finish of the song, then it burst out again; once more came a chord
from the piano--a familiar chord--"Good-bye, Sweetheart, Good-bye," and
I listened to the magnificent voice of our great tenor. He probably
never sang with greater expression or intenser feeling than he did that
afternoon at Hassendean. The two young lads from Sidcup rested their
heads on their hands, leant forward so that they might not miss a note,
and made frantic efforts to outrival the applause of perhaps one of the
smallest audiences Mr. Edward Lloyd has ever sung to in his life. When
he had finished, Mrs. Lloyd quietly leant across to me very happily,
and said: "I haven't heard my husband sing that song for more than
fifteen years!"
[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM--HASSENDEAN.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
So we settled down for our talk--and the story of a career which has
been one long ascent to the very top rung of the ladder was told very
modestly, with a constant genuinely kindly reference to others running
through the whole. There is nothing self-assertive about Mr. Lloyd--he
remains steadily the same all the time; watching for opportunities to
praise his brother and sister artists, though it be at his own expense.
When he speaks of others he endeavours to impress upon you that he
_means_ it; when he must needs speak of himself he does so with a merry
laugh and hurries up to get it over. His heart is perfectly open. He is
not a "coddled up" individual; he never did and never will believe in
it. He never muffles his throat up in a huge silk scarf, but believes
in the low collar and "weathering it." The only time he muffled his
neck he caught a fearful cold. His advice is: "Breathe through the
nose, and not through the mouth, when coming out of a hot room. Don't
wrap up; whilst an egg beaten in a very little whisky and water will be
found an excellent stamina.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM--HASSENDEAN.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
"I was born on 7th March, 1845," he said. "My mother was a daughter
of John Larkin Hopkins, who was a professor of music in the Royal
household of George IV., and held the position of bandmaster of the
Scotch Fusilier Guards for thirty-nine years. He was a fine, stalwart
man, of immense strength, and lived to the ripe age of eighty-two.
My mother, who was one of seventeen children, inherited much of my
grandfather's talent. She was a student at the Royal Academy of Music,
and gained the King's Scholarship for her pianoforte playing at the
age of seventeen. My father was Richard Lloyd, whose good tenor voice
gained for him a vicar choral-ship in Westminster Abbey. I have a vivid
recollection of him, for I think I was his pet child; I know that I had
all I wanted. I was only five when he died, and my mother, with the
utmost devotion, took me in hand with five other brothers and sisters.
She held a very influential musical post at the Ladies' College,
Cheltenham, where she remained for fourteen years; her health gave way,
however, and she returned to London. You have seen in my room upstairs
a picture of the memorial window which those who knew and loved her
caused to be placed in the Great Hall, Cheltenham College."
[Illustration: THE MUSIC-ROOM--HASSENDEAN.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
Little Edward, however, lived in London with an aunt, and Mr. Lloyd has
the happiest recollections of the many letters which his mother wrote,
always asking for news of her boy. It was happy news, indeed, when the
mother heard that her little seven-year-old son had joined Westminster
Abbey as a chorister under James Turle, the Abbey organist, who had not
been slow in recognising the great gift of a beautiful voice which had
been bestowed upon the youth. He took him under his special care, and
to-day the great tenor never tires of bearing testimony to the patience
of his first master, who seemed never to weary in instructing him in
the art of which he was so accomplished a master.
"They were very happy days at the Abbey," continued Mr. Lloyd. "I
served as a probationer for twelve months, and was then entered as a
full chorister. After a few years, I became one of the first four,
until at last I was promoted to head boy. As a chorister I sang at the
funeral of the eminent engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, and wore the
old-fashioned black scarf and black gloves. Even in those early days
I got quite a number of engagements; we used to be paid three or four
guineas for the week's singing at the Handel Festival at the Crystal
Palace, but when I became one of the chosen four boys, Mr. Turle,
who had the musical arrangements associated with big City dinners,
frequently selected me to sing at a guinea and sometimes two guineas a
night at the banquets given by such City companies as the Ironmongers',
Merchant Taylors', Goldsmiths', Vintners', etc., where boys in those
days always sang the soprano parts in the glees and part-songs. The
Dean, however, put a stop to it on account of our health, as it kept us
out very late; still, Dean Trench was always very kind to us, and in
the evenings would frequently invite us to the Deanery to play at bob
apple. You know the game! An apple is suspended on a string and is set
in motion, your hands are tied behind your back, and you try to bite
the apple. The Dean was as merry as any of us, and revelled in securing
as big an apple as possible."
"And did you ever bite the apple, Mr. Lloyd?" I asked.
"No," he replied, merrily; "my mouth was not large enough! I must not
forget Dr. Wordsworth, who was a canon in my time at the Cathedral. My
great recollection of him is that, when he was in office as canon, he
used to preach for an hour, and sometimes longer. It was the privilege
of a senior boy to repair to his house in the cloisters, and, together
with his companion choristers, to stand round a table and be catechized
for one hour after the service. In those early days, I fear that I did
not appreciate this privilege!
[Illustration: MR. LLOYD'S FATHER.
_From a Painting._]
"I sang at the wedding of the Princess Royal, at the Chapel Royal, St.
James's. I sat in the gallery, and in my memory can almost hear now
Mr. Harper, the great trumpeter, 'heralding' the wedding party. I met
many choir boys who have since become famous. In those early days Sir
John Stainer was then a senior boy at St. Paul's, and we frequently
met at the rooms of the old Madrigal Society, in Lyle Street--let to
them by the Royal Society of Musicians--where, for our singing, we were
rewarded with a glass of port, a buttered biscuit, and two shillings.
The two shillings were invariably spent before I got home. I also met
Sir Arthur Sullivan and Alfred Cellier at cricket. The boys of the
Chapel Royal and St. Paul's and Westminster frequently tried their
powers with the bat and ball against one another; Sullivan was my
elder. Cellier was always the life and soul of the game of cricket: a
thorough good fellow, although he did bowl me out once.
"Still, I am happy to place on record the important historical fact
that the Westminster boys invariably won."
Although Mr. Lloyd's voice may be said to have never really broken,
at fifteen years of age he left the Abbey and went to a school in
Southwark, where, after remaining for twelve months, he went to his
mother's, at Cheltenham. He had said good-bye to the choristers' stalls
at Westminster, well educated in the music of the great Church writers.
He was on enviably familiar terms with such old masters as Gibbons,
Blow, Boyce, and Purcell, a foundation for all that was to follow
after. At his mother's suggestion he learnt the violin, and she, who
herself had studied the piano under Mrs. Anderson, the music-mistress
of the Queen, gave him lessons in pianoforte playing. However, although
the young lad took kindly to the bow, he couldn't settle down to the
piano. He remained in Cheltenham until twenty, when he returned to
London to his aunt's.
"I sang at a church at Belsize Park," said Mr. Lloyd, "and received
thirty pounds a year. I did the solo singing, and was regarded as a
light tenor, never thinking for a moment that I should develop into
anything particular. But I was always endeavouring to improve myself.
When I was twenty-one, as luck would have it, my uncle, Dr. John
Larkin Hopkins, organist of Trinity College, Cambridge, came on a
visit to my aunt, and my mother, who was also up from Cheltenham on a
little holiday, asked my uncle if he would hear me sing. He did so. I
sang"--and here Mr. Lloyd gave the opening lines of "You and I":--
'Tis years since we parted, you and I,
In the sweet summer time long ago.
"He was very delighted, and turned to me and said, 'We have an opening
in the choir at Trinity College: will you come and fill the post until
there is a trial for it?' I was in the seventh heaven; the position was
worth £120 per year; it realized all my hopes. I went to Cambridge; the
music I had to sing--I was a good reader--came like A, B, C to me. I
seemed to please the Fellows. After I had been there three months they
thought there ought to be a trial for the post. There were then two
tenor vacancies, as Mr. Kerr Gedge was leaving to fill an important
position in London. How well I remember the morning of the trial. The
trial was fixed for ten o'clock. However, I got up at four, as I was
too excited to sleep, told the landlady to have a thick steak ready
for me at eight, and went for a long walk. I shall never forget that
four hours' stroll; I remembered that there were seven or eight other
competitors. I felt terribly anxious and nervous, but by the time I
got back again to my lodgings and settled down to my breakfast, I had
determined to go in and win. I felt on that morning just the same as I
do now when about to fulfil any engagement I may have on hand: anxious,
fearfully anxious.
[Illustration: MR. LLOYD'S MOTHER.
_From a Photo by W. & D. Downey._]
"At that trial I sang 'If with all your hearts,' from 'Elijah,' and
read some music given to us, and came out first.
"At Cambridge I met the lady who afterwards became my wife. It was at
the opera. 'Faust' was the work, with Blanche Cole as _Marguerite_.
Her future husband, Sydney Naylor, conducted, and, by-the-bye, he was
a Temple boy with me. We were almost engaged from that night, and I
should like to say that, although Mrs. Lloyd is not a musician, from
that day to this she has influenced my life. It was her wish that I
should not sing in opera. And I have never regretted not doing so.
Indeed, I have only made one appearance in costume in my life--it was
at a private house at Hampstead. Here is a portrait of myself in the
character. My part necessitated me carrying on certain papers, which
in my excitement I left outside. I was asked for them; I felt in my
pocket; pocket was empty. 'Dear me!' I said, 'I must have dropped them
on the stairs as I came up'; so I made my exit and brought them back."
Still, Mr. Lloyd's dramatic instincts must have been of a very high
order--for the late Carl Rosa, who chanced to be present, immediately
offered him an engagement. Later on Carl Rosa tried his utmost to
induce him to sing in "Tannhauser," when the impresario was producing
this work at Her Majesty's Theatre, saying at the same time, "I vill
gif you a blank cheque to fill up!" This offer was again refused, and
Rosa always would have it that the great tenor had missed his chance of
going on the stage!
Mr. Lloyd remained twelve months at Cambridge, when he joined the choir
at St. Andrew's, Wells Street, Mr. Barnby (now Sir Joseph Barnby) being
the choir-master and organist, and was shortly after appointed "A
gentleman at Her Majesty's Chapel Royal, St. James's."
"That," said Mr. Lloyd, "was really the beginning of my career. I was
then engaged for the Gloucester Festival, to sing in Bach's 'Passion
Music.' It was my first important engagement and my first big audience.
There were 2,000 people present. It did me a lot of good. I was very
nervous, and my nervousness gave birth to _feeling_. A cold singer is
no good! Dr. Wesley conducted this festival. There are many capital
stories told about him. He was a somewhat eccentric old gentleman, very
forgetful at times, and a most enthusiastic fisherman. He was once
out with his rod and line fishing in a piece of water, when a keeper
approached him and told him it was private.
"'Oh, is it?' he said. 'My name's Wesley.'
"'I don't care,' said the keeper, 'what your name is; you can't fish
here without an order.'
"'All right,' said Wesley; 'you take in my name to your master and I'll
follow you.'
"The keeper consented: his employer expressed his regret at the
occurrence, and said he would be charmed if the doctor remained to
lunch, and they sat down together. After lunch the host turned to the
doctor and said he would be very delighted if he would play a selection
on the organ. A very fine instrument was in the hall, and the doctor,
nothing loth, sat down and played for half an hour. The music over,
Wesley returned to his fishing, fished to sundown, and then went home.
The next day the owner of the organ and the lake was surprised to
receive a letter from Wesley asking for ten guineas for his services on
the organ. Wesley was even more surprised when he had in reply a letter
as follows: 'My charge for a day's fishing is twenty guineas, so if you
will kindly forward ten guineas, that will make us quits.'
[Illustration: MR. LLOYD'S ONLY APPEARANCE ON THE STAGE.]
"On another occasion Wesley was conducting an overture, and was so
wrapped up in his thoughts of fishing that he kept on beating time
after the overture was finished. One of the principal violins whispered
to him that they had done.
"'Impossible!' rejoined Wesley. 'I've got twelve bars more.'
"One can only conclude from this that during the twelve bars the worthy
doctor had held his bâton still in the act of catching a fish, and when
he rose it again to continue beating time he was landing it."
From the time Mr. Lloyd appeared at the Gloucester Festival the active
part of his career may be said to have commenced. He has been engaged
in all the principal festivals from that time, and created the tenor
parts in all the most important modern works: "The Martyr of Antioch,"
by Sullivan; Parry's "Judith"; Mackenzie's "Rose of Sharon" and "The
Dream of Jubal"; Cowen's "Rose Maiden" and "The Water Lily"; Stanford's
"Maeldune," and Sullivan's "Golden Legend," and amongst foreign,
Rubinstein's "Paradise Lost" and Dvoràk's "Spectre's Bride." He created
the tenor part in Gounod's "Redemption" at Birmingham Festival, and at
the following festival the tenor in the same composer's "Mors et Vita."
At Gounod's request he was invited--an invitation he accepted--to sing
in Gounod's latter work at Brussels and Paris under his direction.
At Brussels Mr. Lloyd was presented to the Queen of the Belgians.
His work at all the principal concerts is well known, and ever since
the first night he sang in oratorio at the Albert Hall, under Sir
Joseph Barnby, he has always been a permanent member of the artists
engaged by Sir Joseph, whom, together with Sir Charles Hallé, Mr. Lloyd
regards as having done as much for music as any two artists in England.
He has been to America on no fewer than four occasions; the first of
which was at the Cincinnati Festival, for which he received £1,350 for
five performances in that city. Once every year the State Concerts at
Buckingham Palace claim him.
I asked Mr. Lloyd if he considered that oratorios still held their
place in the esteem of the public against the lighter and less
pretentious musical themes which have of late been so prominent.
He replied: "Oratorios still hold their old power over the public; such
standard works as the 'Messiah,' the 'Stabat Mater,' 'Elijah,' and the
'Hymn of Praise' can never die: they are the support and the backbone
of the festivals. Such works are so great and so magnificent that they
are as fresh to the people to-day, though the hearers may have heard
them fifty times, as they will be to the next generation. They are the
true heirlooms of all music lovers.
"Go out into the 'West.' In Chicago, where we sang the 'Messiah' twice,
there were over 5,000 people at each performance; but if you want to
really understand how these glorious works are loved and revered, go
into the Black Country, on the occasion of a big musical gathering,
and watch the masses come in with their music scores under their arms.
I have seen the galleries crowded with miners, who drink in every
note, and applaud in the right places, too. These great works are the
property of the people: they come to them, and regard the listening to
them as a devotional duty."
It is very well known that Mr. Lloyd has never disappointed the public
except through severe illness; he has been in three railway accidents,
but such severe upsets as these have never deterred him from proceeding
in the even tenor of his ways. He positively snaps his fingers at fogs,
and has sung in a hall when the place has been full of this speciality
of our particular climate which is so distressing to folk in general
and vocalists in particular.
The only occasion on which a fog was a real annoyance was one night
when, on leaving the Albert Hall after a Patti concert, the fog was so
thick that in thin shoes and a dress suit he had to take a lamp from
his carriage, and whilst his coachman led the horse, he had to light
the way. Mr. Lloyd fortunately possessed a good bump of locality; still
he did not reach Tulse Hill till half-past one in the morning.
He has smoked from an early age, and has never found it affect his
voice; still he would not advise young singers to take a pattern from
Mario, who he has been given to understand has smoked as many as thirty
cigars a day. He is inundated with songs, and it may be a consolation
to budding composers to know that the thoughtful tenor always returns
unaccepted scores when stamps are inclosed. He admits to one personal
mishap with his music when singing Blumenthal's beautiful melody, "The
Message." It was an old copy, and a page having become detached, was
economically sewn in. Unfortunately, it was not discovered until Mr.
Lloyd was in the midst of the song that the sheet had been sewn in
upside down.
Mr. Lloyd is famed for his punctuality at all his engagements. "And for
a very good reason, too," he said, when I reminded him of this. "It
was during my first tour with Mme. Liebhart, and Christian, the bass,
suffered with me. We had travelled from Dublin all day, and arrived
at our destination where we were to sing in the evening. Feeling very
tired, I lay down after dinner for a rest before the concert; Christian
did the same. We both fell fast asleep. We were to open the concert at
eight o'clock in the duet "Love and War." At five minutes past eight, a
man came rushing in to say the audience were waiting for our duet. We
flew to the hall, and had to go on a quarter of an hour late. I could
scarcely breathe and could barely get through my share in the duet. But
it was a quarter of an hour with a moral--ever since then I have always
been present a quarter of an hour before going on."
So the day passed happily at Hassendean, and the time came to say
good-night. As I was leaving, Mr. Lloyd put his hand on young Ramon's
head and said, good-naturedly, "Now, would you like to see something
of what I used to do when I was about his age, and was rewarded with
anything from buttered biscuits to a guinea?"