MOSTLY “OTHERWISE” (continued).
IN the long-ago sixties the Artillery Ball at Woolwich was the most
select and the most sought after function that the dancing community
yearned for, and about the same time Major Goodenough, a popular officer
of this distinguished regiment—although close upon eighteen stone—fell
desperately in love with Tietjens, herself of large pattern. Rumour,
indeed, asserted that the ponderous couple were engaged, and so it came
to pass that poor old Goody was nonplussed almost to distraction when his
application for a ticket for his fiancée was politely but firmly refused.
“But she’s engaged to me,” the poor old chap pleaded.
“And when she’s Mrs. Goodenough we shall always he delighted to see her,”
was the stern, uncompromising reply.
Such exclusiveness—which shows that snobbery was even then approaching
with gigantic strides—contrasts amusingly with what was then the
composition of many of our “crack” regiments.
Otway Toler—a brother of the Earl of Norbury—was one of the best amateur
musicians, and it was through his kindly offices that I became acquainted
with Giulini and other leading opera singers in London.
No such voice as that gifted being’s has ever been heard before or since,
and it is sad to recollect that whilst yet in the zenith of his fame he
was ruthlessly struck down by insanity, and eventually died in a
madhouse.
It was during this painful period that his voice is said to have reached
a pitch of pathos that far exceeded anything it attained when he thrilled
London nightly.
To compare it with any tenor that may suggest itself to the reader would
be as absurd as comparing an English concertina to the most glorious
notes of the most fluty instrument, and yet this divine voice was
silenced without apparent cause, and the world—the operatic world—will
never hear its like again.
As an old lady in tears was once overheard to say to her unmusical spouse
at the opera: “It is the voice of a god, and not of a man,” to which her
phlegmatic better-half replied: “Bosh, you should hear Sims Reeves; he
can go an octave higher.”
Sims Reeves, indeed! But no matter—may they both rest in peace.
To go to an unpretentious Italian eating-house in Old Compton Street,
Soho, that has long disappeared, was as good as attending the opera—if
one was in the magic circle. Here all day, and every day, congregated
the leading exponents, male and female, of Italian opera. At a piano on
the first floor finishing touches were given to morceaux, duets were
tried over, and, in addition to the vocalists, soloists of the highest
order “ran through” special passages of their scores, while below, viands
of the strictest Italian type were being consumed from morning to night.
Here osso-buco, and minestrone, and spaghetti were to be found as
undiluted as at Savini’s in Milan, and washed down with such productions
of the vine as Chianti, Lacrima Christi, and Capri.
No abominations in imitation of French cookery were to be found here. No
half-crown dinners of half-a-dozen courses, with their deadly
accompaniments of artichokes fried in tallow (_au Cardinal_) would have
been permitted here; no New Zealand mutton garnished with turnip-tops
(_ris dé veau garni aux truffes_) could have showed its unhallowed head
in those sacred precincts and lived, for no mashers of the present-day
type existed, and shop boys and shop girls knew their places too well to
venture into such reserved pastures, even with the prospect of eating a
veritable dinner as served on the Continong.
One cannot leave the subject of music without a reference to the
promenade concerts that came into being about this period at the Queen’s
in Long Acre.
It was here that the first public exhibition of the telephone was given,
and when a series of grunts had vibrated through the hall and a
bald-headed old patriarch had told us that the sound actually came from
Westminster, the surprise and delight of the enraptured audience was
intense, and we marvelled where such discoveries would end.
And the fun and the frolic at these gatherings was beyond description,
often more delectable than correct, but nevertheless delightful and
invigorating. The orchestra, moreover, was superb, and the vocalists the
best that money could provide, and all these delights were presided over
by one Rivière, a pushing musical instrument-maker in Leicester Square,
who by sheer impudence had forced himself into prominence before an
ignorant public whilst all the time incapable of reading the most
ordinary score at sight.
So far as execution and diabolical contortions were concerned he was
immense, and as big an impostor as Jullien himself.
When Offenbach was all the rage, and Schneider (under Lord C.’s wing) was
his principal exponent, I had the honour of being one of a privileged
half-dozen who did homage to the Diva at a dinner party in a private room
at Limmer’s. Although in the zenith of her fame, her personal charms at
the time were unquestionably on the wane, and I can recollect her
comments on popularity and what it was worth as she told us how ten years
previously, when young and beautiful, she had appeared in London only to
be ignored, and that now everybody was at her feet. And then she
shrugged her shoulders with an indescribable fascination peculiarly her
own, and complacently puffed away at her cigarette.
It may have been a few years later that Major Carpenter, a wealthy
amateur musician, introduced to the operatic world a charming English
girl, who, under cover of the Italian name of Chiomi, was to electrify
London with her singing.
The opera the fair débutante selected was probably the most formidable a
nervous subject could have chosen; and so one night every one attended at
Her Majesty’s to hear _Lucia_ expounded. Everything went well up to the
mad scene, when, unaccompanied by orchestra, the unhappy heroine has to
sing and toss straws about amid a series of impossible runs and shakes.
With the straw tossing no fault could be found, but the voice that should
have been moving us all to tears was a series of gurgles that eventually
subsided into silence.
Sir Michael Costa meanwhile sat grim and immovable, when a few bars would
probably have nerved up the fluttering victim, but _that_ to that
orthodox Italian would have been “trifling with the text,” and so no aid
was forthcoming, and the trumpet blasts that had emanated from Ashley
Place ended in a fiasco, and sweet little Chiomi was heard of no more.
That the drama is occasionally unjustly disparaged is nothing new; that
it occasionally produces indirect beneficial effects and even prolongs
life may be gleaned from the example of a deceased colonel of the Bays,
who, returning from India in the sixties with a life not worth six
months’ purchase, married a lady connected with the Canterbury Music
Hall, and, after increasing the music-hall population, literally died of
senile decay within the last year or two.
It was my privilege, on one occasion, in the company of Otway Toler, who
knew all the stars, to visit the great tenor Mario and his wife, the
equally celebrated Grisi, who had a house during the opera season in the
vicinity of Cavendish Square. Grisi, it may be explained, at the time of
her marriage, was the proud mother of two children who, by one of those
extraordinary freaks of nature one occasionally meets with, resembled in
a remarkable degree the family that followed.
“These,” pointing to one group, was Grisi’s usual introduction, “are the
_Marionettes_, and these”—indicating the others—“are the _Grisettes_.”
Incredible as it may appear, one of the purest tenors the world has ever
produced did not know one note of music, and everything had to be drummed
into him by a fiddle. It was at the house at Eaton Place of one of the
leading ladies of society that one often met the great tenor, where music
alternated with the cotillon and other delights of one’s youth.
About this time the Alhambra, which for some years had been waning in
public estimation, obtained a new lease of popularity under the
broad-minded direction of one Leader.
This worthy man, to use the familiar expression, “grasped the situation,”
and with the able co-operation of his co-directors—Nagle, head of a
celebrated firm of bill-stickers; Willing, an enlightened philanthropist
and patron of the drama; Captain Fryer (who was accorded that title
because he had a second cousin in the Dragoons)—inaugurated an
enlightened policy that seemed to provide “a want long felt,” and met the
requirements of their numerous patrons (_vide_ daily papers, etc.).
The directors’ box was a huge omnibus capable of holding goodness knows
how many, and consisted of partitions innumerable that had been dealt
with by the carpenters; a convenient door led to the stage, and to the
managing-director’s room—the objective of all visitors—as was only to be
expected in a well-conducted theatre. Here were to be met nightly Alfred
Paget, a septuagenarian lord, who, when not in attendance at Court, as
was supposed, seemed to spend his declining years in wandering from one
green room to another. Harmless to a degree, it was pitiable to see the
dyed old sinner, chewing a cigar, and indulging in such antics as an
occasional double-shuffle with any chorus girl he had selected for his
attention.
The Maharajah Dhuleep Singh, too, was in nightly attendance, and never
failed to bring some gimcrack which he displayed in the green room with
the inquiry: “What nice little girl going to have this?” This, however,
was before he had concentrated his affections on pretty Polly Ash, who
appearing nightly in white kids up to her elbows gave mortal offence to
her fellow-choristers by showing up the cotton “sevens” supplied by the
management. Polly, however, was not devoid of common sense, and retired
shortly after into a sumptuous flat in Covent Garden and an annuity that
survived the donor.
The green room of the old Alhambra was of extensive dimensions, and
contained more deal tables than probably any green room before or since.
By a magnanimous minute of the directors, ladies of the chorus and ballet
had the entrée, and, although none of the plainer members of the company
appeared to take advantage of the privilege, every table was fully
furnished with champagne (brand doubtful), and giggling artistes and
their adorers. Every one smoked like a donkey-engine, and the genial
managing director percolated amongst his guests with a kindly inquiry as
to how you were getting on. History does not make it quite clear whether
any of the fair members were eventually translated to the Upper House;
but whether as fortunate in this respect as Mott’s and in later years the
Gaiety, it was undeniable that no more beautiful bevy of women were to be
found than the representatives of the drama at the Alhambra in those
long-ago days.
Captain (!!) Fryer as a director was in considerable demand during the
orgies, and a youthful ensign on one occasion (when under the
fraternising influence of the stock champagne) having invited the
“Captain” to mess, was considerably put about on being informed by the
colonel that he was at once to cancel the invitation. With the ingenuity
of youth, however, he wriggled out of the difficulty by changing the venu
to Limmer’s, and taking him and a select party to Mott’s.
In appearance the Captain gave the idea of having just missed being a
gentleman; with a waist abnormally small, and a waistcoat abnormally
tight, his shoulders stood out by the aid of whalebone in a manner
intended to convey herculean proportions. When he walked it was with the
swinging motion attributed by “Ouida” to heroes who crumple pint pots
without knowing it, and kick garden rollers about as one would a pebble;
he stamped also occasionally with one foot as heavy dragoons once did
when they desired to clink their spurs, but which, after all, may only
have been a habit contracted by the contemplation of his second cousin
who had been in the cavalry.
“Do come here, you provoking Captain,” and “Did you hear what that absurd
Captain just said?” and Captain this, and Captain that vibrated through
the room to the no small annoyance of the “civilians” present. From all
which it will be seen that he was a very fine fellow indeed, and the idol
of the ladies of the ballet. But Bobby and some of the youngsters also
swore by him to a man; to have the run of the entire back premises, and
to be introduced to any siren their fickle fancies desired, was not a
privilege to be lightly appraised, and they vowed, till forbidden by the
adjutant, that he would be the life and soul of the mess on the next
guest night, and that the very rafters would tingle as he recounted his
multifarious experiences.
Another theatre that afforded amusement of a different type was the
Grecian, and night after night parties of from ten to twenty were made up
during the pantomime season to witness the best of pantomimists in his
incomparable part. Not that such a privilege was lightly undertaken,
for, to begin with, Conquest had to be warned to knock two or three boxes
into one, then dinner in the (private) Octagon Room of the “Ship and
Turtle” in Leadenhall Street had to be ordered, and then—and then
only—the organised party proceeded eastwards in a private omnibus about 5
p.m.
It may seem silly and suggestive of senile decay to descant on such
frivolities, but who of the present generation can realise the homely,
sumptuous repast that awaited one at the famous old hostelry of the
sixties? The milk-punch specially served by Painter himself, the
incomparable turtle soup and turtle steaks, the saddle of mutton one felt
it a sin to mutilate, and the honest English pancakes washed down with
port—fifty years old—and champagne in magnums were one and all
incomparable; and then the start as the omnibus pulled up at the door,
and the smoking of cigars of brands now unknown, till one alighted at the
portals of the Grecian in the City Road, adjoining the celebrated
“Eagle,” made famous by the antics of the eccentric weasel that we are
assured went “pop” every time it entered its hospitable doors. Can
anything of to-day compare with it? But the days of regret for these
honest old enjoyments are sadly out of place in these enlightened times,
where comic opera has superseded the transformation scene with its
adjuncts of clown, pantaloons, and harlequin. The performance and the
historian are alike out of perspective.
“Come, Mabel, shall we go to the Covent Garden ball?”
Let us extend our ramble to merry Islington and peep in at the
Philharmonic, where now stands the Grand; and although we take a leap
into the seventies for the nonce, the “long ago” is sufficiently distant
to be beyond the ken of many of our readers.
The rage for Offenbach was at this time at its height, and Soldene and
Dolaro drew all the golden calves from the West to gaze on the things of
beauty that were provided for their delectation.
A sporting bookmaker—Charley Head—who ran the show, realising that the
majority of his patrons were incapable of distinguishing “Hunkey Dorum”
from the National Anthem (“The Honeysuckle and the Bee” was, happily,
unknown in those days), decided that if the principals were of the
highest class, the chorus might fairly be selected for perfection of form
rather than perfection of voice, and some seventy of the most beautiful
girls in London were engaged to add _éclat_ to the performance.
It was currently reported that half their weekly salary of three
shillings was paid in counters, to be expended in the salon after the
performance; and the roaring trade in champagne that ensued amply repaid
the astute manager’s calculations.
The drama, run on these lines, naturally produced impresarios of a
questionable class, and Leo Egremont, in an expanse of white waistcoat
and a stripe down his trousers, was nightly ubiquitous and effusively
gushing in his attendance on the golden calves. A ballad singer (at the
Cave of Harmony) before he lost his voice—a basso of the deepest dye—he
had lately opened a “bureau” and advertised for novelties which he
“placed”—as he termed it—as the demand and circumstances suggested.
The streaky nobleman and the toothless lady who could sing three octaves
had been presented through his enterprise to an East-end audience, and
when the “Phil” opened under such unique auspices, Egremont lost no time
in securing a footing.
He also belonged to the “Howlers,” a half club, half pot-house, in the
vicinity of the Strand.
But the poor old “Phil” has long since been burnt to the ground, Egremont
has disappeared below the horizon, and the memories of the seventies are
gone to join the mountain of reminiscences of the long-ago Sixties.
Across the river, the Surrey—run on broader lines—was also responsible
for the hatching of numerous future hereditary legislators, and during
the pantomime season might be found such goddesses as Val Reece, Lardy
Wilson, and a score of others, many of whom have since swelled the pages
of Debrett and similar works of our religion.
It is no more than the truth to assert that this latter lady—for she had
a way with her not strictly histrionic—very nearly upset by her
personality a certain Anglo-Russian marriage at a critical period of the
negotiations.
The Lamp of Burlesque had not yet been lighted, nor even trimmed, in the
future Gaiety—which at the time was a “rub-a-dub” of the lowest class—and
so the rumours of duels that filled the air years later between a
military attaché and an _off-shoot_ of the noble House of Clanricarde
still slumbered in the womb of futurity, only to be roused to vitality by
the nimble graces of Kate Vaughan and sweet little Nell Farren.
Passing the Charing Cross Hotel one day, an old semi-theatrical warrior
returned visibly to my mind, and I could again see Alfred Paget
descending the stairs after one of those informal meetings of directors
that occasionally took place in Edward Watkins’s rooms. For the would-be
juvenile on the high road to senile decay that the present generation may
remember was a very different man to the Lord Alfred of the Sixties, or,
looking further back, to the handsome young equerry who pranced beside
the late Queen’s carriage in all the glory of manhood. And then
incidents long forgotten were re-enacted in my muddled brain; how as a
director of the South-Eastern he claimed, or obtained, or arranged, that
all repairs on his steam yacht should be done by the artificers and
engineers of the company. And then, by no great effort, the _Santa
Maria_ appeared lying off Margate Pier, and Old Alfred—as he was
gradually becoming—faultlessly attired on “post captain” lines, waiting
for his boon companion, Alec Henderson, or possibly a “Poppit,” as all
his “frivolities” were christened. And then the launch lying at the
steps, and the revels on board, and the grateful “poppits” going over the
side after being presented with a straw hat or some article of female
attire found in the state cabin, belonging to heaven knows who, during
the more respectable cruises. And then the trips to Boulogne and the
stocking the store-room with cheap wines, which the genial old sinner
chuckled would thus evade duty and come in handy at second-chop
gatherings. For with all his display his lordship was undoubtedly
thrifty, and could have stated blindfolded the exact number of cigars or
cigarettes that were lying about, no matter how apparently negligently.
Lord Alfred had been a yachtsman all his life, and he would tell how our
late Queen—with that characteristic woman’s tact that never left
her—wrote to him on the occasion of a former yacht being run down by a
Channel mail packet, “You must not be ashamed to accept the enclosed £500
as a gift from the Sovereign to a subject.”
“Mighty different woman now,” he would add, pouting his lips, and then
toddling off with a six-foot telescope to take the harmless bearings of
any “poppits” within hail.
His chum “Alec” was a charming man, and when he and Lionel Brough—as on
one occasion—began capping one reminiscence by another on the deck of the
_Santa Maria_ the show was as good as anything to be seen at the Opera
Comique or Strand, or any of the various theatres of which he was lessee.
Years before he had married Lydia Thompson, a name that conveys nothing
to the present generation, but who in the sixties was the cleverest and
prettiest of burlesque actresses, and there was not a youngster worth his
salt that was not desperately in love with her. Lydia Thompson was aunt
to Violet Cameron, who attained a certain position in the later seventies
at the Strand, but was overshadowed by Florence St. John, one of the very
few who, in addition to being the most chic of actresses, possessed a
pure and cultivated voice.