Canada, shown Irving the most conspicuous courtesy. I remember well the
evening when we were leaving Toronto for Montreal after the _matinée_,
February 21, 1894. We had got into the train and the workmen were
loading up the scenery and luggage when there was a great clatter of
horsemen coming at the gallop; and up rode the Governor-General with his
escort. His courtesy to the distinguished guest was very pleasing to the
warm-hearted Canadians.
Irving had met “Dick” Seddon five years before at the great party which
Lord Northcliff—then Mr. Alfred Harmsworth—had given in his new house in
Berkeley Square on the night before the Diamond Jubilee—June 21, 1897.
When Irving and I arrived we followed immediately after the Colonial
Premiers—I think there were eight of them—who had that day received the
honour of Privy Councillorship and wore their Court dress. Mr. Seddon
asked to be introduced to Irving, and at once took him away to the
corner of a room where they could talk freely. I was afterwards told
that when he had gone to the Opera in Covent Garden a few days before—
where with his family he was given the Royal box—he asked when the opera
had gone on for a good while:
“But where is Irving? He is the man I want to see most!”
That Coronation reception was certainly a most magnificent sight. Many
who were at both functions said that it was even finer than the
reception at the India Office, which was a spectacle to remember. But of
course the theatre had an advantage in shape and its rising tiers. When
one entered at the back of the stage the _coup d’œil_ was magnificent.
The place looked of vast size; the many lights and the red seats of the
tiers making for infinite distance as they gleamed through the banks of
foliage. The great Crown and Union Jack seeming to flame over all; the
moving mass of men and women, nearly all the men in gorgeous raiment, in
uniform or Court dress, the women all brilliantly dressed and flashing
with gems; with here and there many of the Ranees and others of various
nationalities in their beautiful robes. Everywhere ribbons and orders,
each of which meant some lofty distinction of some kind. Everywhere a
sense of the unity and the glory of Empire. Dominating it all, as though
it was floating on light and sound and form and colour, the thrilling
sense that there, in all its bewildering myriad beauty, was the spirit
mastering the heart-beat of that great Empire on which the sun never
sets.
That night was the swan-song of the old Lyceum, and was a fitting one;
for such a wonderful spectacle none of our generation shall ever see
again. As a function it crowned Irving’s reign as Master and Host.
Two weeks later the old Lyceum as a dramatic theatre closed its doors—
for ever.
XXXVII
THE VOICE OF ENGLAND
In August 1880, Irving and I went on a short holiday to the Isle of
Wight, where later Loveday joined us. One evening at Shanklin we went
out for a stroll after dinner. It was late when we returned; but the
night was so lovely that we sat for a while under a big tree at the
entrance to the Chine. It was a dark night and under the tree it was
inky black; only the red tips of our cigars were to be seen. Those were
early days in the Home Rule movement, and as I was a believer in it
Irving was always chaffing me about it. It was not that he had any
politics himself—certainly in a party sense; the nearest point to
politics he ever got, so far as I know, was when he accepted his
election to the Reform Club. But he loved to “draw out” any one about
anything, and would at times go quite a long way about to do it. We had
been talking Home Rule and he had, of course for his purpose, taken the
violently opposite side to me. Presently we heard the slow, regular,
heavy tramp of a policeman coming down the road; there is no mistaking
the sound to any one who has ever lived in a city. Irving turned to me—I
could tell the movement by his cigar—and said with an affected intensity
which I had come to identify and understand:
“How calm and silent all this is! Very different, my boy, from the
hideous strife of politics. It ought to be a lesson to you! Here in this
quiet place, away from the roar of cities and on the very edge of the
peaceful sea, there is opportunity for thought! You will not find here
men galling their tempers and shortening their lives by bitter thoughts
and violent deeds. Believe me, here in rural England is to be found the
true inwardness of British opinion!”
I said nothing; I knew the game. Then the heavy, placid step drew
closer. Irving went on:
“Here comes the Voice of England. Just listen to it and learn!” Then in
a cheery, friendly voice he said to the invisible policeman:
“Tell me, officer, what is your opinion as to this trouble in Ireland?”
The answer came at once, stern and full of pent-up feeling, and in an
accent there was no possibility of mistaking:
“Ah, begob, it’s all the fault iv the dirty Gover’mint!” His brogue
might have been cut with a hatchet. From his later conversation—for of
course after that little utterance Irving led him on—one might have
thought that the actor was an ardent and remorseless rebel. I came to
the conclusion that Home Rule was of little moment to that guardian of
the law; he was an out and out Fenian.
For many a day afterwards I managed to bring in the “Voice of England”
whenever Irving began to chaff about Home Rule.
XXXVIII
RIVAL TOWNS
In the course of our tour in the Far West of America in 1893–4 we had an
experience which Irving now and again told with great enjoyment to his
friends. From San Francisco we went to Tacoma and Seattle, two towns on
Puget Sound between which is a mighty rivalry. In Seattle we were
walking along the main street when we saw a crowd outside the window of
a drug store and went over to see the cause. The whole window-space was
cleared and covered with sheets of white paper. In the centre, raised on
a little platform, was an immense Tropical American horned beetle quite
three inches from feelers to tail. Behind it was propped a huge card on
which was printed in ink with a brush in large letters:
“ORDINARY BED-BUG CAPTURED IN TACOMA.”
XXXIX
TWO STORIES
I
Naturally the form of humour that appealed most to Irving was that based
on human character. This feeling he shared with Tennyson—indeed with all
in whom a deep knowledge of the “essential difference” of character is a
necessity of their art. Perhaps the two following stories, of which he
was exceedingly fond, will illustrate the bent of his mind. The first,
having heard from some one else, he told me; the second I told him. I
have heard him tell them both several times in his own peculiar way.
II
An English excursionist was up near Balmoral in the later days of Queen
Victoria. The day being hot, he went into a cottage to get a glass of
water. He sat mopping his forehead, whilst the guidwife was polishing
the glass and getting fresh water from the well. He commenced to talk
cheerfully:
“So the Queen is a neighbour of yours!”
“Ooh, aye!”
“And she is quite neighbourly, isn’t she? And comes to visit you here in
your own cottages?”
“Ooh, aye! She’s weel eneuch!”
“And she asks you to tea sometimes at Balmoral?”
“Ooh, aye! She’s nae that bad!” The tourist was rather struck with the
want of enthusiasm shown and ventured to comment on it inquiringly:
“Look here, ma’am; you don’t seem very satisfied with Her Majesty! May I
ask you why?”
“Weel, I’ll tell ye if ye wish. The fac’ is we don’t leik the gangin’s
on at the Caastle.”
“Oh, indeed, ma’am! How is that? What is it that displeases you?”
“We don’t leik the way they keep—or don’t keep—the Sawbath. Goin’ oot in
bo-ats an’ rowin’ on the Sawbath day!” The tourist tried to appease her
and suggested:
“Oh, well! after all, ma’am, you know there is a precedent for that. You
remember Our Lord, too, went out on the Sabbath——” She interrupted him:
“Ooh, aye! I ken it weel eneuch. Ye canna’ tell me aught aboot Hem that
I dinna ken a’ready. An’ I can tell ye this: we don’t think any moor o’
Hem for it either!”
III
There was a funeral in Dublin of a young married woman. The undertaker,
after the wont of his craft, was arranging the whole affair according to
the completest local rules of mortuary etiquette. He bustled up to the
widower saying:
“You, sir, will of course go in the carriage with the mother of the
deceased.”
“What! Me go in the carriage with my mother-in-law! Not likely!”
“Oh, sir, but I assure you it is necessary. The rule is an inviolable
one, established by precedents beyond all cavil!” expostulated the
horrified undertaker. But the widower was obdurate.
“I won’t go. That’s flat!”
“Oh, but, my good sir, remember the gravity of the occasion—the
publicity—the—the—possibility—scandal.” His voice faded into a gasp. The
widower stuck to his resolution and so the undertaker laid the matter
before some of his intimate friends who were waiting instructions. They
surrounded the chief mourner and began to remonstrate with him:
“You really must, old chap; it is necessary.”
“I’ll not! Go with me mother-in-law!—Rot!”
“But look here, old chap——”
“I’ll not I tell ye—I’ll go in any other carriage that ye wish; but not
in that.”
“Oh, of course, if ye won’t, ye won’t. But remember it beforehand that
afterwards when it’ll be thrown up against ye, that it’ll be construed
into an affront on the poor girl that’s gone. Ye loved her, Jack, we all
know, an’ ye wouldn’t like _that_!”
This argument prevailed. He signed to the undertaker and began to pull
on his black gloves. As he began to move towards the carriage he turned
to his friends and said in a low voice:
“I’m doin’ it because ye say I ought to, and for the poor girl that’s
gone. But ye’ll spoil me day!”
XL
SIR RICHARD BURTON
I
When in the early morning of August 13, 1878, Irving arrived at Dublin,
on his way to Belfast to give a Reading for the Samaritan Hospital, I
met him at Westland Row Station. He had arranged to stay for a couple of
days with my brother before going north. When the train drew up,
hastening to greet him I entered the carriage. There were two other
people in the compartment, a lady and a gentleman. When we had shaken
hands, Irving said to his _compagnons de voyage_:
“Oh, let me introduce my friend Bram Stoker!” They both shook hands with
me very cordially. I could not but be struck by the strangers. The lady
was a big, handsome blonde woman, clever-looking and capable. But the
man riveted my attention. He was dark, and forceful, and masterful, and
ruthless. I have never seen so iron a countenance. I did not have much
time to analyse the face; the bustle of arrival prevented that. But an
instant was enough to make up my mind about him. We separated in the
carriage after cordial wishes that we might meet again. When we were on
the platform, I asked Irving:
“Who is that man?”
“Why,” he said, “I thought I introduced you!”
“So you did, but you did not mention the names of the others!” He looked
at me for an instant and said inquiringly as though something had struck
him:
“Tell me, why do you want to know?”
“Because,” I answered, “I never saw any one like him. He is steel! He
would go through you like a sword!”
“You are right!” he said. “But I thought you knew him. That is Burton—
Captain Burton who went to Mecca!”
The Burtons were then paying a short visit to Lord Talbot de Malahide.
After Irving went back to London, I was very busy and did not ever come
across either of them. That autumn I joined Irving and went to live in
London.
II
In January of next year, 1879, I met the Burtons again. They had come to
London for a holiday.
The first meeting I had then with Burton was at supper with Irving in
the Green Room Club—these were occasional suppers where a sort of
smoking-concert followed the removal of the dishes. I sat between Burton
and James Knowles, who was also Irving’s guest. It was a great pleasure
to me to meet Burton familiarly, for I had been hearing about him and
his wonderful exploits as long as I could remember. He talked very
freely and very frankly about all sorts of things, but that night there
was nothing on the _tapis_ of an exceptionally interesting nature.
That night, by the way, I heard Irving recite _The Captive_ for the
first time. He also did _Gemini and Virgo_; but that I had heard him do
in Trinity College, Dublin.
The Burtons remained in London till the end of February, in which month
we met at supper several times. The first supper was at Irving’s rooms
in Grafton Street, on the night of Saturday, February 8, the other
member of the party being Mr. Aubertin. The subdued light and the
quietude gave me a better opportunity of studying Burton’s face; in
addition to the fact that this time I sat opposite to him and not beside
him. The predominant characteristics were the darkness of the face—the
desert burning; the strong mouth and nose, and jaw and forehead—the
latter somewhat bold—and the strong, deep, resonant voice. My first
impression of the man as of steel was consolidated and enhanced. He told
us, amongst other things, of the work he had in hand. Three great books
were partially done. The translation of the _Arabian Nights_, the
metrical translation of Camoëns, and the _Book of the Sword_. These were
all works of vast magnitude and requiring endless research. But he lived
to complete them all.
Our next meeting was just a week later, Saturday, February 15. This time
Mr. Aubertin was host and there was a new member of the party, Lord
Houghton, whom I then met for the first time. I remembered that amongst
other good things which we had that night was some exceedingly fine old
white port, to which I think we all did justice—in a decorous way. The
talk that evening kept on three subjects: fencing, the life of Lord
Byron, and Shakespeare. Burton was an expert and an authority on all
connected with the sword; Lord Houghton was then the only man living—I
think that Trelawny, who had been the only other within years, had just
died—who knew Byron in his youth, so that the subject was at once an
interesting one. They all knew and had ideas of Shakespeare and there
was no lack of variety of opinion. Amongst other things, Burton told us
that night of his life on the West Coast of Africa—“the Gold Coast”—
where he was Consul and where he kept himself alive and in good health
for a whole year by never going out in the midday sun if he could help
it, and by drinking a whole flask of brandy every day! He also spoke of
his life in South America and of the endurance based on self-control
which it required.
The third supper was one given on February 21, at Bailey’s Hotel, South
Kensington, by Mr. Mullen the publisher. Arthur Sketchley was this time
added to the party. The occasion was to celebrate the birthday of Mrs.
Burton’s book of travel, _A.E.I._ (Arabia, Egypt, India), a big book of
some five hundred pages. We were each presented with a copy laid before
us on the table. I sat between Lord Houghton and Burton. They were old
friends—had been since boyhood. Each called the other Richard. Houghton,
be it remembered, was Richard Monckton Milnes before he got his peerage
in 1863. The conversation was very interesting especially when Burton
was mentioning experiences, or expounding some matters of his knowledge,
or giving grounds for some theory which he held. The following fragment
of conversation will explain something of his intellectual attitude:
Burton had been mentioning some of his explorations amongst old tombs
and Houghton asked him if he knew the tomb of Moses. He replied that he
did not know it though of course he knew its whereabouts.
“It must be found if sought for within a few years!” he added. “We know
that he was buried at Shekem.” (I do not vouch for names or details—such
do not matter here. I take it that Burton knew his subject and was
correct in what he did say.) “The valley is narrow, and only at one side
and in one place would a tomb be possible. It wouldn’t take long to
explore that entire place if one went at it earnestly.” Again Houghton
asked him:
“Do you know exactly where any of the Patriarchs are buried?”
“Not exactly! But I could come near some of them.”
“Do you think you could undertake to find any one of them?” Burton
answered slowly and thoughtfully—to this day I can seem to hear the deep
vibration of his voice:
“Well, of course I am not quite certain; and I should not like to
promise anything in a matter which is, and must be, purely
problematical. But I think—yes! I think I could put my hand on Joseph!”
As he stopped there and did not seem as though he was going to enlarge
on the subject, I said quietly as though to myself:
“There’s nothing new or odd in that!” Burton turned to me quickly:
“Do you know of any one attempting it? Has it been tried before? Do you
know the explorer?”
“Yes!” I said, feeling that I was in for it, “but only by name. I cannot
claim a personal acquaintance.”
“Who was it?”—this spoken eagerly.
“Mrs. Potiphar!”
The two cynics laughed heartily. The laughter of each was very
characteristic. Lord Houghton’s face broadened as though he had suddenly
grown fatter. On the other hand Burton’s face seemed to lengthen when he
laughed; the upper lip rising instinctively and showing the right canine
tooth. This was always a characteristic of his enjoyment. As he loved
fighting, I can fancy that in the midst of such stress it would be even
more marked than under more peaceful conditions.
The last time we met Captain Burton during that visit was on the next
night, February 22, 1879, at supper with Mrs. Burton’s sister, Mrs. Van
Tellen.
He was going back almost immediately to Trieste, of which he held the
consulship. In those days this consulship was a pleasant sinecure—an
easy berth with a fairly good salary. It was looked on as a
resting-place for men of letters. Charles Lever held it before Burton.
In the old days of Austrian domination Trieste was an important place
and the consulship a valuable one. But its commercial prosperity began
to wane after the cry _Italia irredenta_ had been efficacious. The only
thing of importance regarding the office that remained was the salary.
III
Six years elapsed before we met again. This was on June 27, 1885. The
Burtons had just come to London and had asked Irving and me to take
supper with them at the Café Royal after the play, _Olivia_. That night
was something of a disappointment. All of our little _partie carrée_ had
made up our minds for a long and interesting—and thus an enjoyable—
evening.
Chiefest amongst the things which Irving was longing to hear him speak
of was that of the death of Edmund Henry Palmer three years earlier.
Palmer had been a friend of Irving’s long before, the two men having
been made known to each other by Palmer’s cousin, Edward Russell, then
in Irving’s service. When Arabi’s revolt broke out in Egypt, Palmer was
sent by the British Government on a special service to gather the
friendly tribes and persuade them to protect the Canal. This, by
extraordinary daring and with heroic devotion, he accomplished; but he
was slain treacherously by some marauders. Burton was then sent out to
bring back his body and to mete out justice to the murderers—so far as
such could be done.
Just before that time Burton had in hand a work from which he expected
to win great fortune both for himself and his employer, the Khedive.
This was to re-open the old Midian gold mines. He had long before, with
endless research, discovered their locality, which had been lost and
forgotten. He had been already organising an expedition, and I had asked
him to take with him my younger brother George, who wished for further
adventure. He had met my suggestion very favourably, and having examined
my brother’s record was keen on his joining him. He wanted a doctor for
his party; and a doctor who was adventurous and skilled in resource at
once appealed to him. Arabi’s revolt postponed such an undertaking; in
Burton’s case the postponement was for ever.
Our new civic brooms had been at work in London and new ordinances had
been established. Punctually at midnight we were inexorably turned out.
Protests, cajoleries, or bribes were of no avail. Out we had to go! I
had a sort of feeling that Burton’s annoyance was only restrained from
adequate expression by his sense of humour. He certainly could be
“adequate”—and in many languages which naturally lend themselves to
invective—when he laid himself out for it. The Fates were more
propitious a few months later, when Irving had a supper at the
Continental Hotel, on July 30—the last night of the season and Benefit
of Ellen Terry. By this time we understood the licensing law and knew
what to do. Irving took a bed at the hotel and his guests were allowed
to remain; this was the merit of a hotel as distinguished from a
restaurant. There was plenty of material for pleasant talk in addition
to Captain and Mrs. Burton, for amongst the guests was James McHenry, J.
L. Toole, Beatty Kingston (the war correspondent of the _Daily
Telegraph_), Willie Winter, Mr. Marquand of New York, and Richard
Mansfield. All was very pleasant, but there was not the charm of
personal reminiscence, which could not be in so large a gathering.
IV
The following year, 1886, however, whilst the Burtons were again in
London, we had two other delightful meetings. On July 9, 1886, Irving
had Sir Richard and Lady Burton—he had been knighted in the meantime—to
supper in the Beefsteak Room after the play, _Faust_. This was another
_partie carrée_; just Sir Richard and Lady Burton, Irving and myself.
That night we talked of many things, chiefly of home interest. Burton
was looking forward to his retirement and was anxious that there should
not be any hitch. He knew well that there were many hands against him
and that if opportunity served he would not be spared. There were
passages in his life which set many people against him. I remember when
a lad hearing of how at a London dinner-party he told of his journey to
Mecca. It was a wonderful feat, for he had to pass as a Muhammedan; the
slightest breach of the multitudinous observances of that creed would
call attention, and suspicion at such a time and place would be instant
death. In a moment of forgetfulness, or rather inattention, he made some
small breach of rule. He saw that a lad had noticed him and was quietly
stealing away. He faced the situation at once, and coming after the lad
in such a way as not to arouse his suspicion suddenly stuck his knife
into his heart. When at the dinner he told this, some got up from the
table and left the room. It was never forgotten. I asked him once about
the circumstance—not the dinner-party, but the killing. He said it was
quite true, and that it had never troubled him from that day to the
moment at which he was speaking. Said he:
“The desert has its own laws, and there—supremely of all the East—to
kill a man is a small offence. In any case what could I do? It had to be
his life or mine!”
As he spoke the upper lip rose and his canine tooth showed its full
length like the gleam of a dagger. Then he went on to say that such
explorations as he had undertaken were not to be entered lightly if one
had qualms as to taking life. That the explorer in savage places holds,
day and night, his life in his hand; and if he is not prepared for every
emergency, he should not attempt such adventures.
Though he had no fear in the ordinary sense of the word, he was afraid
that if any attack were made on him _apropos_ of this it might militate
against his getting the pension for which he was then looking and on
which he largely depended. We spoke of the matter quite freely that
evening. At that time he was not well off. For years he had lived on his
earnings and had not been able to put by much. The _Arabian Nights_
brought out the year before, 1885, produced ten thousand pounds. There
were only a thousand copies issued at a cost of ten guineas each. The
entire edition was subscribed, the amounts being paid in full and direct
to Coutts and Co., so that there were no fees or discounts. The only
charge against the receipts was that of manufacturing the book. This
could not have amounted to any considerable sum, for the paper was poor,
the ink inferior, and the binding cheap. Burton had then in hand another
set of five volumes of _Persian Tales_ to be subscribed in the same way.
Neither of the sets of books were “published” in the literal way. The
issue was absolutely a private one. All Burton’s friends, myself
included, thought it necessary to subscribe. Irving had two sets. The
net profits of these fifteen volumes could hardly have exceeded thirteen
thousand pounds.
V