theatre. When he came he and Mrs. Gladstone were always in good time. I
once asked him, thinking that he might have mistaken the hour, in which
case I would have borne it in mind to advise him on another occasion, if
he liked to come early, and he said:
“Yes. I have always made it a practice to come early. I like to be in my
place, and composed, before they begin to tune the fiddles!”
This is the true spirit in which to enjoy the play. No one who has ever
sat in eager expectation can forget the imaginative forcefulness of that
acre of green baize which hid all the delightful mysteries of the stage.
It was in itself a sort of introduction to wonderland, making all the
seeming that came after as if quickened into reality.
XLVI
THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD
I
I never saw Benjamin Disraeli (except from the Gallery of the House of
Commons) but on the one occasion when he came to see _The Corsican
Brothers_. Irving, however, met him often and liked to talk about him.
He admired, of course, his power and courage and address; but it was, I
think, the Actor that was in the man that appealed to him. I think also
that Beaconsfield liked him, and gauged his interest and delight in
matters of character. Somehow the stories which he told him conveyed
this idea.
One was of an ambitious young clergyman, son of an old friend of the
statesman, who asked him to use his influence in having him appointed a
Chaplain to the Queen. This he had effected in due course. The Premier,
to his surprise, some time afterwards received a visit from his protégé,
who said he had, on the ground of the kindness already extended to him,
to ask a further favour. When asked what it was he answered:
“I have through your kindness—for which I am eternally grateful—been
notified that I am to preach before Her Majesty on Sunday week. So I
have come to ask you if you would very kindly give me some sort of hint
in the matter!” The Premier, after a moment’s thought, had answered:
“Well, you see, I am not much in the habit of preaching sermons myself
so I must leave that altogether to your own discretion. But I can tell
you this: If you will preach for fifteen minutes the Queen will listen
to you. If you will preach for ten minutes she will listen with
interest. But if you will preach for five minutes you will be the most
popular chaplain that has ever been at Court.”
“And what do you think,” he went on, “this egregious young man said:
“‘But, Mr. Disraeli, how can I do myself justice in five minutes!’” Then
came the super cynical remark of the statesman-of-the-world:
“Fancy wanting to do himself justice—and before the Queen!”
II
Sir George Elliott, Bart., M.P., the great coal-owner, was a friend of
Irving’s and used to come to the Lyceum. One night—4th December 1890—at
supper in the Beefsteak Room, he told us of a visit he paid to Lord
Beaconsfield at Hughenden Manor. Disraeli had taken a fancy to the old
gentleman, who was, I believe, a self-made man—all honour to him. He was
the only guest on that week-end visit. His host took him over the house
and showed him his various treasures. In the course of their going
about, Beaconsfield asked him:
“How do you like this room?” It was the dining-room, a large and
handsome chamber; in it were two portraits, the Queen and the Countess
Beaconsfield—Disraeli had had her title conferred whilst he was still in
the Commons. At the time of Sir George’s visit he was a widower.
“I thought it odd,” said Sir George, “that the Queen’s picture should
hang on the side wall whilst another was over the chimney-piece, which
was the place of honour, and asked Dizzy if they should not be changed.”
He smiled as he said, after a pause:
“Well, Her Majesty did me the honour of visiting me twice at Hughenden;
but _she_ did not make the suggestion!”
“He said it very sweetly. It was a gentle rebuke. I don’t know how I
came to make such a blunder.”
There is another reading of the speech which I think he did not see.
III
Disraeli was always good to his Countess, who loved and admired him
devotedly. She must, however, have been at times something of a trial to
him, for she was outspoken in a way which must now and again have galled
a man with his sense of humour; no man is insensitive to ridicule. One
night at supper in the Beefsteak Room, a member of Parliament, who knew
most things about his contemporaries, told us of one evening at a big
dinner-party at which Disraeli and Lady Beaconsfield were present. Some
man had been speaking of a new beauty and was expatiating on her charms—
the softness of her eyes, her dimples, her pearly teeth, the
magnificence of her hair, the whiteness of her skin—here he was
interrupted by a remark of Lady Beaconsfield made across the table:
“Ah! you should see my Dizzy in his bath!”
IV
James McHenry told me an anecdote of Disraeli which illustrates his
astuteness in getting out of difficulties. The matter happened to a lady
of his acquaintance. This lady was very anxious that her husband should
get an appointment for which he was a candidate—one of those good things
that distinctly goes by favour. One evening, to her great joy, she found
that she was to sit at dinner next the Premier. She was a very
attractive woman whom most men liked to serve. The opportunity was too
good to lose, and as her neighbour “took” to her at once she began to
have great hopes. Having “ground-baited” the locality with personal
charm she began to get her hooks and tackle ready. She led the
conversation to the subject in her mind, Disraeli talking quite freely.
Then despite her efforts the conversation drifted away to something
else. She tried again; but when just close to her objective it drifted
again. Thus attack and repulse kept on during dinner. Do what she would,
she could not get on the subject by gentle means. She felt at last that
she was up against a master of that craft. Time ran out, and when came
that premonitory hush and glance round the table which shows that the
ladies are about to withdraw she grew desperate. Boldly attacking once
more the arbiter of her husband’s destiny, she asked him point blank to
give the appointment. He looked at her admiringly; and just as the move
came he said to her in an impressive whisper:
“Oh, you are a darling!”
V
Irving told me this:
He was giving sittings for his bust to Count Gleichen, who was also
doing a bust of Lord Beaconsfield. One day when he came the sculptor,
looking at his watch, said:
“I’m afraid our sitting to-day must be a short one—indeed it may be
interrupted at any moment. You won’t mind, I hope?”
“Not at all!” said Irving. “What is it?”
“The Premier has sent me word that he must come at an earlier hour than
he fixed as he has a Cabinet Meeting.” He had already unswathed the clay
so as not to waste in preparation the time of the statesman when he
should come. Irving was looking at it when something struck him. Turning
to Count Gleichen he said:
“That seems something like myself—you know we actors have to study our
own faces a good deal, so that we come to know them.”
Just then Disraeli came in. When they had shaken hands, the sculptor
said to the new-comer:
“Mr. Irving says that he sees in your bust a resemblance to himself.
Disraeli looked at Irving a moment with a pleased expression. Then he
walked over to where Irving’s bust was still uncovered. He examined it
critically for a few moments; and then turning to Count Gleichen said:
“What a striking and distinguished physiognomy!”
XLVII
SIR WILLIAM PEARCE, BART.
I
Sir William Pearce—made a Baronet in 1887—was a close friend of Irving.
He was the head of the great Glasgow shipbuilding firm of John Elder &
Co. In fact he _was_ John Elder & Co., for he owned the whole great
business. He went to Glasgow as a shipwright and entered the works at
Fairfield. He was a man of such commanding force and ability that he
climbed up through the whole concern right up to the top, and in time—
and not a long time either for such a purpose—owned the whole thing. He
built many superb yachts, notably the _Lady Torfrida_ and the _Lady
Torfrida the Second_. The first-named was in his own use when we were
playing in Glasgow in the early autumn of 1883. We accepted Mr. Pearce’s
invitation to go on a week-end yachting tour, to begin after the play on
the following Saturday night, 1st September.
II
The _Lady Torfrida_ was berthed in the estuary of the Clyde off
Greenock; so a little after eleven o’clock we all set off for Greenock.
It had been a blustering evening in Glasgow; but here in the open it
seemed a gale. I think that the hearts of all the landsmen of our party
sank when we saw the black water lashed into foam by the fierce wind.
Pearce had met us at the station and came with us. Of the yachting party
were his son the present Baronet, and a College friend of his, Mr.
Bradbury. With the bluff heartiness of a yachtsman Pearce now assured us
that everything was smooth and easy. At the stairs we found a trim boat
with its oarsmen fending her off as with every rising wave she made
violent dashes at the stonework. One of the men stood on the steps
holding the painter; he dared not fasten it to the ring. From near the
level of the water the estuary looked like a wide sea and the water so
cold and dark and boisterous that it seemed like madness going out on
such a night in such a boat _for pleasure_. There were several of us,
however, and we were afraid of frightening each other; I do not think
that any of us were afraid for ourselves. Ellen Terry whispered to me to
take her son, who was only a little chap, next to me, as she knew me and
would have confidence in me.
We managed to get into the boat without any of us getting all wet, and
pushed off. We drove out into the teeth of the wind, the waves seeming
much bigger now we were amongst them and out in the open Firth. Not a
sign of yacht could be seen. To us strangers the whole thing was an act
of faith. Presently Pearce gave an order and we burned a blue light,
which was after a while answered from far off—a long, long distance off,
we thought, as we looked across the waste of black troubled water,
looking more deadly than ever in the blue light—though it looked even
more deadly when the last of the light fell hissing into the wave. By
this time matters were getting really serious. Some one had to keep
baling all the time, and on the weather side we had to sit shoulder to
shoulder as close as we could so that the waves might break on our backs
and not over the gunwale. It was just about as unpleasant an experience
as one could have. I drew the lad next to me as close as I could, partly
to comfort him and more particularly lest he should get frightened and
try to leave his place. And yet all the time we were a merry party.
Ellen Terry with the strong motherhood in her all awake—a lesson and a
hallowed memory—was making cheery remarks and pointing out to her boy
the many natural beauties with which we were surrounded: the distant
lights, the dim line of light above the shore line, the lurid light of
Greenock on the sky. She thought of only one thing, her little boy, and
that he might not suffer the pain of fear. The place seemed to become
beautiful in the glow of her maternity. He did not say much in answer—
not in any enthusiastic way; but he was not much frightened. Cold waves
of exceeding violence, driven up your back by a fierce wind which beats
the spray into your neck, hardly make a cheerful help to the enjoyment
of the æsthetic!
Irving sat stolid and made casual remarks such as he would have made at
his own fireside. His quiet calm, I think, allayed nervous tremors in
some of the others. I really think he enjoyed the situation—in a way. As
for Pearce, who held the tiller himself, he was absolutely boisterous
with joviality, though he once whispered in my ear:
“Keep it up! We shall be all right; but I don’t want any of them to get
frightened. It is pretty serious!” I think we settled in time into a
sort of that calm acceptance of fact which is so real a tribute to
Belief. It certainly startled us a little when we heard a voice hailing
us with a speaking-trumpet—a voice which seemed close to us. Then a
light flashed out and we saw the _Lady Torfrida_ rising high from the
water whereon she floated gracefully, just swaying with wave and wind.
She was a big yacht with 600 h.p. engines, after the model of those of
the _Alaska_, one of Pearce’s building, then known as the “Greyhound of
the ocean!”
I think we were all rejoiced; even Pearce, who told me before we went to
our cabins in the early morning that all through that miserable voyage
in the dark the sense of his responsibility was heavy upon him.
“Just fancy,” he said, “if anything had happened to Irving or Ellen
Terry! And it might have, easily! We had no right to come out in such a
small boat on such a night; we were absolutely in danger at times!”
We were not long in getting aboard. The whole yacht seemed by comparison
with the darkness we emerged from to be blazing with light and filled
with alert, powerful men. We were pulled, jerked, or thrown on board, I
hardly knew which; and found ourselves hurried down to our luxurious
cabins where everything was ready for our dressing. Our things had
fortunately been sent on board during the day; anything coming in the
boat would have had a poor chance of arriving dry.
III
In a very short time we were sitting in the saloon, light and warm and
doing ample justice to one of the most perfect meals I ever sat down to.
It was now after one o’clock and we were all hungry. After supper we sat
and talked; and after the ladies had retired we sat on still till the
September sun began to look in through the silk curtains that veiled the
ports.
Pearce was a man full of interesting memories and experiences, and that
night he seemed to lay the treasures of them at the feet of his guests.
But of all that he told—we listening eagerly—none was so fascinating as
his account of the building and trial trip of the _Livadia_.
This was the great yacht which the Czar Alexander II. had built from the
designs of Admiral Popoff of his own navy. It was of an entirely new
pattern of naval construction; a turtle with a house on its back. The
work of building had been entrusted to the Fairfield yard with _carte
blanche_ in the doing of it. No expense was to be spared in having
everything of the best. Under the circumstances it could not be
contracted for; the builder was paid by a fixed percentage of the prime
cost. The only thing that the builder had to guarantee was the speed.
But that was so arranged that beyond a certain point there was to be a
rising bonus; the shipbuilder made an extra £20,000 on this alone.
Pearce told us that it was the hope of the Czar to be able to evade the
Nihilists, who were then very active and had attempted his life several
times. The _Livadia_ was really a palace of the sea whereon he could
live in comfort and luxury for long periods; and in which by keeping his
own counsel he could go about the world without the knowledge of his
enemies. It was known that the Nihilists regarded very jealously the
building of the ship, and careful watch was kept in the yard. One day
when the ship was finished and was partly coaled, there came a wire from
the Russian Embassy that it was reported that there were two Nihilists
in the shipyard. When the men were coming back from dinner, tally was
kept at the gate where the Russian detectives were on watch. I have seen
that return from dinner. Through the great gates seven thousand men
poured in like a huge living stream. On this occasion the check showed
that _two men were missing_. The Nihilists also had their own Embassy
and secret police!
It then became necessary to examine the ship in every part. Those were
the days of the Thomassin “infernal machine,” which was suspected of
having been the means by which many ships had been sent to the bottom.
These machines were exploded by clockwork set for a certain time, and
were made in such fashion as would not excite suspicion. Some were in
the form of irregularly shaped lumps of coal. The first thing to be done
was therefore to take out all the coal which had already been put in.
When the bunkers were empty and all the searchable portions of the ship
had been carefully examined inch by inch, a picked staff of men opened
and examined the watertight compartments. This was in itself a job, for
there were, so well as I remember, something like a hundred and fifty of
them. However, as each was done Pearce himself set his own seal upon it.
At last he was able to assure the Grand Duke, who was in command and who
had arrived to take the boat in charge, that she was so far safe from
attack from concealed explosives. When she was starting the Grand Duke
told Pearce that the Czar expected that he would go on the trial trip.
In his own words:
“It is not any part of a shipbuilder’s business to go on trial trips
unless he so wishes. But in this case I could not have thought of
refusing. The Czar’s relations with me and his kindness to me were such
that I could not do anything but what would please him!”
So the _Livadia_ started from the Clyde with sealed orders. Her first
call was at Holyhead. There they met with a despatch which ordered an
immediate journey to Plymouth. At Plymouth she was again directed with
secret orders to go to Brest, whither she set out at once.
At Brest there was an “easy,” and certain of the officers and men were
allowed shore leave. The “easy” should have been for several days; but
suddenly word was received to leave Brest at once; it was said that some
suspected Nihilists were in the way. The men on shore were peremptorily
recalled and in haste preparations were made for an immediate start for
the south. Pearce’s own words explain the situation:
“I went at once to the Grand Duke Nicholas and remonstrated with him. ‘I
can answer for the workmanship of the _Livadia_,’ I said; ‘but the
design is not mine, and so far as I know the principle on which she has
been constructed has never been tested. There is no possibility of
knowing what a ship of the pattern will do in bad weather, and that we
have ahead of us. It is dirty now in the Bay and a storm is reported
coming up. Does your Highness really think it wise to attempt the Bay of
Biscay under the conditions?’ To my astonishment not only the Grand Duke
but some of his officers who were present, who had not hitherto shown
any disposition to despise danger, spoke loudly in favour of going on at
once. Of course I said no more. I had built the ship, and though I was
not responsible for her I felt that if necessary I should go down in
her. We had a terrible experience in the Bay, but got through safely to
Ferrol. There she was laid up in a land-locked bay, round the shores of
which guards were posted night and day for months. It was necessary that
she should lie up somewhere as the dock at Sebastopol—the only dock in
the world large enough to hold her—was not ready.
“And whilst she lay there the Czar was assassinated.” This was on 13th
March, 1881.
IV
Then he went on to tell us how once already the _Livadia_ had been the
means of saving the Czar’s life:
“When she was getting on I had a model of her made—in fact, two; one of
them,” he said, turning to me, “you saw the other day in my office.
These models are troublesome and costly things to make. The one which I
intended as a present to the Czar cost five hundred pounds. It was my
present to his Majesty on the twenty-fifth anniversary of his
succession. It arrived the day before, 17th February—29th February old
style. The Czar was delighted with it. That evening there was a banquet
in the Winter Palace, where he was then in residence. He had been
threatened for some time by means of a black-edged letter finding its
way every morning into the Palace, warning him in explicit terms that if
his oppression did not cease he would not live past the anniversary of
his accession, which would be the following day. When he was leading the
way to the dining-hall from the drawing-room he turned to the lady with
him—Princess Dolgoruki, his morganatic wife—and said:
“‘By the way I want to show you my new toy!’ The model had been placed
in the salon at the head of the grand staircase and they stopped to
examine it.
“As they were doing so the staircase down which they would have been
otherwise passing was blown up. The Nihilists, knowing the exact routine
of the Court and the rigid adherence to hours, had timed the explosion
for the passage of the staircase!”
We spent a delightful Sunday going around Arran. We dined at anchor in
Wemyss Bay and slept on board. On the forenoon of Monday we went back to
Glasgow.
XLVIII
STEPNIAK
I
On the evening of 8th July 1892, after the play, _Faust_, Irving had
some friends to supper in the Beefsteak Room. I think that, all told, it
was as odd a congeries of personalities as could well be. Sarah
Bernhardt, Darmont, Ellen Terry and her daughter, Toole, Mr. and Mrs. T.
B. Aldrich of Boston, two Miss Casellas—and Stepniak. It was odd that
the man was known only by the one name; no one ever used his first name,
Sergius. Other men have second names of some sort; but this one, though
he signed himself S. Stepniak, I never heard spoken of except by the one
word. I sat next to him at supper and we had a great deal of
conversation together, chiefly about the state of affairs in Russia
generally and the Revolutionary party in especial. He, who had
presumably been in the very heart of the Revolutionary party and in all
the secrets of Nihilism, told me some of his views and aspirations and
those of the party—or rather the parties—of which he was a unit.
II
Stepniak was a very large man—large of that type that the line of the
shoulders is high so that the bulk of the body stands out solid. He had
a close beard and very thick hair, and strongly marked features with a
suggestion of the Kalmuck type. He was very strong and had a great
voice. On 1st May of that year, 1892, I had heard him speak at the great
meeting in Hyde Park for the “Eight-hour” movement. There were in the
Park that day not far from a quarter of a million of people, so that
from any of the tribunes—which were carts—no one could be heard that was
not strong of voice. The only three men whom I could hear were John
Burns, Stepniak, and Frederick Rogers—the latter a working bookbinder
and President of the Elizabethan Society—also one of the very finest
speakers—judged by any standard—I have ever heard.
In our conversation at supper that night he told me of the letters which
they were receiving from the far-off northern shores of Siberia. It was
a most sad and pitiful tale. Men of learning and culture, mostly
University professors, men of blameless life and takers of no active
part in revolution or conspiracy—simply theorists of freedom, patriots
at heart—sent away to the terrible muddy shores of the Arctic sea, ill
housed, ill fed, overworked—where life was one long, sordid, degrading
struggle for bare life in that inhospitable region. I could not but be
interested and moved by his telling. He saw that I was sympathetic, and
said he would like to send me something to read on the subject. It came
some weeks later, as the following letter will show:
“31 BLANDFORD ROAD,
BEDFORD PARK, W.,
_August 2, 1892_.
“DEAR MR. STOKER,—It is a long time that I wanted to write to you
since that delightful party at the Lyceum. But I was so busy, and the
parcel I wanted to send to you for one reason or another could never
be ready, and so it dragged on. What I send to you is the paper, _Free
Russia_, I am editing. Since you have read all my books and have been
so kind and indulgent for them, and so interested in the Russian
Cause, I suppose you will be interested in the attempt to give a
practical expression to English sympathies. Unfortunately the
collection of _Free Russia_ is incomplete (No. 1 is quite out of
print). But what you will have is quite sufficient to give you an idea
of the whole.
“May I ask whether you live permanently in London and whether I may
hope to see you some day once again?—Yours very truly,
S. STEPNIAK.”
III
In February 1893 Stepniak saw Irving and Ellen Terry play in _King
Lear_. The following excerpts are from a letter which he sent to Irving—
a long letter of fourteen pages. I was so struck with it when Irving
showed it to me that I asked leave to make a copy. Whereupon he gave me
the letter.
This was after a habit of his; he generally gave me things which would
be of interest to me—and to others. In the letter Stepniak said: