CHAPTER IV.

1906-1907.

To Rivy, as to most people in England, the absorbing question in the first months of 1906 was politics. Seeing a fight approaching, he conceived it his duty to hurl himself into the thick of it. He had lessons in elocution, and discovered that he breathed badly; so he promptly had his adenoids removed, and, a little later, a broken bone taken from his nose. When convalescent he went to stay at Eaton with the Duke of Westminster, who had returned that morning from South Africa. There he found a large party, and had some good shooting and hunting. “Imagine the change of times. The meet was twenty-six miles away, and formerly they had to catch the 8.50 train, and did not get back until 9 at night. Yesterday Bend Or and I and John Fowler, with Bend Or driving, went in a new motor car he had just bought of 100 horse-power that could go ninety miles an hour. It certainly frightened the life out of me. We were supposed to start at 10, but started at 10.25, and arrived first at the meet at 10.55.... Wilfred Ricardo was in fine form. He made me roar at breakfast one morning, when, owing to his not having a horse, he was going out snipe-shooting. ‘To think—ah—that I—ah—am forty years old and have never shot a snipe! I feel the same sort of sensation that these big-game shooters must know when they are approaching the tracks of a rhino.’”

After that, in Rivy’s phrase, “everything was elections.”

“I thought it a rare chance, so have been hard at it. On Monday I went to a meeting of 1,500 beyond King’s Cross. The Conservative candidate spoke, but they booed and shouted and yelled to such an extent that he had to give it up, and I did not speak. Five were chucked out. Such remarks as these: ‘Hold your jaw!’ ‘Shut your mouth!’ ‘Chuck him out!’ ‘Where’s Joey?’ ‘Pigtails!’ amused me much. Tuesday another meeting at Bow, in the East End. Much more quiet. The candidate spoke so long and was asked so many questions that I only spoke about six minutes. Wednesday went down to Enfield, in Essex, and found a huge meeting of 2,000. Felt in the deuce of a funk for a minute. There was a perpetual uproar of ‘No Chinese!’ ‘Pigtail!’ etc. The candidate spoke for three-quarters of an hour, and then they howled him down. Then R. G. spoke for twenty minutes amid a continual roar. I had to wait half this time while they yelled at me. Rare good fun. On such occasions one is not a bit nervous, only pining for them to stop and then give them hell. The speaker after me began: ‘Ladies and gentlemen’ (roars)—‘Gentlemen’ (roars)—‘Gentlemen and others’ (laughter and uproar). After interruption—‘One thing is very sure: if they tax brains you’ll get rich.’ Thursday evening went down to Aylesbury, and motored seven miles from there to a village and spoke on Chinese Labour for thirty-five minutes. They were perfectly quiet; only two interruptions, both of which I sat on.”

The next week he went to Woolwich, where he had a rough time with Chinese Labour. “They kept interrupting me and yelling that they considered the black man to be every bit as good as the white man. To which I replied: ‘Would you allow your daughters to marry black men?’ ‘Of course we would,’ they all shouted. That pretty well knocked me out.” Two days later he went to Loughton, in Essex, where he had a real success. “Just as the meeting began they gave me a few points that had been raised, and asked me to deal with them. I got in the deuce of a funk and thought I was certain to make a mess of it. Luckily, the points that were raised were such as I knew pretty well and could fit into my speech without very much altering the trend of my arguments. I spoke for three-quarters of an hour without faltering, and was never interrupted. Afterwards there were some Radicals there who asked me questions, and I had to answer them on the spur of the moment. Luckily again, I knew their points, and was able to score off them, which made things even better.” The result of the elections Rivy took in a philosophical spirit. His chief grievance was that so many of his “pals have been chucked; on the other hand, Helmsley, Dalmeny, and Thomas Robartes got in.”

Meantime Francis was happy and busy in his new regiment. He changed to David Campbell’s squadron, and was hoping soon to be promoted Captain. His letters show that he was very satisfied with life—his friends, his work, his house, and his prospects. It was the time of the Prince of Wales’s tour, and at Christmas he was engaged in the special manœuvres arranged in honour of the visit, his division being commanded by Douglas Haig. There he met innumerable old friends, and his letters home are chiefly lists of names. He kept open house at Rawal Pindi, and entertained the officers of the 60th and various German attachés, besides an occasional English lady. He described the manœuvres in a long letter to his uncle, Lord Grenfell, which Rivy was good enough to admit was written in better English than usual.

“To all soldiers the organization was wonderful. Lord K. refused any rehearsal of any sort. On Wednesday night the Northern Army was thirty-five miles away—marching and fighting from 8 p.m. to 2.30 a.m. On Thursday at 10, 60,000 troops were fighting hard twenty-three miles from Pindi. At 7 on Friday morning the whole, having slept in their various camps round Pindi, and having cast their khaki, were paraded in tunics, with spotless clothes and with shining buttons. By 3.30 p.m. on that day the great review was over without a hitch of any sort or kind. And yet they say the British officer is a fool and knows nothing! One squadron only of the 3rd Hussars appeared in khaki, some of their transport having been delayed. This, to my mind, is wonderful, and no one who has seen the transport out here, with the thousands of camels, mules, carts, ponies that 60,000 troops require, can but be amazed. It must be remembered that individually not one native servant or driver knows who he is or where he is going, and yet 60,000 troops were concentrated that night without difficulty.”

Francis gave up his rôle of host with regret. “I quite miss them,” he wrote. “The chances a soldier gets of living under the same roof as a woman are few and far between in this country. I felt quite homely with ladies under my roof and larky maids picketed in the garden.”

When it was all over he went off to Calcutta to a polo tournament, where Francis Scott, who was on the Viceroy’s staff, introduced him to the Mintos. There he met Harry Rawlinson and consulted him about his next step. He had been offered a post on Lord Kitchener’s staff, and was for some days in a state of indecision. Finally he refused it. “It is a question of chucking the regiment now and going on the staff, or becoming an adjutant and then going to the Staff College. The latter is far soundest.” He, however, settled with Victor Brooke that if serious war broke out on the frontier he would be allowed to go there, and he arranged with Lord Burnham that if the affair were only a small campaign he would go as _Daily Telegraph_ correspondent. In the intervals between polo and discussions about his career he found time to go over a jute mill and send Rivy a lengthy description of the process; to pump a German officer, Count Krage of the Headquarters Staff, on the German Army system; and to take his full share in the gaieties of Calcutta. “In the evening I went to a State ball, and enjoyed it very much indeed. Danced in a circle set apart for P. Wales, and so found no crush! What a nice girl Harry Crichton’s is! By Jove! R. G., these ladies do look different to the old trouts out here. We had quite a family supper party—Francis Scott, Lady Eileen [Elliot], Harry and his lady, and Mrs. Derek Keppel.”

At the end of January he was back at Rawal Pindi, where he became the hero of a celebrated adventure. I quote his laconic narrative.

“I went to a domino dance. Douglas Compton, Freddie [Blackwood], and I dined alone with a bottle of pop. I went dressed up by Lady Blood as a woman. Capital fun, especially as Freddie defied me to go into the ladies’ dressing-room. When the ‘Take off masks’ sounded, with about sixty women I went into the dressing-room, where they were all powdering their noses. All went well until the time arrived when I was the only one left masked. Some girl came up and said, ‘Who is it? I believe it’s a man.’ She then started out to find her mamma, and I started out to find the door. For days afterwards all Pindi rang with this scandal. A man in the ladies’ dressing-room! The story I heard, as told in our mess, was this: ‘A man went into the ladies’ dressing-room, and found all the ladies undressing. One lady saw it was a man, gave a yell, and fainted. All the ladies then dashed at the man to tear his clothes off; he, however, flew for the door, pursued by furious women, and just escaped. All the husbands are now looking for the man, and everybody is saying what they would do with him if they caught him.’ I agreed with everybody that it was dashed bad form, and could not think who it could be.”

But he was busy with other things than such escapades. He employed a coach to come to him twice a week for military history, and he entertained a German cavalry officer, Count Königsmarck, from whom he learned much that was faithfully recorded in his diary. He was also working hard at Hindustani for his examination. In March his polo team won the Inter-Regimental Cup in the Subalterns’ Tournament, and in April he went on leave on a trip to the frontier. “A capital chap, Howell of the Intelligence, is arranging my show,” he told Rivy. “Remember Howell’s name. One day you will see him General, Sir or Lord—a mighty clever varmint.”[9]

I have before me Francis’s journal of his frontier tour. He started from Peshawur on the 11th of April, and travelled by Kohat and Bannu, followed the Afghan border line, and penetrated some distance into Waziristan. The diary is a vigorous narrative, but most of the reflections on frontier policy are now out of date. The writer was especially uneasy about Russia, and has much to say about the Muscovite strategic railways. After his fashion he intersperses many good stories. One is of a certain border chief who possessed a small cannon and only one bullet. Whenever he saw his enemy from the top of a tower he used to let the cannon go. The enemy, having to pass the tower most days to go to work, used to pick up the bullet, and every now and then an intermediary was sent to buy it back for two shillings! The document was sent to Rivy, who remonstrated on Francis’s carelessness. “You must really send your letters in stronger envelopes. You say, ‘Treat these papers as most confidential,’ and yet they appear to have come to pieces and to have been put into an envelope by the Post Office.”

In May Francis was back at Murree, very anxious about his English leave, since the 9th Lancers were under orders for South Africa. He hoped to get it in October before sailing, and be in England for the winter. At home he proposed to do three things—to learn German and study Germany, to go over the Franco-German battlefields, and to do a course of topography at Chatham. A long letter from Harry Rawlinson in June advised France instead of Germany, and comforted Francis on the sore subject of the transfer to South Africa on the ground that the dangerous state of affairs among the Natal natives would probably soon lead to a native rebellion. A letter from Francis to Rivy about this time is typical of the writer, who was passionately generous provided his virtues could escape notice. “I am so grateful to you for making me some cash, and I have been able to put it to good use. Our riding master, K.—such a good chap—could not afford to bring his wife and two children to the hills for the summer, so I have taken a house for him. It cost about £50, but it was well worth it. You have no idea how awful it is for women, and especially children, in Pindi in the hot weather. Please treat this as _entre nous_ and tell no one else. K.’s letter of gratitude is really due to you, for if it was not for you I would be begging myself.”

In June Francis went in for his examination in Hindustani, which he passed with honour, and then departed for a short trip in Kashmir. The rest of the summer was rather poisoned for him by a row which he had in July with a native pleader, who ventured to race him on a dusty road in a tonga, and was summarily called over the coals for his pains. The pleader brought an action against Francis for assault, and was emboldened by the behaviour of the military authorities, who foolishly tried to persuade him to keep it out of court. For a few weeks Francis was a prominent figure in the native press—“this brutal lieutenant, who is a son of a lord and a friend of the King’s,” etc. The situation was a delicate one, for the 9th Lancers had once before got into similar trouble. Francis, knowing that Lord Kitchener wished the thing not to come to trial, and desirous to obey his chief, was yet most unwilling to climb down when he believed he had a good case, and in the end managed to effect a satisfactory settlement to the credit of both parties. This gave him an occasion to expound to Rivy his philosophy of life. “I have been guided by a few principles: (1.) Form your own opinions and never mind other people’s. (2.) Keep to the truth and have it out. It has always beaten lies and liars. (3.) What is done is done, and no amount of regrets and groanings can undo it; so make the best of a bad job. (4.) Make sound dispositions, and leave the rest to fortune. (5.) Deal with natives by deeds rather than by entreaties.”

Rivy, when his electioneering was over, went to hospital for a slight operation, and two days later rose from his couch to go to the House of Lords to hear Lord Milner on Chinese Labour. He was busy with discursive reading, principally Pope’s _Odyssey_ and Disraeli’s _Lord George Bentinck_—“also a topping book entitled _The Education of an Orator_, by Quintilian, which is a translation. It discusses the whole of one’s education from the age of about four, and tells you the best books to read, how to learn to discuss and argue, etc. What made me get it was that in Gladstone’s _Life_ I found continual allusions to it, and also in Macaulay.” A little later we find that earnest politician in the House of Commons under the Gallery. “In the evening Joe and Balfour had a rare crack at the Government. A fellow called Smith[10] made what is said to be one of the best maiden speeches for the past twenty years. He spoke for an hour, and kept the whole place in roars of laughter. Even in the report in the _Times_ it appears amusing. You must imagine a very sarcastic voice, and each time the Ministers cheered he gave them a whack in the mouth with some snub. I never enjoyed anything better.”

Rivy felt the shades of the prison house beginning to close about him. A proof was that he was more amused by politics than by racing. Here is his reflection upon the Grand Military: “I can remember thinking the fellows who rode at Sandown most wonderful heroes, whereas on Saturday it struck me that there were some rather moderate jockeys flogging round on very moderate horses.” But youth revived in May when, after doing a Yeomanry course at Netheravon under Reggie Barnes, he began his polo season. He generally played with his brother Cecil, and the combination was highly successful. This kind of sentence occurs constantly in his letters: “R. G. has never been in such form since he played polo. He got five goals—two runs down half the length of the field and one down the whole length, and a goal at the end of each.” But his letters did not please the exile in India. “You never mention the family doings,” Francis expostulated, “or the gossip or scandal of the town. I see in a paper Lady Warwick is a Socialist. You never told me. Write news, R. G.—not _Times_ articles, as I take in the _Mail_. I always understood the advantage of a shorthand typist was the amount they could write and their powers against fatigue. I recommend the sack of yours, as he seems to own neither of these qualities.”

In June Rivy changed his business. He had met Mr. Bonbright in America, and he now went into partnership in an English branch of his house, of which the directors were Lord Fairfax, Mr. Fisher, and himself. His agreement entitled him to twenty-five per cent. of the profits, and at the moment the prospects seemed rosy. Francis received the news gravely. “Well done, R. G. It does seem funny: you a £4,000-a-year johnnie and F. G. a £400-a-year-in-debt chap. You deserve all you have got. But don’t become a miser, or selfish, and think it necessary that you should spend it all on yourself. You can help our pals royally.”

The letters of the brothers that summer are amusing reading. Francis, busy with work for examinations and doleful about his leave, took up a critical attitude to life. He saw faults in his colleagues which he had not noticed before; one he described with startling insight as “the sort of chap who gets up things on board ship.” But he was also slightly critical of Rivy. “Thanks awfully for the evening waistcoats,” he wrote. “Did you see them before they started? I asked you for the latest fashion! The ones you have sent I know when I left England were beginning to get out of date in Putney!” Rivy, indeed, that summer was in a somewhat schoolmasterly mood. Francis, a little bored with slogging at Hindustani, asked for an occasional novel—something that would be “a relief at night and would ginger one up for the history books.” He mildly suggested some book like _Mademoiselle de Maupin_. Rivy replied by sending him that gloomy work, _The Jungle_, and advising him if he wanted anything more to read _Pickwick_ again. “Windham Baring told me his father [Lord Cromer] always rereads these old books, and so what you hear him quote is only some joke he has read a hundred times.” He added the recommendation that Boswell’s _Johnson_ and Macaulay’s _Life_ were books that Francis should always be reading in his spare moments. A week later he gave him his philosophy of reading.

“Do please give up reading rubbishy novels. There are books that have survived the criticism of centuries; surely these must be more worth reading than worthless stuff that lasts about three weeks. Such books as Walpole’s _Letters_, Shakespeare’s _Plays_, Boswell’s _Johnson_, Macaulay’s _Life_, Lecky’s _History_, Morley’s _Miscellanies_, and even Morley’s _Gladstone_ are all things that are easy to read and will profit you ten thousand times more than what you call ‘light reading.’ I advise you to send a telegram to Calcutta and ask them to send you a cheap copy of Shakespeare or Walpole’s _Memoirs_, and read them. If on the receipt of this you wish me to pick out ten or twelve books of the above sort, well bound, and send them out, let me have a cable reading ‘Good books.’ Or if you still want me to send rubbishy novels, send a cable reading ‘Novels.’”

As Rivy then proceeded to give a long account of a dinner with Leonard Brassey, a ball at the Ritz, and the final of the Handicap Tournament at Hurlingham, Francis may have felt that his mentor scarcely did justice to his innocent desire for a little variety in life. “I am honestly played out in this country,” he wrote, “and now hate everything. We are existing, not living. I long for a dart in England or France.... You see, R. G., out here one is rather run down and sometimes depressed. The hot weather and all its discomforts are raging. Last year I slept in the day, but this year I am fighting it. One can read a stiff book for a certain time every day, but a punkah swinging backwards and forwards and creaking and squeaking, together with a temperature of over 100 degrees, drives one either to sleeping or to an exciting book in an armchair.” And he went on to explain that he was satiated with the _History of Cavalry_ by Denison, and wanted “such books as the _Life of Madame de Pompadour_, or Napoleon as a _man_, naming the women as well as the countries he captured.”

[Illustration: FRANCIS AT POLO.]

With his departure in prospect he wished to give presents to his friends, and especially to the Bloods. For Sir Bindon he suggested a good sporting book with pictures of “lions seizing goats, lions springing on donkeys, etc.” But Rivy would have none of it. He was determined that Sir Bindon should have a “really well-written book,” and suggested “_The Life of Chatham_, Walpole’s _Letters_, or, still better, Plato’s _Republic_.” Small wonder that Francis began to fear that his brother’s culture was becoming too much for him.

In September everything changed. Francis Scott invited him to Simla to stay with the Mintos, and life was once again rosy. “By Jove, R. G., this _is_ a holiday. Here I am in a house _with stairs_, and built like an English country house. I could only gasp for two days. One is simply taken aback by the niceness of these people. Lord Minto is the best, after the Uncle, I ever met. He is full of stories, and loves talking of racing and forgetting he is Viceroy. The other day he said, ‘I always wish I had been a trainer.’ Can you picture any other Viceroy saying that?... It is a great business getting the Ameer to come here. Formerly he had always flatly refused. But the Viceroy wrote him such a kind, friendly letter that he said he felt it his duty to please so great a gentleman.”

He spent a happy week at Simla in the company of the Viceroy and Lady Minto and the daughters, who were reverentially known throughout India as “the Destroying Angels.” “After tea we all rode—His Ex., Lady M., Francis, and I. The two girls, Lady Ruby and Lady Violet, ride astride. We galloped like blazes down the roads. The girls made me, as they go like hello. I went for a long ride with Lady Violet. She is a master on her horse; drives a coach, etc.; at the same time loves music, art, etc., and hates men. There is a cup here for gymkhanas, held weekly, for the lady who wins most events. She was second; Lady Eileen third. She said, ‘Father was simply beaming all over last night after you talked to him; he came home and said, “I must put our boy in that regiment.”’ ... His Ex. told us stories of Indians, his trips in the wilds, cock-fighting, prize-fighting, etc.—how he took Jem Mace to Harrow and backed him against ‘Bottles.’ Lady M. begged me to try and find her some chaps for their staff. It is a pretty difficult job, for every one falls in love with the girls.... I rode home with Francis, and we bucked of old days. We are determined to have you out, and your books in the fire. I hear you have become a sort of heavy-handed old man. You had better drop that when I return. We’ll go back three years then, give the books a holiday, and enjoy life.” That visit to Simla was the beginning for Francis of a close friendship with Lady Minto, who had given him a new insight into the problems of British rule in India. He continued to correspond with her and to expound his views on administration. “I have just written a long letter to Lady Minto, begging her not to worry what India thought of their rule, for it was so difficult to judge a ruler. Time always alters opinions.” And he gave as an example the somewhat disparate cases of Warren Hastings, the Duke of Wellington, and Mrs. Fitzherbert! The life of the last-named lady was one of the few lighter books which Rivy had allowed him.

Francis arrived in South Africa towards the end of October, and was presently settled with the regiment at Potchefstroom. The immediate result was a fit of profound depression. Potchefstroom is a pleasant little town in a green, well-watered valley, but after India it appeared comfortless and the life dull. South Africa seemed the home of senseless extravagance. As he wrote to Lord Grey: “You cannot realize the terrible expenses incurred here for merely living. We spend four times what we spent in India, and get no return whatever.” The country, too, at the moment was suffering from severe financial depression, which intensified the gloom. There were other drawbacks. “We have been given some terrible horses for this regiment,” Francis wrote. “They hardly represent what the richest nation should give its best regiment. We are quite ashamed, as we own all sorts except cavalry horses.” On the last day of the year, in a letter to Rivy, he summarized his annual record with some melancholy. “I fear I have done little to advance myself and improve my brain powers. A visit to the frontier, a language, one big polo tournament, a first-class row, and the departure from India are the main things I have done.” He cheered up a little after beating the 4th Hussars at polo by six goals to two when the Ninth had only nine ponies and their six best polo players on leave. But the bright spot on his horizon was his leave, which was due in the beginning of the new year.

Meantime Rivy had been living a strenuous life. He rushed out to South Africa in August for a short visit, and was back again in October. In November he was at Hatfield, learning wisdom from Hugh Cecil, which he duly recorded for his brother’s advantage, and making a speech at the United Service Institution which earned him a letter of thanks from Sir Robert Baden-Powell. On the 16th of that month he started with his brother Arthur for Mexico, the party including Arthur’s wife, Lady Victoria, and his sister, Mrs. Bulteel. An assiduous study of Prescott’s _Conquest of Mexico_ on the voyage was his preparation for the country, and in the few weeks there he certainly managed to achieve a considerable variety of experiences. His cousin, Mr. Max-Muller, was at the Embassy, and through his agency the party had an interview with President Diaz. His reading during his stay is characteristic in its catholicity—“_Kim_, the Travels of St. Paul in the Bible, and some of _Paradise Lost_.” Early in January the party were with the Greys at Government House, Ottawa, where Lady Victoria was suddenly taken ill with typhoid, contracted in Mexico. Rivy was eager to be home to meet Francis on his arrival in England, but felt bound to stay in Ottawa. “Without me old Arthur is practically alone. Besides this, the Greys have no relations here except strange A.D.C.’s, and it is a relief, I think, to them to feel they have some one on Arthur’s side to keep him company and cheer him up. Mate, I would give a thousand pounds to have met you on your arrival and gone with you and shown you all the changes since you left. I feel fearfully sick at the idea of any one meeting you before me.... Ernest is to be your valet until we get another good one; I can get the Bath Club valet to look after me when you take him anywhere. I have told him to get your room ready and put flowers there and make it comfortable. Tell him to put some of my pictures there also, and to get my sitting-room straight for you. Remember it is to be your home.... Don’t go and see my office or partners till I get back. In fact, F. G., I feel terribly sick at your seeing any one or being told anything about the family doings except by R. G.”

Francis arrived on February 9, 1907, but Rivy was not there to meet him. Arthur’s young wife did not rally from her fever, and died on 3rd February. It was the first time for long that death had entered the family, and it was a sober and saddened Rivy that returned to rejoin his brother in that communal London life to which they had so joyfully looked forward.