CHAPTER V.
1907-1909.
The Twins were now twenty-six years old, and, as they had grown more easily distinguishable in person, so they had developed idiosyncrasies in character. Francis remained of the two the younger in mind. He took his soldiering very seriously, but for him the Service was a kind of enlarged Eton—a thing with its own standards and taboos, offering certain definite ambitions in work and sport, which enabled him to lead a full and satisfying life without questionings. He was never in doubt about the values of things—he took them for granted; whereas Rivy was for ever at the business of stock-taking. Francis had sometimes an uncanny power of going to the heart of a matter, but usually he accepted life as it came. Rivy was a more perplexed soul. His vision was wider than his brother’s, but more often confused. Both had immense high spirits, but Rivy had moments of real bewilderment and depression. He was apt to feel himself on the fringes of life when he longed to be at the centre, and since his thirst was habitually deeper than his brother’s, it was less readily quenched.
On another side the two were like the scriptural Martha and Mary. Long ago Rivy had made up his mind that he was Francis’s protector and guardian, and he laboured to make money, not for himself, but that his brother might never be stinted. That brother, as careless of cash as the lilies in the field, went whistling on his cavalier course, while Rivy knit his brows and laboured to increase their joint resources. In every circumstance he thought first of Francis—his comfort, his education, his career; and, without a touch of priggishness, subordinated every plan to this end. He never dreamed that he was doing anything unusual, so great was his fraternal pride. He had chosen for himself what seemed to him the natural and inevitable rôle of the prosaic brother of a phœnix. He was teaching himself, a civilian in a sedentary business, the first lesson of the soldier—subordination; and he learned it, I think, more perfectly than Francis. The difference appeared in their polo. Rivy was one of the steadiest players in England, never working for individual show but only for the game—a sober exponent of team-work. Francis was always incalculable, and sometimes fantastically bad; but on his day he could be marvellous—a thunderbolt, a tornado, a darting flame.
The year 1907 is a lean one for the Twins’ biographer. They were both at home, and so free from the necessity of correspondence. Rivy came back from Canada on 16th February to find Francis in London, and the two set themselves to console their brother Arthur in his bereavement. They collected an excellent lot of ponies, and the whole summer was devoted to polo, except for a course which Francis went through at the Cavalry School at Netheravon, where he began to work seriously for the Staff College. Rivy took enormous pains with his grooms and stablemen. He got beds from Heal for them to sleep in, and used to provide sumptuous teas for them after a successful match.
[Illustration: RIVY ON “CINDERELLA.”]
The brothers got together a polo team known as the Freebooters, in which Rivy was No. 2, Francis No. 3, and the Duke of Roxburghe back. Originally Cecil Grenfell was No. 1, but his place was afterwards taken by Captain Jenner, the joint polo manager at Ranelagh. This team won the Hurlingham Championship Cup, beating Roehampton (a team mainly composed of the brothers Nickalls) by four goals to two. That season established the fame of the Grenfell family on the polo field. I do not propose to describe the details of those old contests, but room must be found for a letter of Rivy’s telling of the greatest match of the season, England against Ireland, played at Dublin in Phœnix Park. The Irish team was: Major Rotherham, the Hon. Aubrey Hastings, Captain Hardress Lloyd, and Mr. P. P. O’Reilly. For England there played Rivy, Captain H. Wilson, Mr. Pat Nickalls, and Captain Matthew-Lannowe. England won by six goals to five, and Rivy had the satisfaction of hitting the winning goal. Here is his account:—
“There was a strong wind blowing down the ground which I think much spoilt the game. At times it was very slow and sticky—I think partly from the polo being so high class and each fellow stopping the other one hitting out. The ball continually hit a pony in the hock and bounded out, and we were several times stopped for accidents.
“I rode ‘Cinderella’ the first ten, and the dodger ‘Despair’ the second. Got away on the latter about mid-field, and, evading all opposition, got the first goal on the near side amid applause from the Saxons. Shortly afterwards Rotherham did a characteristic run down and scored amid yells from the Irish. The third ten I rode Roxburghe’s pony, which played fairly well, though he wants to be taught to jump off quicker. The fourth ten ‘Cinderella,’ who played magnificently: I got another goal on her at a difficult angle, and made two or three good runs. Pat (Nickalls) got two goals, and gave us a lead of four to two. Hardress then got a very good goal; the Irish threw their hats in the air all round the ground. Rotherham then got away and got another goal; you never heard such cheering in your life! In the fifth ten I got away on ‘Despair’ and went all down the ground, but somehow missed an absolute sitter. I think the wind affected the flight of the ball, as it only missed by inches. We then got a fifth and sixth: the latter was not allowed, as Bertie Wilson fell as the ball was hit and hurt his knee. The other side then got a fifth, and three minutes before time in the last chukker, in which I rode ‘Cinderella,’ I got a sixth, and so won the match. It was a pretty uncomfortable moment. Bertie Wilson cantered into the middle of the ground; ‘Cinderella’ turned like lightning, and I found myself forty yards in front of everybody. If I hit the goal, there was no glory; if I missed it, probably fearful abuse. Luckily I just snicked it through. I enjoyed the match very much indeed; it was such fun hearing those Irish chaps yelling the whole time.”
In August and September Arthur was at Howick with his children, and the Twins stayed there. Lord Hugh Cecil was among the visitors, and Rivy had the felicity of bringing Francis to sit at his feet. The City that year can have seen little of Rivy, and politics knew him not; indeed, I gravely doubt whether his books left their shelves. He had his brother beside him, and was bent on enjoying life. As soon as the season began they hunted together, and early in December Francis had a smash and broke his collar bone. The two went to the Duke of Westminster at Eaton for Christmas, and while there took part in an escapade which enjoyed for a day or two a wide notoriety. One evening after dinner the Duke suggested motoring, as the weather was clear and cold, and proposed going over to Cholmondeley Castle, where there had been some talk of a dance. Arrived at the Castle, they could get no reply to their ringing of the bell. The place stood silent and apparently untenanted, except that on the ground floor a window had been left open through which came the reflection of a bright fire. It was like a scene in a play, and the spirit of melodrama entered into the party. They crawled through the window, groped their way down a passage, and found themselves in the dining-room. It was empty, but all the lights were still burning, the sideboards gleamed with plate, and in the centre of the table stood a massive race cup which Lord Cholmondeley had won and which he valued highly. As they had come a long way to find no dancing or any other entertainment, the devil of mischief possessed them, and they resolved to carry off the cup as a token of the visit, and return it next day. So they put a bit of coal in the cup’s place, and departed as silently as they had come. In leaving the lodge gates the car swerved against a pillar, thereby leaving a clue to the fugitives.
There had been many burglaries about that time, and when the owner discovered that the cup had gone he was naturally excited, and telephoned at once to Scotland Yard. As bad luck would have it, the party turned up late next morning at the meet, and the Duke did not get an opportunity of speaking to Lord Cholmondeley. But from the rest of the field they heard high-coloured accounts of the outrage—how Scotland Yard was hot on the trail of the motor-car gang, who had fortunately damaged their car on the Castle gate-post. Somewhat later in the day the Duke found a chance of explaining the thing to Lord Cholmondeley, who took it in excellent part and was much relieved to know that the cup was safe. But the wheels of the law, once set in motion, could not easily be stayed. For days detectives were scouring Cheshire, examining every garage for traces of a maimed car, and the popular press in startling headlines told the tale of the great burglary. It was a sad blow to lovers of sensation when the matter was suddenly dropped and only a scanty explanation was forthcoming.
In April 1908 Francis returned to South Africa after winning the United Hunts Point-to-Point Race at Melton. He took with him a French tutor to assist him in acquiring the French tongue, for he was by way of working steadily for the Staff College. To show his linguistic progress he occasionally sent Rivy letters written in a very tolerable imitation of the language of Molière. The year in England had enormously refreshed him and prepared him to make the best of South Africa, and his first letters from Potchefstroom were very contented.
“Everything here has improved beyond recognition. I never saw a place so much improved in a year. Every one seems pleased to see me again. In fact, R. G., the regiment is A1, not a single stiff here at present. I quite forgot how happy I am with the regiment. I have so many interests, I love the soldiering, like polo, and love my books. I never knew I had so many—I have had to have two new bookcases made.”
His first trouble on his return was with a batch of ponies which Rivy had bought in Canada the previous year, and which by some blunder had been sent straight to South Africa instead of to England, where the Twins could have seen them and judged them. They proved perfectly useless, and most of them were sent home for Rivy to sell. Francis resumed his polo with great energy, and complained to his brother that he was an indifferent member of a very fine team. He found it hard to work with his tutor, however, principally from lack of time. “Some days I do five hours and the next one. To-day, for instance, 7 to 12 at the range in the hot sun; 12 to 1.30 in stables. I tried to do one hour with him after lunch, but felt so knocked out I had to stop.” Both brothers had compiled elaborate notebooks of polo tips in England; both had irretrievably lost them, and each accused the other. Francis records an Eton dinner on the 5th June with Lord Methuen in the chair, after a football match in which Mr. D. O. Malcolm, Lord Selborne’s private secretary, distinguished himself. He was shown by his colonel his confidential report, which he paraphrased as follows: “This officer is fit to be an adjutant. He is a very hard-working officer and has very great application. He is anxious to work for the Staff College, for which he is well suited. He is not fit at present, as he has been away from his regiment at Netheravon for about a year. He is not brilliant, but very ambitious. He has tact and a Good Temper. (What Ho!) He lacks ballast at present, but this will come, and then I expect great things of him.”
At the end of June he went to Bloemfontein for a polo tournament, and the 9th Lancers, who for the last six years had either won or been in the final of every tournament they played in, were soundly beaten by the 4th Dragoon Guards. The disaster sent Francis with renewed zest to his books. “I have been working like an absolute tiger this week. It is wonderful the amount one can do when one can live for it and has got nothing else to think of. I cannot stop thinking about what I have been reading. The result is that it affects my sleep a good deal, and I take a long time to go to sleep. I am certain if I worked like this for six months I should either get into Hanwell or into the Staff College, and not merely qualify. I sometimes feel worn out and long to chuck it, but in my heart of hearts I really love it.” About this time, too, he began to acquire a restless interest in Germany. He was always asking his twin about German finances, and whether she could afford the expense of a big war.
Meantime Rivy had been the target of fortune. His disasters began almost as soon as Francis left. On 16th April, while cantering his pony “Despair,” she suddenly reared and fell back on him, and the pommel of the saddle caught him in the pelvis. He was taken to St. Thomas’s Hospital, where his pelvis proved to be intact, but a muscle was badly lacerated. In the hospital he seems to have enjoyed himself.
“On Sunday morning we have Communion at 6.45 a.m. I could not help being vastly amused. The old chaplain read the prayers very quietly so as not to be too noisy, whereas in every cubicle were fellows, some with no insides, some with insides that had just been sewn up, and about five groaning and gasping for breath. Throughout the service the parson walked from bed to bed on tiptoe; quite unnecessary, considering the noise the patients were making.... There were about ten dashed pretty nurses, who told me about the patients they had had in the theatre. One of them told me that they had absolute proof that three hours’ sleep before midnight was worth four after. The man who goes to bed at 9 and gets up at 4.30 can work tremendously hard without any ill effects for years, whereas late-hour workers must knock off after a while. She gave as an example Society people, who always have to go to watering-places after the season, also M.P.’s; whereas nurses, surgeons, and lawyers can go plodding on. I shall try to go to bed early before big polo matches.”
He also made friends with an eminent Lambeth burglar who had two broken legs from having been pitched out of a house by an athletic curate. As Rivy felt almost a professional after his experience at Cholmondeley Castle, the two became confidential and exchanged reminiscences.
The next piece of bad luck was the sale of Francis’s ponies at Tattersall’s, which fetched very poor prices. For several weeks Rivy’s thigh was weak, and the appalling weather in early May made polo nearly impossible. He then went for his Yeomanry training at Stowe Park. He found great difficulties in getting together a good polo team that summer, and was persistently unlucky with his horse-coping. On the last Saturday in May he was playing in the match of the Roehampton team against the Rest of England, when he had a really bad accident.
“In the fourth ten I got clean away, but did not get my drive quite straight. I therefore had to make a hook drive, which went straight in front of goal. Lloyd and I were each going at somewhat of an angle. In stretching out to make a near-side stroke I think he just tipped my pony’s quarters; anyhow I lost my balance and fell in front of ‘Sweetbriar,’ who seemed to peck over. She also seemed to have eight legs, and all legs struck various parts of my body, two of them on the head. I am not sure whether she stepped on my ankle or twisted the spur. Anyhow, it at once hurt like blazes.”
At first the accident was diagnosed as merely a sprained and bruised ankle, and treated with massage. Rivy was well enough to dine out.
“In the evening I dined with Mrs. Ivor Guest—a tremendous dinner party of about fifty people. I hobbled in on crutches. The party was composed chiefly of pals of ours. I sat next to Lady Castlereagh and Walter Guinness. After dinner there was a small dance, which, of course, I could not take part in. However, I had a good yarn with Mrs. Asquith, who is a capital lady and always most interesting. I wish very much you had met her when you were here. I told her that I intended going to see her with you, and she told me she had been ill for the last ten months. She got on to the Education question, which was rather Greek to me, and I could only reply ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’”
The ankle did not get better in spite of the most drastic massage, and when Rivy got on a pony he found that he could put no weight at all on his left stirrup. It kept him awake at night, and since his doctor told him to jump on it and use it as much as possible, he suffered a good deal of agony during the day. Nevertheless he went down to Hatfield for Whitsuntide, going up to London daily for treatment. On the Tuesday after Whitsuntide he came up to play in the Champion Cup at Hurlingham.
“I was unable to put a boot on, and so played in a large shooting boot and puttee. I also had my stirrup all padded up. In the first five minutes Ted Miller caught me an awful bump on the ankle, soon followed by another from George Miller. However, I stood it all right that ten, and played pretty well, considering that I could not hit the ball at all on the near side. I got one fairly good goal, having gone half-way down the ground. I thought that my leg would get better as I warmed up. However, this was not the case. The second ten I again played pretty well, but found it difficult to stop the ponies, as my grip was getting weaker. The third ten the pain began to be awful, and every bump that I got seemed to be on my bad ankle. By the fourth ten it felt rather like pulp, and to keep on at all I had to catch hold of the breastplate. We were having a tremendous match. At half-time the scores were 3-2. Gill, Jenner, and Roxburghe were playing like trumps. The Millers were a little off, and kept giving us openings; but I felt myself getting weaker and weaker, and could never turn my ponies in time to make use of them. The fourth ten we bombarded their goal, but in the fifth and sixth ten I was an absolute passenger and did not hit the ball at all. My ankle hurt fearfully.... I never was so glad of anything as when that game ended, and limped back very sore to the pavilion, where I had a very hot bath.”
He went down to Hatfield that evening and got no sleep. Two days later he returned to London to have his ankle X-rayed. “Now comes the Waterloo part, for I found that instead of a sprained ankle I had a sprain on the outside and had broken the ankle bone on the inside. No wonder that I went through such pain. I went straight to Fripp, who told me that all the previous treatment had been entirely wrong. The worst thing I could do, of course, was twisting the ankle round, as the two bones were grating against each other. It seems a dream to me that I could have played in the Champion Cup with a broken ankle. Every time that any one bumped me in the polo match they were pushing these broken bones apart. No wonder towards the end of the match I squirmed when I saw anybody about to bump me.”
That was the end of the polo season for Rivy, and there was nothing for it but to sell his ponies.[11] The episode was properly commented on by Francis. “It sounds a terrible experience, but I am glad _you_ have been through it, as it shows _we_ are made of the right stuff, though Heaven forbid me skipping on a bust ankle!”
All that summer Francis was hard at work, for he proposed to take the qualifying examination for the Staff College, in order to gain experience. He was constantly deploring that he was so thick-headed about matters of military science, although his whole heart was in soldiering. On 26th July he writes:—
“Our drill this week has been the greatest fun in the world. Last Monday I commanded the squadron on a regimental parade—the first time in my life. It was rather a high trial, as, though we had been drilling slowly up to the present, the Colonel sounded the gallop at the start and drilled at the gallop for the rest of the day. I got on first-class. It is grand fun, as you are moving too quick to think, and if you make a mistake you cannot alter it. I was pleased, as I thought I knew no drill, but find I know a good deal more than many who have had a squadron some time.”
He meditated much about the art of war in those days, and confided the results to Rivy, and he was perpetually harassed by the conviction that a fight with Germany was imminent. He used to plague his brother with questions about German politics and finance, and got but scrappy answers. One of his conclusions was that polo was an essential part of a soldier’s education.
“I cannot understand why the infantry generals should be anxious to abolish polo—unless it be through ignorance. Has polo stopped John Vaughan, De Lisle, Haig, Hubert Gough, or any keen soldier?”
Rivy had told him that Hugh Cecil’s view was that it was more important for a country to have a good financial position than to have a good army when war broke out. This view Francis elaborately controverted, and was rather nonplussed to find that his uncle shared it.
He took the Staff College qualifying examination in the first week of August, and was very pleased with himself. The papers were far easier than he expected, and he thought hopefully of his future chances. As it turned out, it would have been impossible for him to qualify unless he bettered his languages, and it was this fact which made him so eager to spend his next leave in Germany. Immediately afterwards he started for manœuvres in the country north of Pretoria, along the Pietersburg line. He enjoyed himself immensely, and was especially proud of his hard physical condition.
“I find I stick hardships and discomforts far better than most. I have found my way about in this country by day and by night—no easy matter. I can outstay most of the others as regards fatigue. I seem to have got great confidence—far more than before—and I look on myself as as good a player as anybody else. Several chaps whom I used to look on as good I now look on as very bad.”
His keenness was so great that in every letter he enlarged upon the danger from Germany.
“I think every serious person out here is awakened by Herr Dernburg’s visit to this country. He is the Joe Chamberlain of Germany. I believe that the Dutch luckily hate the Germans, and will always support us against them.”
Early in October Francis thought that he deserved a rest, and went on a short visit to Johannesburg.
“I wrote and asked a charming French _chanteuse_ to come to lunch. She is the leading lady at the ‘Empire,’ at £200 a month. They are extraordinary, those French women. We were, besides her, five men, two of whom could not understand a word of French. She kept the whole table in fits of laughter, talking French all the time. I never met any one who said such things as she did. She fairly cleared the Carlton. Luckily, no one knew us.... In the evening we went to a dance at the County Club. You never saw such people—the _élite_ of Jo’burg. The French lady turned up, much to the disgust of the Jo’burg society. She arrived very late, and only stayed half an hour. In that time she cleared out the room all right.”
The autumn witnessed the annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina by Austria, and Francis thought he saw a chance of a European war. He cabled to Rivy begging him to arrange with Harry Lawson to have him sent to Bulgaria as the correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_. His brother John arrived in South Africa early in October, and Francis accompanied him on a visit to the Messina Mine. Most of his letters at this period are filled with uncommon good sense on the subject of the mine. He was convinced of its value, and anxious that his brother should give up all his time to it instead of going home to hunt. “Up here John seems to be lord of all he surveys, and yet he won’t survey it.”
The visit to Messina thoroughly unsettled him, and he found it hard to return to his books. “I am afraid you and I are very stupid,” he wrote to Rivy. “I do not seem to get on at all like others seem to at these books, and I work three times as hard.” He was inclined to be captious about his brother’s attainments. “Not a very good letter from you this time. You are relapsing into your old tricks. I don’t know how you discuss good and bad French when you don’t know French at all. I am not quite clear what you are learning. Is it the French language or French literature? The language, of course, is most useful, but I honestly think French literature is a waste of time to you. You know very little history, no geography—both subjects which arouse interests, form characters, and are essential for everyday life in London, and also for politics.” Early in November he wrote: “I am determined, R. G., to take my work a little easier in future, and then work like fury for the 1910 August examination, and then take a year’s holiday. Go a real bust—buy the best horse available, so as to win the National and Grand Military. Play polo seriously in 1911, and then go up for the exam. again the following year. So make a bit of cash, R. G., as my National horse will cost £2,000.” But R. G. did not make a bit of cash that year. He lost the better part of £5,000 on their joint account, though he got most of it back later.
Francis paid a short visit in the early winter to the Duke of Westminster’s estate in the Orange River Colony, and then was seriously occupied with polo at Potchefstroom. At Christmas he had his usual solemn thoughts, which in this case dealt with love and the conduct of life.
“I think in marriage no half-way contracts ever are successful. You should either be damnably in love, so that there can be no doubt, or not propose at all. I expect our name is down against some lady whom we are to marry.... Some are married with the same speed that John tried to rush the Government out here. They then spend their lives wishing they had been refused. Every one wants a pal. I strongly recommend you to make greater pals with the Uncle. Try to live with him; his company will improve your character, if you try to copy him, in every way. No man has more successfully worked in with other people, or gained more, by his generosity and _bonhomie_. Don’t bury yourself with a book, or you become inhuman, despondent, and narrow. Mix your books with the Uncle and become a cheery, cultivated English gentleman.”
But Rivy scarcely needed the advice, for he had not been troubling his books very much that year. He records that he tried in vain to read _David Copperfield_, always getting drowsy over it, so that he did not know whether it put him to sleep or he read it in his sleep. After his accident he became more or less of a butterfly, and his letters deal chiefly with country-house parties.
“Monday night I dined with Lady Alice Shaw-Stewart—a capital dinner party. I sat next to Lady Manners, and on her other side was Lord Cromer, and he talked most of the time to Lady Manners and me. He seemed a dear old boy. He has just gone on the committee of the Vivisection and Research League, and showed us a letter he had received from some woman, which abused him for about two pages and ended up, ‘I had always looked on you as one of our greatest dictators, but now I see you are nothing but an inhuman brute.’ Lady Manners asked him if he received many letters of this sort, and he said that in Egypt he got letters all the time saying that he was to be murdered next morning; and then he added in a kind of undertone, ‘Such damned rot, isn’t it?’ Last week he went down to stay near Winchester. The party consisted of Lord and Lady Cromer, Lord Elcho, and Lord Curzon. They went over to see Winchester on Sunday, when Lord Cromer overheard this from a Winchester boy, pointing at his party: ‘There are some regular ’Arries and ’Arriets come nosing round here on a Sunday.’ ... I told him the story about Windham when Teddy Wood did his Latin prose and he failed. It made Lord Cromer roar with laughter. Lady Manners asked him if Windham was very clever. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘he throws an extremely good salmon fly’—which I thought was rather characteristic.”
Rivy’s letters were full, too, of politics. He discussed France with Miss Muriel White, and learned to his horror that that country was “honeycombed with republicanism.” Apparently he was not aware of the nature of the French constitution. He met the McKennas at Nuneham, and considered the then First Lord of the Admiralty a “capital chap of the hail and hearty sort.” He had frequent talks with Mrs. Asquith—“a magnificent lady, as you never have to say a word.” From Mr. Asquith he heard something which confirmed his growing unfavourable opinion of the City. “He told me that in talking with financiers and asking their opinion he always found that they based their argument on no foundation—in fact, had no logic. I think this is very true. There is a famous Jew who, when asked about his partner’s capacity for making money, said he had a wonderful _nose_ for it. I think that is the only way to put it.” He spent a week with Lord Ridley at Blagdon, Northumberland, assisting him to defend a case in the police courts, where he was accused of furious driving. “Mat is a landlord of the right old English sort—works very hard, and has the right notion of helping everybody.” On that occasion he was taken to see the Roman Wall, of which he then heard for the first time.
In August he went with a company of the Scots Greys on manœuvres, and had the time of his life. They were very celebrated manœuvres, and led to furious disputes in military circles. Rivy was present at all the pow-wows, and recorded them with such gusto for the benefit of Francis that that exile was moved to remark, “It is an extraordinary thing, but the only two chaps who seem to enjoy manœuvres are F. G. and R. G. the banker.” But the manœuvre letters contain other things than the tactics of General Scobell. “On Thursday I dined with Cis Bingham at the Brigade Headquarters. Molly Crichton and Muriel Herbert came over from Wilton; the Duchess of Westminster, who was staying in a village two miles off, was to have come but didn’t. We had some capital chaff. Afterwards Hugh Grosvenor and I mounted horses and went across the Plain to draw the Duchess. We nearly got lost, but ultimately found her house. She had gone to bed (Lady Shaftesbury was staying there also), so we yelled at her window till finally the owner of the house, an old farmer, let us in. We soon had her down in a glorious silk dressing-gown, and made her dig out some supper for us. I did not get back until about 1 a.m.... On Friday afternoon I hacked over to tea with Malise Graham, and dined with the 1st Life Guards. After dinner we suddenly heard a band approaching—could not think what it was, so went outside, when it sounded ‘Charge,’ and about sixty fellows from the 1st Brigade fell on the old Households, and we had a desperate conflict. I kept out as much as I could. Brother John was dining with the 21st, so he accompanied them. Suddenly some one called out, ‘It’s that Rivy!’ and fell on _him_, at which about four fellows sat on his head. I returned to my camp about 11, to find Allenby’s Brigade were attacking Fanshawe’s. They broke everything in the Greys’ and Bays’ tents. It amused me awfully; but how young those fellows are to like a sort of ‘rouge scrimmage’ still!”
In the autumn Rivy’s mind turned to more serious matters, and he took to himself a French tutor. Francis had advised him to spend his week-ends in Oxford and study there; but he found that impossible. Rivy’s letters about this time are little more than a medley of City gossip, mingled with notes of his engagements. On the Eton Memorial he wrote: “I do not think it necessary for us to spend more money on this. I sent this summer six boys and two girls from the Eton Mission to Juanita’s cottage for a fortnight each. I think this is a much better way of spending one’s money than by subscribing to bricks and mortar for rich Eton boys _not_ to go into.” He went to Hatfield, where he made friends with Lord Althorp (now Lord Spencer); to the play with David Beatty, and discussed war in the East; to a dinner where Sir Hugh Bell instructed him in economics; and occasionally to the House of Commons. He went shooting with Mr. Pierpont Morgan. “Jack made me laugh very much. The Old Berkeley comes to his place twice a year. He made a remark to me which I thought would amuse you: ‘I do not mind boarding two or three foxes for them, but ten’s too many.’” In December at North Mimms he met Mr. Spender of the _Westminster Gazette_ and Lord Harcourt, and heard much political talk. “X. was sure that Lloyd George was a Protectionist and would one day be found on the Protectionist side. If the Liberal Government were defeated at the next election, the Tories would bring in Tariff Reform at once; this would split both parties, and new parties would be formed. Probably Lloyd George, and possibly Winston, would take the attitude that they had fought for Free Trade, but that, now the country had accepted Protection, unwillingly they must follow and form a Protection Radical Party. The Government most certainly would not go out this winter, but might after the Budget.” So much for the prophets!
The year 1909 was for Francis a period of intense activity, both of body and mind. He was in exuberant health, and something in the diamond air of South Africa so enlarged his vitality that in everything he undertook he rejoiced “as a young man about to run a race.” He began on the first day of the new year by winning the lemon-cutting prize at the South African Military Tournament. “Every one was very surprised, as honestly I had never tried it before. I never dreamed I could cut a lemon, but I proved to be the only one who could cut both twice.” He nearly won the tent-pegging too, and got into the final of the jumping. “I wish,” he laments, “Staff College work came as easy as sports.” That week he made the acquaintance of Lady Selborne. “I never liked a lady more. She is Linkie [Lord Hugh Cecil] in a comic mood in petticoats.” He returned to Potchefstroom, but found his study much interfered with by the conditions of life there, so at the end of January he went back to Johannesburg, hired a room, and sat down to his books. “Here I have read from 6 to 8.30 geography; 10 to 1, the _Times_ and organization; 2.45 to 4.15 I have done French lessons; 4.30 to 7, mathematics; dinner 7.15; then I read till about 10. You cannot imagine what a difference it makes to my work to work undisturbed. At Potch. I never sit down without being interrupted.” In February he was back at Potchefstroom, where he now took a room in the town. This was his programme: “About 10.30 I drive at full speed to my room and work till 2.15. I gallop back to a late lunch at 2.30; then practise or play polo. Commence work again at 5 in the town, and do not move till 9; then home, small supper, read a little, and go to bed. I thus, in addition to polo and three hours riding, do eight hours’ work. Every one thinks I am mad, but I know I am all right. Four hours at a sitting make the whole difference.”
Francis’s letters are full of the results of his new studiousness. For one thing he had come round to a belief in novels as an adjunct to the study of history.
“Few stolid history books tell you where Napoleon was wounded, or how Lannes died, or how Napoleon gained information of the Austrian position. Nor do they tell you that one of the chief causes of the failure of Massena in Spain was because he had Mlle. X. with him. He failed to pursue Wellington because Mlle. X. was tired. Ney refused to obey his orders since they had quarrelled because Ney found himself sitting next Mlle. X. at dinner. Junot quarrelled with Massena because his wife, a princess, refused to speak to Mlle. X. or to stay under the same roof. Such information is gained from novels—in conjunction with history.”
Sometimes there is military criticism:—
“I am thinking of writing to Colonel Repington to wake up our army about the use of machine guns. The nation which first studies them and employs them scientifically in the next war will gain an immense advantage over a nation which neglects their use. At present, I fear, we will be in the same position as the Austrians in 1866.”
From March onward, plans for 1910 and 1911 began to be Francis’s chief solace in his arduous labours. He implored Rivy not to sell his ponies, for in 1911 he meant to play polo hard, as well as ride in the Grand National. In March he was again in Johannesburg, recovering from a slight attack of fever, where he solaced his convalescence with Queen Victoria’s _Letters_, dined with the Selbornes, and had lengthy talks with Mr. Walter Long about army reform. “I prayed him never to forget that an army without discipline was worth nothing. The American army had drilled in drill halls, wore fine uniforms, could shoulder a musket; they also knew all the theory of marching. In practice they failed to march five miles, because streams, blackberry bushes, and tight boots took more hold of them than discipline and instinctive obedience, which is not obtained in a few hours’ training.” He was enthusiastic about the Union of South Africa, then in process of formation. “I am bound to say, R. G., that though we damned the Radicals for giving back this country, it seems to have been most beneficial. Of course things have turned out far better than they had any right to expect, but the result is the great thing.”
For the next month his letters are more full of polo than of his studies. “I school my ponies every afternoon _myself_. It has made a surprising difference. My thoroughbred Argentine is very handy, kind, and speedy. Two months ago she was unmanageable, so I have ridden her two hours in the ranks every morning when there was no parade. She does two hours’ steady trotting early, and at 11 she goes to the riding school for one hour. Every afternoon I school her or play her. The great mass of work at first had no effect, but by continuing it I wore her down, and now she is like a dog, so quiet and so kind.” His future plans were sorting themselves out. He saw before him a chance of qualifying for the Staff College, but he was aware that he could not enter it until he improved in his languages; so a long spell on the Continent in 1911 or 1912 was decided upon. But before that there was to be a sporting _annus mirabilis_. “You will be kept pretty busy when F. G. comes home. I intend having the best stud of ponies; six hunters at Melton; the smartest charger that will win at Olympia, and a GRAND NATIONAL WINNER and a TUTOR. We will kick off in September 1910.”
In April the 9th Lancers won the South African Polo Championship, beating the 3rd Hussars by eighteen goals to _nil_ (of which eighteen Francis scored twelve), and the 4th Hussars by nine goals to three. To celebrate the result Francis took a few days off in Johannesburg, staying with Hugh Wyndham. In April he had a fortnight’s machine-gun course at Bloemfontein, and was suddenly struck with the diversity of his accomplishments. “It often amuses me when I sum up the number of things an officer is supposed to know. Yet every civilian says he does nothing. Here am I working at ten subjects for Staff College, and supposed to be (and believe I am) an expert at riding. I am qualified for the Intelligence Department, having done a month’s course; know my regimental duties; and am now going very technically into machine guns; in addition to being a qualified veterinary and engineering instructor. Yet this is only about a quarter of what most chaps can do.”
In May he suddenly grew sleepless, and for a week or two was worried about his health. He finally cured himself by drinking hot milk before going to bed. Towards the end of the month he was busy with squadron training, and was inspected by Lord Methuen. “Providence smiled on us, and everything went off so well that the General almost fell off his horse with joy. His address at the end was as follows: ‘I congratulate the squadron leader on the way you have drilled and fought to-day. I think it is the best squadron I have ever seen in my life.’ I never saw a chap so pleased.” He proposed to take his examination in August, and then in September either to go on a big-game expedition or to visit Madagascar to learn French. The second alternative was soon dismissed, for he discovered that it would take as long to get to Madagascar as to get to England; but he did his best to persuade Rivy to join him in the big-game hunt. In June he was elected Secretary of the South African Polo Association, and at a polo dinner made one of his infrequent public speeches. “Every one said it was good. It was certainly a great deal the longest.” He was very pleased, too, with the result of the Brigade parades, where he was congratulated by the inspecting General. “The Colonel showed me my confidential report. It seemed rather flattering: ‘This officer is a candidate for the Staff College, and should make an excellent Staff officer (What Ho!). His most notable qualities are his excessive keenness and capacity for working; a very good officer, a fine horseman, and a most thorough sportsman’(!!).”
There was certainly no doubt about the excessive keenness of this very good officer. In the same letter he informed Rivy that in 1911 he intended to compete in the following events:—
1. Army Point-to-Point. 2. Grand Military. 3. Grand National. 4. Champion Polo Cup. 5. Inter-Regimental Cup. 6. Staff College.
“It would, of course, be a record to win the lot,” he adds modestly; “still, I hope to. I have written to Marcus Beresford (talk to him at the Turf, if you see him) and asked him for the best trainer.” A little later he sketches the following brilliant programme:—
“_Tableau._
“1911.—F. G. winning Grand Military, Grand National, High Jump at Olympia, Champion Cup, Inter-Regimental, Army P.-to-P., Staff Nomination for having beaten all previous records! Cheers from R. G. in the stands! Cheers from Bonbright, who seizes the stakes!
“I mean to have the best polo team and to improve polo, and if possible play for England and challenge the Yanks. I mean to have two shots at the Grand National and Gold Cup. I mean to get into the Staff College. I mean to wake myself up and remember Sir Richard Grenville’s dying words when his one ship took on fifty-four Spaniards, ‘Fight on—fight on!’”
These ambitions did not interfere with his laborious habits. On 1st August he notes that he had done over ten hours a day for six weeks! Then came the examination. “The flag dropped on Wednesday,” he wrote to Rivy, “since when I have been up and over. I think I am still going round, lying about third. We have a big, broad fence on strategy, six hours’ writing, and then a nasty strong one in geography and French.” On the 16th he wrote: “It has been a great experience to me. It is a hard examination, and requires numerous qualities to be successful. I got a little stale about the middle. I jumped some fences too big, others too low, and consequently pecked a good deal. I never came right off, and finished the course anxious to start again.” The result was that in his papers Francis did well enough to qualify for the Staff College. It was a remarkable performance, for he did it entirely to gain experience, since he was not actually competing that year; and to undergo so drastic a discipline merely for training argued a real power of self-command.
For Rivy the first half of 1909 was clouded by misfortunes. His Christmas visit to Eaton had fallen through, and he spent the last week of 1908 alone in London, reading Queen Victoria’s _Letters_ and Gladstone’s _Life_. He was glad of the solitude, for he had been rather depressed of late, reflecting upon the number of ragged ends in his life. “Still, I think if one _plugs_,” so he consoled himself, “the horizon suddenly clears and you find you have ‘arrived’ quite unconsciously. It is like polo: one plays (one thinks) badly against Buckmaster, but then go against a weaker team and you find you are in a class by yourself. When you feel downhearted, think of Lord Beaconsfield. He stood for Wycombe four times between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-four, and was beaten each time by an enormous majority. At last he got in somewhere; then made his first speech in the House, and every one roared at him, he made such a mess of it. But he didn’t care a hang.”
The depression was presently explained. Early in January he was threatened with appendicitis, but seemed to recover. He went down to stay with his uncle, Lord Grenfell, at Butler’s Court, where his reading combined the _Life of Jack Sheppard_ with the _Life of Queen Victoria_. “He was a notorious criminal of the eighteenth century, who did about twenty-four murders, and escaped from the condemned cell on four occasions. I described some of the details to Aline [Lady Grenfell], who hates horrors; so the Uncle goes into the next room and takes out an old scrap-book in which there was a picture of him in 1876 superintending the execution of three niggers in Kaffirland, which nearly made Aline sick.” Next week-end he went to Lillieshall, to the Duchess of Sutherland, where there was a cheerful party, and on the following Monday met Lord Haldane at dinner and discussed with him the Battle of Jena and the character of the Kaiser. “Haldane seems to me a wonderful cove.” On the Wednesday, while at dinner, he suddenly got ill; the doctors pronounced it acute appendicitis, and he was carried off to a nursing home. He was operated on at nine in the morning of 6th February by Sir Alfred Fripp. Not having acquired the operations habit, he took the matter very seriously, made a new will leaving everything to Francis, and composed a letter to his brother, only to be sent if he should not recover. In that letter he wrote:—
“I do not mind the idea of the thing at all. I feel that even if it goes wrong it cannot be helped. I have had a mighty good life, and have left nothing behind to be ashamed of, and can face the next world with a clear conscience.... Work hard at your books. You have a good reputation in the army, and only books and seeing plenty of the world can get you on; so whenever you feel lazy think that R. G. would like you to be working. Best love, F. G. You have been a good friend to me.”
The operation was successful, and Rivy, though he had an uncomfortable fortnight, was intensely interested in his sensations.
“I can remember talking a great deal of rot for the next hour, and having a long discussion with the nurse as to what sort of cable should be sent you. She was awfully amused. I knew I was talking rot, and yet I could not help it. I said such things as this: ‘Please cable to my brother at once that I have done the operation, and that I found it rather difficult to jab the appendix out, but that it was all done successfully.’ I said I particularly wanted to see Angus McDonnell, but that if he came up they must show him on to the roof. This went on till about one, when I got more sane and more uncomfortable.... I have been very surprised at the way they feed you up. I have something every two hours, and since Tuesday have been on solid food and having brandy three times a day. It is on occasions like this that being a teetotaller pays. I am quite sure the brandy benefits me three times as much as it would the ordinary invalid.”
Rivy’s convalescence was slow, and horses were out of the question for a month or two. He spent a good deal of his time at Cliveden with Waldorf Astor, and at the end of March was back at business. About this time he wrote to Francis:—
“You say you are getting unsociable. I don’t think this matters a hang. In fact, it is a good thing to want to be alone—it shows you have other interests; but then you must counteract this by making yourself pleasant when you happen to be with your brother officers, and live up or down to the person you happen to be with. You used to curse me for liking to be alone; yet I never seem to be alone. How much better it is to be talking to Rose or Marbot about Napoleon than to X. about a girl in Jo’burg. You and I always tend to be too much in Society. In fact, we are thick-headed because we never have been alone, and so never read the ordinary books that most boys know by heart.”
By a diligent régime and much dumb-bell exercise Rivy hoped to be able to play polo in May. Meantime he was much perturbed by Francis’s wild schemes for 1911, for Francis, in almost every letter, urged the wholesale purchase of ponies. “You forget that to have fifty ponies you will want £20,000 a year. Unfortunately, some of us have a way of spending about three times as much as we have, and so it becomes necessary now and again to sell a pony. You write very foolish remarks about ‘you City chaps always wanting to sell ponies.’ If a mug happens to bid me £300 for ‘Sweetbriar’ I shall certainly sell her.” Early in April he had a touch of influenza, and his letters show it. “I have bought you the Empire typewriter that you asked for. Miss Friston says that it will take you some time probably to learn how to work it at any speed, but I say it will take you an eternity. I would suggest your writing some of your letters to your friends (except me) by it. I cannot think what you have bought it for, as the time you will be spending learning this you might have spent in learning how to outwit Wilhelm in the next Anglo-German war.” Again: “You always laugh at me over money, but it is time you realized that I only save because I know far more about it than you.... You have about £16,000 in the world, and get on it about £1,000 a year. How can you buy National horses, hunters, and the best polo ponies on that? You will, by spending more capital on horses, have less to invest, and so will have far less income. The only soldiers who ride steeplechases now are people like McCalmont, who has about a million, and George Paynter, who has £10,000 a year. These are facts, and cannot be got away from; so be content to be the best polo player in the best regiment, not a sort of mug steeplechase rider whom no one hears of, and who goes bust.” In letter after letter Rivy laboured to win Francis from his grandiose schemes and confine his ambitions to polo. He wanted to make up a first-class team in which he should play No. 1 and Francis No. 2; but Francis was obdurate. “I am going for the National,” he wrote, “the Grand Military, the Army P.-to-P., and our own Regimental cups. I will not hunt.”
In May came the famous 1909 Budget, on which Rivy’s comments show commendable moderation. “They have hit the rich from every corner, and so every one is crying out. Personally I think there is a great deal to be said in favour of these socialistic Budgets. Old Rothschild will not eat any less _foie gras_ because he has to pay a little more for his motor cars.” But books and politics and everything else were presently submerged, by the challenge of the American team. For the rest of the summer Rivy’s letters contained little besides polo, and even the student at Potchefstroom was stirred to enthusiasm. Rivy was tried for the English team, but did not ultimately get a place in it, for the committee thought that his operation had left him too weak. He accepted the decision loyally, and constituted himself the whole-hearted champion of the team ultimately chosen. The Americans greatly impressed him. “They have taken the place by storm. Money is absolutely no object at all. They have twenty-five ponies—all English except one, and all costing about £500 each. Instead of being bad players, as everybody expected, they are remarkably good, and their ponies are really wonderful. They not only have their own, but all the ponies that other millionaires have been buying during the last three years.”
In May he went for a week to Holland with Lord Grenfell and his sister-in-law. “He and I went out one morning early, and were looking at some rather nice biblical pictures in a shop window when we suddenly heard a terrific squealing. ‘By Jove,’ said the Uncle, ‘they are killing a pig.’ So off we went at top speed, to find some wretched pigs not being killed, as he had hoped, but being dragged from a high cart and being weighed for market. ‘Most instructive,’ said the Uncle. ‘I should never have known how to catch a pig.’ We went also to a diamond-cutting place, and saw where the Cullinan diamond was cut. It was difficult to get into, so I made the Uncle tell the Jew boy at the door that he was ‘Gold Stick in Waiting’ to the King. You never saw such a wonderful effect as it had on the nosy brigade. They showed us a cup given by the King, on which were inscribed the words: ‘To Benjamin, Joseph, and Moses Asscher, for services to the King of England’—which amused us very much indeed.”
After that there is nothing but polo. Rivy records how at one match he heard a lady in a stand saying, “Why do we not breed such ponies as that in this country? The Americans understand everything so much better than we do.” “Whose was the pony? None but the famous ‘Cinderella,’ sold by R. G. to the Americans at the end of last year. There is a good deal of rot like this being talked.” Rivy played very well in some of the trial matches, and for long it was a nice question whether he would not be chosen for England. He watched the performances of his old “Cinderella” with intense interest. “They play her in plain double bridle, but she does not seem quite so handy as when I had her. She has her near fore all wrapped up in cotton wool. I would laugh if she broke down, for, as a Jew once said, ‘Ze Christians have ze shares and ve ze cash’—the Yankees have the pony and I the cash, with which I bought two others.”
His letters about this time are so technical that they scarcely bear reprinting, but they seem to me to contain the complete philosophy of polo, and I have no doubt that Francis greatly benefited by them. Rivy had made up his mind that if the cup were lost he and Francis would make up a team which would recover it, and he studied every detail of every game, and especially the American method of pony management, with an acumen which might have made his fortune on the Stock Exchange. When the disastrous final match was played and the cup was lost, Francis wrote:—
“A very good letter from you full of how we are going to beat the Yanks, but a telegram has appeared announcing England’s defeat by 18 to 7.... I await your explanations. We must now put our backs to it and go to America and get the cup back. It will give us a dashed good goal to work up for, and all England will give us a cheer. We must lie doggo for two or three years and practise, practise, practise. Will you take it on? I have never really laid myself out for polo as I am going to do now. Every yokel here is discussing our defeat. I don’t suppose in any colony there is a European who has not heard of it. So up, ye men, and at ’em!”
Rivy’s comments on the final match seem to me very sound. “The American ponies are undoubtedly better than ours: they jump off quicker and go in quicker. As for the striking of the Americans, they hit the polo ball as if it were a racquet ball. They are truly wonderful. Whenever they get away they get a goal. This, as you know, is exceedingly rare on English ground. Freake and Pat Nickalls, whom I have always admired as fine hitters, are children compared with the Yankees. The extraordinary part is that ‘Cinderella’ has proved by far the best pony on the American side. I do not know what they have done with her, or whether the English ponies are worse than they were last year, but on all sides yesterday I kept hearing, ‘What a wonderful pony that is that Grenfell sold!’ All the papers seem to rub it in, and it seems funny to think that this pony was hawking round London last year for six weeks and advertised in the papers before the Yankees bought it. I am now perpetually asked, ‘Why on earth did you sell her?’ My only answer is, ‘Why on earth did I break my leg?’” He was very rightly furious at the attacks in the papers on the English team, especially before the final—“I thought it very unsportsmanlike of a decent paper to cut off the heads of the English players before they had gone on the field,”—and he wrote an excellent letter in the _Times_ on this point. He summed up the situation thus to Francis:—
“Whitney determined to try to win this cup four years ago. For four years he has been collecting all the ponies he could, and all his team has been trained to play together. The Waterburys are two magnificent players. Larry is the champion racquet player of America. They have played polo since they were ten, and always together. To get the cup back we must do likewise.”
Among the many entertainments given to the American team was a luncheon at the Pilgrims’ Club, with Lord Grenfell in the chair. In the course of his speech he expounded the habits of his nephews. “I do not know if there is anybody present who is an uncle. If so I hope he has not been blessed with such nephews as the two that I have. One of them sits there; the other, thank Heaven, is engaged in South Africa. I have a small estate in the country where I hoped to feed and fatten some cattle and sheep. On my return from abroad I found some very thin cattle, some thinner sheep, and some extremely fat polo ponies. On making inquiries, my bailiff told me that he had received instructions that these ponies (sent down without my permission) were to be kept ‘in the field where the Uncle grows his hay.’ The result was that I had no grass; all the bark was torn from my trees; there was an enormous hole in my hayrick—which I think ‘Cinderella’ used as a bedroom; and in addition one day ‘Cinderella’ got loose and made a fine meal off my geraniums.”
I think it may fairly be said that of all polo players in England Rivy was the first to divine the secret of the American success, and to begin, laboriously and scientifically, to lay plans to win back the cup. He was very clear that it was no use attempting the thing in 1910, and that England must lie low until she had trained a team adequate for the purpose. His own dream was that that team should consist of himself as No. 1, Francis No. 2, Hardress Lloyd back, and either Bertie Wilson or Noel Edwards as No. 3. He estimated that it would take £15,000 to collect ponies. “If you and I practise hard together,” he wrote to Francis, “and discuss the thing every evening, we could, I am sure, become as good as the Waterburys. The whole American combination was due to them. They used to work out problems on the polo ground and then practise them.... It would be a big thing to do, and one worth _concentrating_ on; but if you are going to work for the Staff College and play this sort of polo, you must chuck all your other foolish ideas of steeplechasing.”
On 28th July he went to America for his firm, and stayed on his arrival with Mr. Devereux Milburn. With his host and the Waterburys he went down to Newport to see a match for the American Champion Cup. He was much struck by the hardness and fastness of the grounds, which reminded him more of India than of England. His conclusion was that the average American player was not good, and that the Meadowbrook team who had won the cup in England were in a class by themselves. He spent some pleasant weeks in America, busy in his American office and occasionally spending a Sunday with Jack Morgan. On their joint birthday he wrote to Francis: “I hope this is the last birthday for some years that we shall be separated. Twenty-nine seems dashed old to me; twenty-seven and twenty-eight always sounded young, but at twenty-nine we should start and be up and doing. I am getting on very well in my firm, and have really a great chance in the future. I made £1,500 this year, but, like an idiot, speculated last Christmas and lost some money and also spent about £2,000. Why do we spend such an infernal amount?” He varied his business with reading a good deal of Shakespeare, and Bryce’s _American Commonwealth_. One day he met an old Eton friend. “He amused me enormously, for he had, of course, got interested in a wonderful invention. Most people here are interested in large development schemes, but, just like a thin-headed Englishman, he has got a patent for closing whisky bottles. I did not like to suggest to him that the majority of people I met were searching for patents to open them.”
About the middle of September he came back to England to dispose of a new business which his firm had acquired, where he found his groom in despair over Francis’s African ponies, which had just arrived. “He wants to know what language they understand, as they don’t seem to answer to English.” At home he got the news of Francis’s success in his examination. “I never was so surprised in my life as to find that you had qualified in everything. You must have become a sort of encyclopædia, for there was not one word in any paper that I could have answered. It seems astounding what one can learn by hard work, for I have always felt that you would never pass anything except possibly the entry exam. into Eton!”
On 16th October he left again for America, and in the first week of November attended a dinner given to the American polo team. There he made a speech which was a huge success.
“These fellows have a pleasant way of suddenly calling upon you for a speech; so, as I was anxious to do it properly, I worked hard, not only at the words but at the delivery. At the dinner there were two hundred people collected from all parts of the U.S.A.—army officers from Wyoming, Canadian officers, Mr. Root (a member of the Cabinet), Mr. Bacon (Secretary of State), Mr. Milburn (head of the Bar), etc. I was not down to speak, and luckily the speeches were all very bad, with no jokes. I sat on the dais and was several times referred to, so that I felt I ought to say something. At the beginning of dinner I had told the chap next to me that Englishmen were very poor speakers. He said that it came quite natural to most Americans; so I said that nothing in the world scared me so much, and that I could not do it. Just before the end of the last speech I told him I felt I ought to say something, but did not know what to say. He thought it a capital joke, and sent a message to Whitney to call on me. I got up and, funnily enough, did not feel a bit nervous. It is an extraordinary feeling when you get hold of an audience. They roared at my jokes, much appreciated my references to Whitney and the way we admired him, and finally, when I sat down after fifteen minutes without a check, they all stood up and sang, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow.’ Mr. Root congratulated me, and Mr. Bacon said he had rarely heard a speech better delivered. I had to shake hands with everybody there. The Canadians were delighted that a Britisher should make a far better speech than any Yankee. My pal who sat next me told every one I had said I could not speak at all, and that I was quite unprepared. He thought me a sort of Demosthenes. Wasn’t it luck? Francis Fitzgibbon was told on the Cotton Exchange next day ‘that an Englishman had made the best speech that was ever heard of.’”
Altogether Rivy had a very pleasant time in America, getting through a great deal of business and making innumerable friends. Among his recreations he rated high the privilege of roaming through Mr. Pierpont Morgan’s private library. “Some of the things simply took one’s breath away, and I am surprised that the British Museum allowed them to get out of the country. He has all Macaulay’s original letters and manuscripts, also Walpole’s, Thackeray’s, and Dickens’s, etc., with scratchings out and alterations made with their own pens. Mr. Morgan, senior, is a jolly old boy with a very determined look. He has told me to go and see his library whenever I like.”
Meantime Francis, having finished his labours, thought of relaxation. He departed in the end of August for Barotseland in company with M. Chevally, the French Consul at Johannesburg. When they got into the lion country on the Kafue his companion grew restless. “I sleep in his tent. He got up three times in one night and asked my hunter if that was a lion, as he thought he heard a moan. Last night I said, ‘It is so hot; let us have the tent open.’ ‘All right,’ he said, but the moment he thought I was asleep he got up and laced the tent down.” M. Chevally, who had not come out to hunt, presently returned home, and Francis went northward into the thick bush of the Kafue region. His letters to Rivy are filled with the usual details of African hunting, and in deference to his brother’s profession he intercalates observations on trade. “The few traders I have seen are remarkable for their lack of organization. I have met four. All are broke, and yet at times make £5,000 a year.” He greatly admired his hunter, “an old filibuster who used to trade in poached ivory. He has had over £30,000 to his credit, but is now, like most, broke. He is a sort of Starlight in _Robbery under Arms_, and has twice been tried for murder. He began, as in novels, by being shipwrecked off Quilimane in 1869 or thereabouts, the Portuguese being then at war with the natives. A Jew in Quilimane supplied the natives with powder, which my chap carried through to them and was paid £1,000.”
After leaving the Kafue Flats he rejoined the railway and went on to Broken Hill, whence he intended to trek towards Lake Nyassa. So far he had done fairly well with buck, having got eland, lechwe, roan, reedbuck, oribi, and wildebeest. At Broken Hill he was entertained by Charles Grey,[12] and had much trouble with his hunter, who was drunk for two days. “I have been in the most awful places after him. He broke into my chest and got rid of four bottles of brandy.”
In the beginning of October he was on the Loangwa River. “Charming country, big rivers, high hills, good trees; but Providence (Whose doings we cannot understand) has provided a Tsetse Fly that worries you all day.” There he got a charging rhino at about twenty yards, and had a stiff hunt after that most dangerous of quarries, the African buffalo. “I led the attack, cleared for action, with a nigger behind me to keep me on the spoor. We went through very high thick grass, like that stuff we got tiger out of in India. The niggers at first refused to go in. After seven hours’ pursuit we passed a tree up which, luckily, we put a nigger, and so spied the buffalo lying down fifty yards ahead. I climbed the tree like a monkey and killed him. The whole hunt lasted eight hours: we started just before daylight on the spoor, and killed the buffalo at 1.30—walking all the time in the middle of a Central African summer.” A little later he tried for an elephant, but had no luck, though he had four separate hunts, each taking about four days’ hard walking. Presently he came to the conclusion that he had had enough of it. “It made my mouth water,” wrote Rivy, “to hear that you were surrounded by about 6,000 big game, while I am surrounded by about 6,000 big noses of the Jewish fraternity.” But hunting, as Francis found it, was too monotonous a pursuit to satisfy him indefinitely. “It is extraordinary what regular walking does. I look on fifteen miles as nothing. Last week I did twenty miles and shot a hippo after it before sundown. That means a walk from Wilton Park to Ascot.” This is the young gentleman who in India had decided that Providence did not mean him to use his legs otherwise than on horseback! On his journey down country he did 150 miles on foot in six and a half days. On the 8th of November he was back in Potchefstroom. “I am exceedingly glad I have done the trip, but somehow I do not feel very anxious to do it again. But it has been a most thorough mental rest.”
The effects of the mental rest and the hard training which Francis had enjoyed were speedily apparent in his letters home. He discovered in himself a strong disinclination to turn his attention to books. His thoughts were all now on physical culture, on polo, and on his approaching return to England. He pled with Rivy to buy ponies, all of the best and as many as possible. “If you will not spend the money yourself, for Heaven’s sake spend mine.” He repudiated with scorn the suggestion that he should write of his Central African experiences in a magazine. “Don’t you become a Jew boy,” he told his brother, “because you live among them. I will never, never write to a magazine. Nothing does a soldier more harm. Every person has his own job, and the successful man is he who knows what is his and sticks to it. Literature and money-making are not mine, and I intend to interfere in neither. I think you are very ill-advised to be always looking for cheap advertisement.” The great sporting events for which he intended to enter monopolized his mind. At a boxing match, observing that one of the combatants sipped champagne between rounds, he came to the conclusion that even a teetotaller like himself might benefit by a little dope before a big match, so he implored Rivy to get the best medical opinion on the subject. He was not prepared to abate one jot of his ambitions. “You will be miserable,” he wrote in his Christmas letter, “to hear that I have definitely decided to try to win the National in 1911 and 1912. So my next few years will be busy to become (1) best polo player at No. 2; (2) to win the National; (3) to become a p.s.c. Best love, old boy; don’t become too studious, or you will become too old too soon.... Please stop going to theatres until I arrive, as it is miserable to come home full of cheer to find a _blasé_ brother whose method of entertainment is to give you a dinner at the Bath Club! We are going to have none of that. We will kick off at the Ritz, and laugh at the Gaiety.” In this mood of vaulting ambition and ecstatic vitality Francis’s period of soldiering abroad reached its close.