Part 6

A different meeting was when my wife and I met him one morning in the rooms at Monte Carlo. It was settled that we should have lunch together at the Café de Paris, which they went away to order, leaving me, unfortunately, at my own request, to join them in a few minutes. When I did so, my face must have told the sad story of those few minutes, as Arthur called out, cheerily: "Come along, B; this way to the cemetery."

He had a peculiarly entrancing personality: he lived a happy but not a long life, laden with honours.

When I had the sad privilege of being one of the pall-bearers at his funeral I was as {96} impressed as I was pleased to see the blinds of the Athenæum drawn as we passed on our way to St. Paul's Cathedral, where, I have always understood, he was laid to rest by the wish of Queen Victoria.

Music had to bear three heavy blows, dealt within a few days, when Charles Stanford, with his keen sense of humour, Walter Parratt, with his winning personality, and Frederick Bridge, with his ever-ready stories of killing fish, left us. I knew them all, but Parratt was never my guest. He had no London home. We met pleasantly sometimes at the Athenæum, and my nearest link with him was that of having been born in the same year. Bridge and I received our knighthoods together. I have happy recollections of a stay at Harrogate when Stanford was also there. Although he lived so many years in London, he seemed to me to have left Dublin only recently; but what lingers most firmly in my mind in regard to him, is the majestic march he composed for Irving when Tennyson's play _Becket_ was produced at the Lyceum. The last time I listened to its strains was at his own funeral service in the Abbey.

[Sidenote: Frederic Clay]

The name of another old musical friend, Frederic Clay, must be remembered, for it was in his company that I met Gounod. I {97} dined with Clay when he lived with his father, who was the friend of Lord Beaconsfield, and known as the finest whist-player in London. I once saw the old gentleman in the cardroom of the Garrick, where he distinguished himself by revoking.

Frederic Clay's career was checked by a long and distressing illness. His fame will live in the remembrance of his melodies: "She wandered down the Mountain Side," "The Sands of Dee," and, above all, by the ever-enduring "I'll sing thee songs of Araby."

{98}

VI

LITERATURE

"Think of the achievements of a great writer--a great poet--their works embrace the past, the present, and the future: their fame is for ever growing through the gifts they have made to the dead: the pleasure they have still the power to bestow upon the living: and the delight of bequeathing their wealth to unknown ages while their language lives."

[Sidenote: Browning]

The most prominent man of letters known to my wife and to me was Robert Browning, who looked as unlike the conventional idea of a poet as I resemble a sweep; his appearance seemed to me a better "make-up" for a family physician or legal adviser.

Many years ago my wife and I were present at the wedding of an old friend's daughter and afterwards at the reception. On entering the drawing-room, which had heavy blinds and was rather sombre, my wife mistook an elderly and bearded guest for the host, went behind him, turned his head round, and, as she thought, kissed her congratulations to the bride's father. The recipient of the mistaken salute proved to be Browning, who avowed that {99} whenever and wherever he met my wife he was to be treated in the same way. The ceremony was afterwards always gone through, and more than once in the open street.

When he first dined with us he was made happy in finding a bottle of port by his hand, that he might help himself and not be offered other wines. I remember a story he told us of Longfellow when he visited England. The two poets were driving in a hansom, and a heavy shower suddenly came on. Longfellow insisted upon thrusting his umbrella through the trap in the roof of the cab that the driver might protect himself from the rain, which he did.

At a dinner given at the old Star and Garter, Richmond, Browning met my wife on the terrace with an impromptu, hurriedly scrawled on a menu, which I may give imperfectly:

"Her advent was not hailed with shouts, Nor banners, garlands, cymbals, drums; The trees breathed gently sighs of love, And whispered softly, 'Hush! she comes!'"

In the last letter my wife received from him he wrote: "I heartily wish I had been privileged to begin feeling twenty years ago what I feel now, and I shall make what amends are in my power, by feeling so as long as I live."

{100}

I was in the Abbey on the cheerless, foggy, December day, when Browning joined the "Poets" in their "Corner."

I had the honour of enjoying the friendship of that distinguished man of letters, Monckton Milnes, afterwards Lord Houghton. He once told me a story worth repeating. He was in search of a piece of furniture. On entering a dealer's shop in Wardour Street, he caught sight of the portrait of an admiral, apparently of the last century, and of this he asked the price. "Ten pounds," was the answer. Lord Houghton offered five; the dealer was obdurate. The article wanted was sought for, found and bargained for. On going away Lord Houghton returned to the price of the admiral's portrait. At last the dealer said: "Well, my lord, and to your lordship only, seven pound ten"; but his customer would not go beyond his offer of a fiver, and there was an end of the matter.

Soon afterwards, visiting a neighbour in Yorkshire, Lord Houghton recognised the portrait of the admiral hanging in the dining-room, and said: "Hallo! who's that? What have you got there? Something new?" "Yes," replied the friend; "he was a well-known admiral in his day--fought with Nelson--good bit of work too--recently bequeathed to us-- {101} an ancestor of my wife's." "Ah, was he?" said Lord Houghton. "Six weeks ago he was within two pound ten of becoming one of mine!"

[Sidenote: Henry James]

Once, at a dinner party we gave, a scrupulously clean-shaven guest was announced, whose name neither host nor hostess had caught. He shook hands gaily with us both, and as he moved away to another couple, whom he evidently knew, I gathered from the expression of my wife's face that she, like myself, had no idea of his identity. A bachelor friend who was next announced, after speaking familiarly with the puzzling stranger, came back to me and said, happily in the hearing of my wife: "Do you like Henry James's appearance better with or without his beard?" The mystery was solved. That sort of transformation seems hardly fair.

I beg to be forgiven if I quote a few words from Henry James, written in _The Middle Years_: "How can I think of the 'run' of the more successful of Mr. Robertson's comedies at the 'dear little old' Prince of Wales's Theatre, by Tottenham Court Road, as anything less than one of the wonders of our age?"

Some ten years ago, James became a British subject--many people, I dare say, have thought him to have always been one--and in return {102} England rightly bestowed upon him the Order of Merit.

Even at the end, when telling a friend of the pain he suffered in his fatal illness, he was gay, and said of death, that he felt the distinguished thing had come to him at last. Much the same thought doubtless crossed the mind of Charles Frohman, the theatrical manager, when he went down on board the _Lusitania_. He turned to his companion with the words, borrowed from _Peter Pan_: "Now for the great adventure." Courage is expressed in many wonderful ways.

I have mentioned my first meeting at the elder Boucicault's with Charles Reade, author of _The Cloister and the Hearth_. As a man of letters, his name is entitled to be enrolled among the giants of his day. Friendship with him began at the Garrick Club, where I have seen him at a whist table with Anthony Trollope and Charles Lever, playing in the same rubber. It ripened rapidly when we produced _Masks and Faces_, over which my wife and I had many a fight in getting him to agree to some important changes we wished to make. We won the day, and the old book was done with for all time. I will quote from a superb description, written with the insight of a gifted woman, Ellen Terry: "Dear, {103} kind, unjust, generous, cautious, impulsive, passionate, gentle Charles Reade! who combined so many qualities, far asunder as the poles. He was placid and turbulent, yet always majestic. He was inexplicable and entirely lovable--a stupid old dear, and as wise as Solomon! He seemed guileless, and yet had moments of suspicion and craftiness worthy of the serpent."

[Sidenote: Wilkie Collins]

Wilkie Collins was another Victorian novelist of high repute, whose books would give great pleasure to modern readers if they sampled _The Woman in White_, _Armadale_, or _The Moonstone_, and left themselves in debt to such creations as Count Fosco, Margaret Vanstone, Mercy Merrick, and many more. We knew him well, and sided with his view of the well-known unfortunate episode in the early history of the Garrick Club which resulted in the expulsion of Edmund Yates, through his youthful indiscretion in writing of Thackeray in a way that so great a giant could have afforded to ignore.

At the most, he might have called for an apology--which was offered but declined. "Wilkie" stood by Dickens in the defence of Yates, and they resigned their membership together.

For years Collins was a confirmed opium {104} taker and a slave to the drug. He once left the Engadine, in its primitive days, and found himself, to his horror, without any. He and an intimate friend, who happily spoke German like a native, were travelling together: they represented themselves to be doctors and so obtained from chemists at Coire, and afterwards at Basle, the maximum supply the Swiss law allowed, and so reached Paris without the catastrophe Collins described in alarming words.

At my table, Wilkie Collins, George Critchett, who had left general practice and become an eye specialist, and Sir William Fergusson, the eminent Victorian surgeon, were present together. Critchett told Sir William that Collins had confided to him what was the dose of laudanum he then took every night, and had his permission to ask Sir William if it was not more than enough to prevent any ordinary person from awaking. Fergusson replied that the dose of opium named would suffice to kill the twelve men who sat round the table.

[Sidenote: T. W. Robertson]

It is impossible for me not to recall, however briefly, from the shadowy past the name of T. W. Robertson, whose empty chair was left vacant more than fifty years ago. He was the first of my friends to speak and write to me as {105} "B." There are few to whom the once-famous name of Tom Robertson now has full meaning, although his comedies made so deep a mark in their day and so largely influenced the future of the stage. Time has not lessened my remembrance of the charm with which he read his comedies; a melody sung sweetly in the long-ago. My wife was always very proud that he dedicated to her the best of them, his masterpiece, _Caste_.

I look back with sorrow at the small reward he received from them, and the brief time he enjoyed their fame. The fees paid to dramatic authors were miserably poor in those days, although we advanced them materially, added to which, there was no copyright for foreign authors in America. Expert shorthand writers were cunningly scattered in different parts of our theatre on successive nights, until the text of Robertson's principal comedies was completely taken down, and they were played throughout the United States without a dollar being sent to the author. No wonder that Robertson was sarcastic and bitter.

The unusual compliment of closing our theatre when he died was, I fear, but a small set-off against the pain he must have endured before he once said to me: "My dear B, I have often dined on my pipe."

{106}

[Sidenote: Edmund Yates]

Edmund Yates was an old friend. He knew my wife in her girlhood, and I first met him at Epsom on the historic day, in 1867, that Hermit won the Derby in a snowstorm. My mention of that incident reminds me that, years afterwards, at a public sale, among effects which had belonged to Mr. Baird--known on the turf as "Mr. Abingdon"--I came across a letter-case made from the coat of Hermit, and so inscribed on a silver shield. I bought it, that I might have the pleasure of giving it, on the thirtieth anniversary of the race, to Mr. Henry Chaplin, as he then was, the great horse's owner. Yates at that time held a position in the General Post Office and told me, soon afterwards, that he made an early marriage upon a small income and was handicapped for many a long year by a domestic calamity--the birth of three sons in eleven months.

Yates was an admirable after-dinner speaker and story-teller, a power which doubtless owed something to inheritance, both his parents having held prominent positions on the stage. At one dinner party, Edmund Yates, Dion Boucicault and George Augustus Sala, all being present, were asked in turn if they regretted and repented of any "backslidings" they had to answer for. Boucicault at once {107} said he was sorry for his sins; Sala admitted that he hoped some day to be sorry; Yates, after a pause, smote the table and muttered "No." He was a fierce fighter.

A mutual friend was rather severely caricatured in _Vanity Fair_. I asked Yates what he thought the original would say about it. "Say, my dear B.? He'll _say_ he thinks it delightful, but will go upstairs to his bedroom, lock the door, and rub his head in the hearthrug." When his trouble came, as it did soon afterwards, I wonder what his own conduct was.

His tragic end was connected with the revival of a comedy in which my wife appeared for her old friend John Hare, at the Garrick Theatre. Yates was seated in the centre of the stalls, and throughout my wife's performance had laughed and applauded heartily. At its close, when she was loudly called for by the audience, he gave her his last smile, turned to his neighbour and said: "The old brigade, the old brigade--it will take a deal to beat it!" He stooped for his hat, fell forward in a fit, and never recovered consciousness. "How oft when men are at the point of death have they been merry!"

[Sidenote: W. S. Gilbert]

I made the acquaintance of W. S. Gilbert during the year I spent in Liverpool; he had just been "called" and was a briefless barrister {108} on the Northern Circuit. Having failed to become attached to the staff of Punch, he was already a contributor to a comic journal called _Fun_, in which his _Bab Ballads_ first appeared. Soon afterwards he began to write for the theatre. _The Palace of Truth_ and _Pygmalion and Galatea_ both had great success at the old Haymarket; the latter was perhaps a starting point in the brilliant career of Madge Robertson (Mrs. Kendal).

He will, of course, be best remembered through the enduring success of the comic operas he wrote in conjunction with Arthur Sullivan, the most memorable of artistic partnerships.

What humorous things he was constantly uttering! I will endeavour to repeat one or two which may not have been heard. When the beautiful Scala Theatre was built on the site of our old Prince of Wales's, my wife was appropriately invited to perform the opening ceremony. At the end of the pretty speech she made, Gilbert joined her on the stage, and said he had been to the back of the dress circle, where he heard every word of it; adding that the voice was as beautiful as ever and that, if she continued to take pains and work hard, she might be sure of having a great career _behind_ her.

Talking with a Mr. Such Granville, who was {109} on the stage and said to Gilbert: "My name is Such, but I act as Granville," he at once replied: "I wish your name were Granville and you'd act as such."

A young lady who was always known as "Nelia" was about to be married. Gilbert was congratulating her, adding that her Christian name would join charmingly with her forthcoming surname; the girl then told him that her first name was really "Cornelia." Gilbert at once replied: "Oh, I see, you've cut your corn."

Once, in my presence, Gilbert was being questioned by an ardent playgoer as to one of his serious plays, and was finally asked how it ended; its author immediately answered that it had ended in a fortnight.

On another occasion I arrived at the Garrick Club on foot as Gilbert drove up in a hansom: when he alighted he handed the driver half-a-crown. The cabman asked, "What's this?" Answer: "It's your fare." Cabman: "This ain't my fare." Gilbert took back the half-crown, saying: "I beg your pardon, I made a mistake, there's your fare"--as he gave the man a florin. Tableau.

Someone remarked to him what an extraordinary title Henry Arthur Jones had given a new play of his. Gilbert asked: "What is {110} it?" _The Princess's Nose_. Gilbert hoped it would "run."

The fashion of the "hobble skirt" was being discussed in Gilbert's presence, who said that it reminded him of the boards outside a prospering theatre--"standing room only."

In long past days what was called a shilling subscription was got up by the _Daily Telegraph_ as a testimonial to W. G. Grace. At one time there was a fine cricket ground known as Prince's, which was a rival to the Oval and Lord's, and stood upon the land now occupied by Pont Street and Lennox Gardens. At an afternoon party the question of the testimonial was being discussed, and a young girl asked Gilbert if Grace was anything besides a great cricketer. The brilliant tongue at once replied: "Oh, yes, my dear, he is lord of Lord's and the only ruler of Prince's."

As a rule I have been careful in the choice of guests and successful in seating them to ensure good companionship, for what you put on the chairs is quite as important as what you place on the table, but let me confess to a terrible blunder when I invited Gilbert and Burnand to the same dinner. At an early stage of it, when all was going well, a loud-voiced guest said: "Tell me, Mr. Burnand, do you ever receive for _Punch_ good jokes and things {111} from outsiders?" This was not long after he had been elected to the editor's chair, and Burnand replied, cheerfully: "Oh, often." Gilbert sharply grunted from the opposite side of the table, over his knife and fork: "They never appear!" The rest was silence. This is the true version of an otherwise much-told tale.

[Sidenote: Editors of "Punch"]

The allusion to _Punch_ reminds me that I can readily tell how many weeks old I am, as we were born in the same year; and not many people now can say they have known all its editors: Mark Lemon--when he was old and I was young, Shirley Brooks--who was my proposer at the Garrick Club, Tom Taylor, Frank Burnand and Owen Seaman. What pleasure they have given, and how incomplete the week would be without the charm of Mr. Punch's infinite pen and pencil!

Burnand's humour was different from Gilbert's: he excelled as a punster. From his earliest days he was devoted to the theatre and founded the A.D.C. at Cambridge. He wrote with marvellous rapidity. When he saw _Diplomacy_, in the height of the play's original success, he left the theatre, sat up through the night, began and finished a most amusing travesty, which he called _Diplunacy_.

Years ago my son was at Ramsgate, reading for an examination in the law. He met {112} Burnand, who asked what he had been doing. George told him that he had been on the Goodwins with his "coach." Burnand replied that he had no idea you could drive there!

He told me once that, in spite of every kind of exercise, he was a slave to liver--a livery servant. One of the best of his many smart things was said when he was recovering from a serious illness. A journalist friend paid him a sympathetic visit, and said: "Your condition has been so grave that my editor asked me to write an obituary notice of you, adding that he wished it to be generous and that I must give you a column." Burnand at once exclaimed: "A column! Why, that's all they gave Nelson."

My first meeting with Oscar Wilde was at Oxford. He had recently "come down," but was visiting a friend there. His appearance suggested to me that he might have prompted Disraeli to write these words, they seemed so accurately to apply to the once spoiled darling: "The affectations of youth should be viewed leniently; every man has a right to be conceited until he is successful."

I think the best plays from his pen were _Lady Windermere's Fan_ and _The Importance of Being Earnest_.

He was talking with us about one of his comedies, just produced, when my wife {113} remarked that the leading situation rather reminded her of the great scene in a play by Scribe, to which Wilde unblushingly replied: "Taken bodily from it, dear lady. Why not? Nobody reads nowadays."

He once congratulated us when we wrote some account of ourselves, on and off the stage, on not having waited, as most people do, until they have lost all memory.

[Sidenote: Robert Marshall]

One of many heavy blows I have naturally had to bear during my fifty-six years' membership of the Garrick Club was through the loss of Robert Marshall. His was a strange career. The last man to imagine who could claim the honour of rising from the ranks, through failing to pass an examination, to be a captain in the army. He had left it before we met, but was always smart and soldierly in appearance.

He wrote some charming plays, with a distinctive quality of their own. I recall especially _A Royal Family_, _His Excellency the Governor_, _The Second in Command_, and _The Duke of Killiecrankie_. What pleasant evenings they gave us! When he was stricken and his friends knew that his lease of life was not to be renewed, he was lying in a nursing home close to Portland Place. A man who loved him was sitting by his bed-side one afternoon when Marshall's quick ear caught the sound of {114} approaching military music. It was the band of the Horse Guards on the way from Albany Street barracks to a Royal function. He started up in bed and with a far-off look in his eyes, his mind having travelled back to his soldier days, listened for the last time to the trumpets and the drums: as their sound died away he fell back on his pillow in a flood of tears.

[Sidenote: Henry Lucy]