Part 7

Henry Lucy--Toby, M.P.--was an old and amusing friend; we often enjoyed the pleasant parties to which Lady Lucy invited us, and they were our guests in London and frequently at Underlea, when they lived hard-by, at Hythe. Perhaps the greatest of the many surprises I have had was the discovery that instead of the poor journalist he was thought to be, he left a quarter of a million. How so vast a fortune was accumulated has remained a mystery to me, fostered by the fact that during the War they discharged their servants as a duty, and ran their cottage themselves, with the simple help of one old woman and then only once in a week. However his wealth was achieved, it was hardly by such means as those of a brother journalist, a wily Scot, who, when he was seen coming out of a telegraph office by a friend, who knew his penurious ways and asked: "Surely, Mac, you've not been wasting your money in sending {115} telegrams?" replied: "Not I, mon, I've only been giving my fountain pen a drink!"

Lucy was an odd looking little creature, with his hair standing straight up, reminding me of some strange bird that might have escaped from the zoo. I remember his telling me once that, when dining with Lord Rothschild, he arrived late, jumped from a hansom, ran up the steps, flung his Inverness cape into the arms of a footman, but, as he passed his hand through his hair, was stopped from entering the dining-room by a stately butler, who told him, pointing to a door, that he would find brushes in his lordship's dressing-room.

On the occasion of one of his visits to us, the talk turned upon Forbes-Robertson's acting in _The Passing of the Third Floor Back_. Lucy told my wife that he had not yet seen the play, but much wished to do so, and would she tell him the story. To the amazement of those who heard her, she gave the most perfect and dramatic illustration I have ever listened to--if I may use the expression, she seemed to be inspired. We sat spell-bound as the various incidents were unfolded and brought to a wonderful climax. After a pause, Lucy rose from his chair, took her hand, and said: "Good-bye, my dear; there is no need for me to see the play."

{116}

VII

MORE MEN OF MARK

"Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?"

For the egotism which is bound to occur in a book of this sort it is useless to offer excuses or apology; it must have its sway.

My wife one day on returning from an afternoon party, to which I was unable to go, in answer to my question: "Who were there?" humorously replied: "Oh, ladies and other dukes." The phrase came to stay--being often used by us. In writing further of departed guests--"Shadows of the things that have been"--it will constantly be on my tongue.

[Sidenote: Prince Francis of Teck]

I enjoyed the acquaintanceship of Prince Francis of Teck, who was certainly a man of mark, at a social club as well as at the Middlesex Hospital, of which he was the energetic chairman. Having been a member of the weekly board for more than thirty years, I ought to know something of the value of his services and devotion to the welfare of that institution. {117} My wife first met the Prince in the Engadine, long before he was our guest; in fact, when he was a boy on a visit to St. Moritz, in the company of his mother, the Duchess of Teck, his sister, Queen Mary, and other members of his family.

The Prince was a good soldier, and bore himself well, with an air of command. He served with distinction in Egypt and South Africa.

He died at forty, or thereabouts. I saw him in the Welbeck Street nursing home before he succumbed to that enemy, even of the robust, pneumonia, and was one of the deputation from the hospital bidden to Windsor, where he was buried.

I now find myself up against a duke. There is no need to dwell at any length on the name of his late Grace of Beaufort, beyond saying that he was a great lover of the stage and gave us his friendship. (I mean the grandfather of the present Duke.)

When it became known that my wife and I had decided to abandon the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, and had a lease of the Haymarket, a movement was set on foot, in which the Duke took a prominent part, to present us with a "testimonial." That sort of thing was always obnoxious to me; and, happily, {118} the intention came to my ears in time for me to bring it to a prompt end.

Referring to our farewell night at the Haymarket Theatre, later on, the Duke wrote to my wife:

"Do you know, I feel it to be too melancholy an occasion to assist at. I should hate it all the time. Some day, when you both play for a benefit or a charity, I hope to be there to welcome you. Let me say how very much I regret your determination to retire from management. What a loss I feel it, and how sure I am the general public share that feeling."

Another duke!--but merely a viscount when he sat at our table--Viscount Macduff, a close friend of Horace Farquhar, whose name reminds me of his amusing brother Gilbert, generally known as "Gillie" Farquhar. Gillie, when it was rumoured that he intended to go on the stage, was angrily sent for by Horace, his elder and prosperous brother, who loudly expostulated on such a step being taken, but learned from Gillie that he was quite in earnest. Horace then thundered: "Of course you will take some other name. What do you mean to call yourself?" Gillie quietly replied: "I have thought of calling myself Mr. _Horace_ Farquhar!"

When we first knew Macduff we were neighbours, {119} and constantly saw him lead his father, the old and infirm Earl of Fife, into the garden of Cavendish Square, where tea was taken across the road to them.

I was invited to dine at No. 4 one Sunday evening, but had to be elsewhere with my wife, so asked leave to join the party later, as I knew it would not be an early one. When I entered the room a young man was standing in the middle, giving an imitation of myself. When he had finished I was made acquainted with Herbert Tree.

[Sidenote: Lord Londesborough]

Lord Londesborough, the first earl, was also a keen playgoer. For years he and Lady Londesborough showed us thoughtful kindness. Our theatre did not seem to be complete if they were not present on a "first night."

With reference to the farewell performance of _Caste_, which had an added interest from Hare's coming to us, from his own theatre, to play his original part, Lord Londesborough wrote: "The demonstration was most thoroughly well deserved, for there is no one to whom the stage, and therefore the country, owes more than to you and to Mrs. Bancroft. It is always satisfactory when the public shows its appreciation of those who do their work, and make their mark, without beat of drum and flourish of trumpets."

{120}

He was a great "whip" and a prominent member of the Coaching Club. I was of his joyous party to the Derby for a number of years, until his sight failed him through an accident while shooting; and I remember his telling my wife, in the later years of his life, that the remaining eye was saved by a consultation held at Lord's between C. I. Thornton, W. G. Grace and myself. I was fond of cricket in those days, and became a member of the M.C.C. before it was necessary to be proposed in boyhood.

On one occasion I drove with our kind friend to Ascot. While seated in a prominent position on the front of his coach, helping a group of gorgeously-dressed ladies to lobster salad, I felt someone touching my toe; on looking down I saw a well-known "nigger," who for years frequented the race-courses. He held up his tambourine to me and called out, with a grin: "Now, Mr. B, don't forget the perfession!"

These Men of Mark who gave me the joy of their friendship are more numerous than I had looked for, and the names of those left to me must not be dwelt upon. I cannot ignore, however, the delightful and unique dinners enjoyed in Whitehall with the late Lord Onslow, when Members from both {121} Houses streamed in and sat, informally, at separate tables, reinforced by men prominent in other walks of life. As an example, I once was placed in the company of the Archbishop of Canterbury and Mr. Balfour, as he then was. Onslow was a delightful host and a delightful guest. I have never forgotten his saying to me that very few men, even eminent men, had any idea who their great-grandfathers were.

[Sidenote: Lord Rowton]

Few more attractive men have graced a table than Lord Rowton: we knew him first as Montagu Corry. Later on he became a next door neighbour: our No. was 18, his 17. In his courtly way he said to my wife we ought to change houses, so that he might address her as "sweet seventeen," and not as his "dear neighbour." It is, to my pen, difficult to describe his pervasive charm, which I am sure was as manifest in simple homes as at Balmoral. He always appeared to be gay, never boisterous, and his devotion to his great chief, Disraeli, must have been priceless.

I was told by an eminent authority for many years at the bar, my friend Sir Edward Clarke, that in his early days he "read" in chambers where "Monty" Corry was his companion. The career of my informant speaks for his diligence; and he assured me that Corry {122} chiefly passed his time in making rhymes on the names which appeared in _The Times_ of the day in the column restricted to the announcements of "hatches," "matches" and "despatches"!

Two other things about this dear man occur to me. He told me, after the great fancy-dress ball given at Devonshire House on a State event, that he was at the head of the staircase when Irving arrived, and was struck with the impression that the actor alone of all the distinguished crowd wore his robes (he went as a cardinal) as if they were his daily garb, and not obviously hired from a costumier's store, or made for the occasion.

My last remembrance of Rowton is on leaving a club with him one night to walk home; he suddenly stood still on the way and, after a pause, said, as if dreaming of secrets under mental lock and key: "I seem to have passed the whole of my life in holding my tongue."

[Sidenote: "Jacky" Fisher]

At the hospitable board of mutual friends we first met Sir John and Lady Fisher, as they then were. The great Admiral took my wife down to dinner, and from that evening was her good friend and mine. Others at the table, I remember, were the scientist Lord Kelvin and Canon Ainger, the Master of the Temple. {123} Fisher accepted an invitation to dine with me in these words: "On the 25th, with pleasure. Yours till hell freezes, J. F." His bad language was really only a not very bad habit--his bark was infinitely worse than his bite; in fact, he was a deeply religious man, as a beautiful letter he wrote to my wife when Lady Fisher died would testify. He knew much of the Bible, and quotations from it were as often on his lips as were his stock phrases. A friend of mine told me that he was once as astounded to hear the old Sea Lord preach a sermon in the Duke of Hamilton's private chapel as he was by its excellence. Whenever he caught sight of me, no matter where, Lord Fisher would call out, cheerily, "How's the vintage?"

When Queen Alexandra shared King Edward's throne, Lord Fisher paid Her Majesty a pretty compliment when offering his congratulations on her sixtieth birthday. "Have you seen, Ma'am," he asked, "the paper which says: 'Her Majesty is sixty years old to-day; may she live till she looks it!' The words were his own, but he thought it would please the Queen more to believe that the compliment had been paid to her publicly. Soon afterwards, the Queen cut out from an illustrated catalogue the figure of a little girl, stuck on the top of it a portrait of her own head, and {124} wrote underneath it: "May she live till she looks it!" and sent it to Lord Fisher.

This reminds me of a compliment that I will dare to mention, paid to me by Alfred Sutro on my eightieth birthday, when he ended a charming letter with these words: "But then, my dear B, you are not really eighty, you are only forty for the second time."

We did not know that dandy of the Senior Service, Lord Alcester, until he had retired upon his laurels and left the planks of an ironclad for the pavement of St. James's Street, of which his lavender kid gloves seemed to be a daily part, and had earned for him his gorgeous nickname, the "Swell of the Ocean."

It was as Beauchamp Seymour that he so ably served his country, the height of his career being the brilliant success of his bombardment of Alexandria, which gave him his Peerage, and doubtless paved the way to our occupation of Egypt. It is interesting to know that two of his captains at the time were named John Fisher and Charles Beresford.

The first Admiral Sir Edward Inglefield was our neighbour fifty years ago, and many a nautical salute have we exchanged "over the garden wall." As a "handy man" I never met his equal. If a pane of glass in house or conservatory was broken he replaced it; if {125} the kitchen clock stopped he soon made it go again; if a chimney took to smoking it soon gave up the habit through his means.

On the other hand, Lady Inglefield used to say that the punctuality with which she heard our wheels at night, when we returned from work, regulated her movements.

[Sidenote: Sheridan's Granddaughter]

At a garden party given by them we met the celebrated Mrs. Norton, the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, famous alike for her poetry and novels, and for her unhappy relations with her mean and cruel husband. She was still a beautiful woman in the sixties, and it was easy to believe that she was the granddaughter of the lovely Elizabeth Linley. Time had then all but obliterated the old and untrue scandal that she had sold to _The Times_ the news of Peel's conversion to Free Trade, and his intention to get the Corn Laws repealed. George Meredith's novel, _Diana of the Crossways_, had (though wholly against the author's will) done something to revive the false report that, for her own financial ends, Caroline Norton had wormed the secret out of Sidney Herbert; the truth being that Delane had been told it by Lord Aberdeen himself, who intended him to publish it.

On one occasion, when Sir Edward was in command of one of our fleets, he condemned {126} a man to receive so many strokes from the lash, and was on deck to see the sentence carried out. When the delinquent approached he made certain signs known to Freemasons. "Oh," said the Admiral, "a Mason, eh? Well, I doubt if you're better at that job than as a seaman. Go down and take your punishment."

[Sidenote: Garnet Wolseley]

Having written of Lord Fisher, a great sailor, I will now turn my attention to a great soldier, whom we first knew, fifty years ago, as Sir Garnet Wolseley. We became friends and later on were neighbours.

To my regret, I only had a club acquaintance with Lord Roberts, who was too true a gentleman ever to murmur: "I told you so--why did you not listen to me?" The same with Lord Kitchener; we only knew him as a fellow-guest at other people's tables. It was a Frenchman who wrote this tribute on his sad end, which staggered the country: "Great England's valiant soldier needed a nobler tomb than a hole in the ground, and he had the noblest of all tombs. God ordered his funeral; the waves sang his requiem; the organ-pipes were rocky cliffs; his pall was the black sky, foam the flowers, and the lightning his funeral torches."

Wolseley was, I repeat, a great soldier. One of those leaders whom men will follow--even {127} unto death. These words were written before the powerful biography written by two friends of mine, Sir Frederick Maurice and Sir George Arthur, was published. I think he saw service even before the Crimean War, where, as little more than a boy, he became Captain, and was almost cut to pieces by bullets. Then came Lucknow and service in many lands. He was a Lieutenant-Colonel when twenty-six; and throughout his long career honours of all kinds poured on him. He became Commander-in-Chief, but was not destined to have realised the wish expressed to my wife--"I hope I shall never die in a bed." There was something about him, about that slight cheerful figure, and that glowing face, that outspoken talk, that was very helpful and strengthening: he seemed in some way to shed happiness round him.

Among the accumulated correspondence we found waiting after a holiday in 1882 was a cheery letter from Wolseley, postmark Alexandria, August 18th, in which he wrote: "The 'army' keeps arriving daily, and I hope very soon to be in a position to bring Mr. Arabi to book." The realisation of this prophecy, and the curious incident of an atmospheric phenomenon caused by the comet of that year, prompted some verses, that were sent to the hero of the achievement and thus {128} acknowledged from the War Office: "I am very glad Bancroft induced you to send me your lines on Tel-el-Kebir, for I like them extremely. The word-painting is admirable, and the whole incident is told most feelingly and well. I shall put the little poem away among my treasures. Many, many thanks for it." I wonder where it is now. He was a shockingly bad speller--double pp's and double ll's were sure to be found where they were not wanted.

[Sidenote: A rebuff]

I was told of a terrible rebuff Wolseley brought upon himself on an occasion when he took Madame Melba down to dinner, not having, most unfortunately, caught her name when presented. He neglected her at table and devoted himself to a charming lady on his other side, whom he knew well. After a time he asked--as was rather his habit--too loudly, "Who is my other neighbour?" "Surely you know Madame Melba," was the answer. "Only heard of her: never met her before: did not catch her name: when I brought her down she conveyed nothing to me." At last he turned to the great songstress and addressed some casual remark to her. Melba quietly asked: "To whom am I speaking?" He answered: "General Wolseley," and received the reply: "I am afraid the name conveys {129} nothing to me." I hope Dame Nellie Melba will forgive me for repeating the story.

Writing of Wolseley reminds me of another, his comrade, Sir Redvers Buller, for years, with Lady Audrey, our friend and neighbour. Buller was a man of unflinching courage and dogged bravery: it was said that he had won his Victoria Cross three times over.

He invited me to join a congratulatory dinner party to be given by him, at a military club, in honour of Wolseley having been made a Field-Marshal. All the guests turned up except Wolseley, who had received a late summons from Windsor, commanding him to dine at the Castle, as Her Majesty wished to present the _bâton_ to him in person on that very evening.

A long spell of years has passed since my wife and I were guests at what was then Thomas's Hotel, in Berkeley Square, now converted into flats, and met Evelyn Wood when he was about thirty, having already won the V.C. in the Indian Mutiny, after beginning his adventurous career as a midshipman and being wounded in the Crimea. We lost sight of him for a long while, and he must have become a Field-Marshal when he dined with us, as he often did, until increasing deafness made him cautious of accepting such invitations. He amused us once by {130} threatening to recite the Lord's Prayer in an alarming number of languages if provoked.

Another Field-Marshal and V.C. whom we knew was the hero of Ladysmith, Sir George White. I met him first on board a P. & O. steamer when he was Governor of Gibraltar. We walked many a mile together on the deck of the _Arabia_. Both he and Lady White were very kind to me when I landed from his launch for a short stay on the Rock, and enabled me to be present at a memorial service for the Duke of Cambridge. When his own time came White was Governor of Chelsea Hospital. His body was taken across London, for burial in his native Ireland, to such a tribute of affection and regard from his comrades and the people as is rarely given.

I first knew the popular old soldier and father of the charming Lady Burnham and Lady Somerleyton, Sir Henry de Bathe, in the early days of my membership of the Garrick, and was so struck by his appearance that I did my best to suggest it in a part I played soon afterwards--I suppose with a measure of success, for when I stepped upon the stage Lady de Bathe (now the Dowager, still, happily, strong and well), who was seated in the stalls, exclaimed audibly, "Why, it's Henry!"

My wife was so impressed by a dramatic {131} story the old general told of his Crimean days, that she often repeated it.

[Sidenote: A convict from Eton]

One evening, in the severe winter time, it was de Bathe's duty to direct the clearing of the dead and wounded after a deadly encounter with the enemy, the brunt of which had been borne by men drawn from the French convict settlements, who were thrust into the hottest places when trying work had to be done. The searching party came across one poor fellow who was grievously wounded but still alive: de Bathe had him placed upon a stretcher, lifted his head, and poured brandy into the soldier's mouth. The man took his hand and pressed it, murmuring in English, "Thank you, de Bathe." Thunderstruck, he stooped down and asked how a Frenchman knew his name and could also speak such perfect English. The wounded man smiled and whispered, "Eton!" as he fainted; de Bathe accompanied the stretcher to the French lines, saying that he would return as soon as his duty would allow him. He did so, but the man was dead; de Bathe lifted the sheet from his face and gazed upon it earnestly without recognising the lost creature, once his school companion, then known only as a French convict with a fictitious name.

I remember being once so fortunate, when {132} the old general dined with me, as to place him between Sir William Howard Russell, the war correspondent, and Dion Boucicault, the dramatist, and to learn that all three of them in boyhood's days had been at the same school together in Dublin.