Part 8

After giving up diplomacy he entered Parliament; at one time represented Northampton with Bradlaugh. I think it was then he became known as "Labby," and a sort of licensed clown. He was also prominently associated with journalism. His "Letters of a Besieged Resident," sent over from Paris by balloons, were so sensational as to increase the circulation of a daily paper by more than double.

We knew him best on the Lake of Como, at Cadenabbia, a place he loved, which my wife said ought really to be renamed Cade_labbya_. I remember his suddenly turning to her one morning and saying that he would rather be deformed than unnoticed.

On the night that our Haymarket career commenced London was fog-bound. The density lasted for days, being unique in its horrors, as records of the time can tell. {141} Labouchere was at the theatre and emerged with the rest of the audience into dreadful gloom. This is the story of his reaching home. He ran heavily against a man, who asked him in what direction he wanted to go. Labouchere replied, "Queen Anne's Gate." The questioner said that he also was going that way, in fact, that he lived hard by, and would take him there safely if he chose to go with him. Labouchere had some fears as to being trapped, but decided to risk it and be wary. The two plodded along together arm-in-arm; they met with one or two minor difficulties; but presently the cheerful stranger, who evidently was of humble station, stood still in the pitch darkness and said: "Here we are; what's your number?" Labouchere told him, and his companion answered: "Then we must cross the road." They did so, the man groped about a door with his fingers and said: "That's your house; you're all right now; try your latchkey."

Labouchere, before rewarding his friendly guide, in amazement asked how he had found his way so accurately on such a night. The simple answer was: "I'm blind!"

He ended his days at his villa in Italy. When I read his name in the Honours List as Privy Councillor, I sent him a telegram: {142} "Labouchere, Florence. Congratulations. Bancroft." His reply was to the effect that I had puzzled him dreadfully, as he had no idea to what I referred until he received _The Times_ on the following day.

Oscar Browning--or shall I say "O.B."?--was an odd-looking creature. We made his acquaintance in our haunt for many years, the Engadine, when my wife christened him "The Wicked Monk." For my part, I never felt quite certain how much of him was "Jekyll" and how little there was of "Hyde."

Some time afterwards he sent word to me at the theatre that he was in the stalls and would like to introduce me to a young friend who was his companion. I arranged that he should do so at the end of the play, when they were brought behind the scenes, and O.B. made me known to Mr. George Curzon, who had recently left Eton, and whose friendship, if I may use the word, I claim the privilege of having since enjoyed, in the great position to which Browning had no doubt foreseen that his pupil would attain. Our last meeting was when Lord Curzon presided at the dinner given to another old friend of mine, T. P. O'Connor, with a charm only equalled, in my experience, on somewhat similar occasions by Lord Rosebery and Lord Balfour.

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[Sidenote: Comyns Carr]

I think it was when I first met Comyns Carr--"Joe"--early in the seventies, that I heard him rebuke a pushing young man as "a pantaloon without his maturity and a clown without his colour"--the sort of thing that he fired off throughout his life, as if he were a well-charged satirical machine-gun.

He had been called to the Bar, but was then on the eve of his marriage with the attractive Miss Strettell, the daughter of a delightful old clergyman whom I knew as the chaplain at St. Moritz. Carr did not stick to his first choice of a profession, which I always regarded as a pity, but drifted into journalism instead. He was, in his day, attached to many newspapers. Then, fostered by his love and knowledge of art, came a long career when Sir Coutts Lindsay, our old friend and guest, reigned at the Grosvenor Gallery, with Carr as Director. It was famous for Sunday afternoon parties, which were unique. The robes of Royalty rubbed against the skirts of Bohemia. "Ladies and other dukes" were plentiful, as were the followers of every art, and all were happy. Then he wrote plays; next managed a theatre.

I often think he was right when he said to me: "My dear B, the first duty of wine is to be red." Most of the witty things he uttered {144} have no doubt appeared in print; perhaps the following gem has not. An old and well-known friend, who dyed his hair and beard so unnatural a black that even the raven's wing had no chance against it, was lunching, on a hot day, in the revealing sun's rays, with some club friends, of whom one was Comyns Carr, and presenting a sad picture of the struggle between the ravages of time and the appliances of art. He left the table early, and his departure was followed by remarks. "How dreadful--what a pity!" "Can't somebody advise something?" Some one turned to Carr, who had remained silent, and asked him what he thought. Joe replied that of all his friends and acquaintances the old fellow was the only one who really was as black as he was painted.

Carr's gift of eloquence was naturally sought at public banquets, where his speeches took high rank. But was it not, after all, the old story of "a rolling stone" which left him best remembered by his brilliant tongue?

[Sidenote: Cecil Clay]

I could go on writing of other Men of Mark to whom I have had the good fortune to play the host, and tell again of the great goodness shown to followers of the stage by members of the healing art, and by lights in the law; but let me bring this chapter to its close by a reference to Cecil Clay, who wrote _A Pantomime {145} Rehearsal_ and, with those who acted his amusing play, gave the old generation much pleasure. He was beloved in every circle that he moved in, and I never heard an unkind word pass his lips or saw an unkind look upon his face. He went so far once as to reproach a fellow-member of one of his many clubs who swore at the matches because they would not strike. "My dear fellow, don't be angry; pray remember they are the only things in the country that don't!"

I have asked Owen Seaman to allow me to reprint some lines which appeared in _Punch_, written, I feel sure, by the pen of Charles Graves.

"Athlete and wit, whose genial tongue Cheered and refreshed but never stung: Creator, to our endless joy, Of priceless _Arthur Pomeroy_. Light lie the earth above his head Who lightened many a heart of lead; Courteous and chivalrous and gay, In very truth no common Clay."

[Sidenote: The Sickles tragedy]

I have alluded to an early visit to New York, when I was a lad of seventeen. During my stay what was known as "The Sickles Tragedy" occurred in Washington; the details of which have lingered in my mind ever since. Many years afterwards my wife {146} and I were at an evening party given by the Dion Boucicaults to a handsome and distinguished-looking American, with one leg and a crutch; the other leg he had lost, valiantly, on the field of Gettysburg. His name was Daniel Sickles. My interest was at once aroused. He was, or had been, United States Minister to Spain, being no less eminent in diplomacy and the civil service than as a volunteer soldier and general. At one time the tragedy of his life might have robbed his country of his great abilities. He had married, some six years before, a beautiful girl of sixteen, Italian by origin, and they were living in Washington, where Sickles held a Government appointment, when he learned from an anonymous letter that his young wife was false to him, clandestinely meeting at a certain house hired from an old negro woman by her lover, named Philip Barton Key, a widower nearly twice her age, a Government lawyer, and the son of the author of "The Star-Spangled Banner." Sickles had the house watched, and found that the news was true. Charged with the offence, his wife confessed all, and explained the system of signals by which, from an upper window, she and Key, watching through an opera-glass from his club, arranged their meetings. Sickles demanded her wedding-ring, told {147} her to leave his house and return to her parents. Soon afterwards, looking out of his window, he saw the seducer walking towards the house and make a signal with his handkerchief. He went out, and coming up with Key at the street-corner, accused him to his face and shot him. Key attempted to defend himself, but Sickles fired twice more, and then, while Key was on the ground and still breathing, put his revolver to his own head. Twice it missed fire. Sickles then walked away and gave himself up to the police. The case aroused intense excitement, not only in America but in England. The trial lasted some weeks, and so strong was public opinion in the prisoner's favour that he was acquitted, and set free to do his country services in the future. I have been told that, in years after, husband and wife came together again. It is certain that all through the affair, Sickles treated her with the greatest consideration, even allowing her to keep their eldest child, who, grown into a beautiful girl, was present with her father when we met at the Boucicaults' and who soon afterwards was our guest.

Of the distinguished Americans who have been sent to our country as Ambassadors from their own land I have met Mr. Lowell, Mr. Phelps, Mr. Bayard, Mr. Choate, Mr. Page, and {148} Mr. Davis. It is a privilege to have known such men; a greater privilege, in the case of Mr. Choate, to have been his host. I don't know whether a charming little story has been in print before--very likely it has--but I can answer for its exactitude as I now tell it, and where the incident occurred.

On one of his visits to us the subject was started--I think by Bishop Boyd-Carpenter--of changing one's identity. My wife turned to her chief guest and said: "Tell us, Your Excellency, who you would rather be if you were not Mr. Choate." The Ambassador, slightly rising from his chair, bowed across the table to his wife, who was at my side, and at once replied: "Mrs. Choate's second husband."

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VIII

THE STAGE

"Of all amusements the theatre is the most profitable, for there we see important actions when we cannot act importantly ourselves."--MARTIN LUTHER.

I

When I was nineteen I ran away from home to become an actor, and have been stage-struck ever since.

[Sidenote: Charles Mathews]

Of eminent Victorian leaders of my calling the first to be our guest, in very far-away days, was the accomplished Charles Mathews, the most conspicuous comedian of his time. The memory of childhood's play-going days tells me that I once saw Madame Vestris, his first wife, a beautiful and accomplished woman, in one of Planche's extravaganzas called _The King of the Peacocks_, at the Lyceum Theatre. I first met Charles Mathews in 1863, as a star in the theatrical firmament when I was a struggling young actor in Dublin, where I had the great advantage of playing with him in a round of his favourite comedies for a whole {150} month; during which I hope I learnt something from his delightful personality of the beautiful art of acting.

Among other accomplishments, he was an amusing after-dinner speaker. When presiding at a theatrical charity banquet, with his own charm of manner, he began: "Douglas Jerrold once said to me that he did not despair of living to see the day when I should be trudging up Ludgate Hill, with an umbrella under my arm, to invest my funds in the Bank of England. I am sorry to say that the great humorist did not live to see that vision realised. The only step I have advanced towards it is, that I have bought the umbrella."

When Mathews left England for a tour in Australia, a banquet was given in his honour at which he presided; himself proposing the toast of his own health in these words:

"The most important task assigned to me has now to be fulfilled, and I rise to propose what is called the toast of the evening with a mixture of pleasure and trepidation. I was going to say that I was placed in a novel but unprecedented position, by being asked to occupy the chair. But it is not so. There is nothing new in saying that there is nothing new. In _The Times_ of October 3rd, 1798, there is an advertisement of a dinner given to Mr. Fox {151} on the anniversary of his first election for Westminster: 'The Hon. Charles James Fox in the chair.' Here is a great precedent; and what was done by Charles James Fox in 1798 is only imitated in 1870 by Charles James Mathews. I venture to assert that a fitter man than myself to propose the health of our guest could not be found; for I venture to affirm that there is no man so well acquainted with the merits and demerits of that gifted individual as I am. I have been on intimate terms with him from his earliest youth. I have watched over his progress from childhood, have shared in his joys and griefs, and I assert boldly that there is not a man on earth for whom I entertain so sincere a regard and affection. Nor do I go too far in stating that he has an equal affection for me. He has come to me for advice in the most embarrassing circumstances, and what is still more remarkable, has always taken my advice in preference to that of any one else."

Needless to say the speech was interrupted at every point by laughter. Here is a characteristic letter I received from him during a winter which he was passing at Nice:

"It is hard to be obliged to come indoors on such a heavenly day to write a letter, and you will no doubt think it harder to be {152} obliged to read it. But friendship calls, and I sacrifice myself upon its altar. Do thou likewise.

"A very nice fellow has written a comedy. ('O Lord!' I hear you say.) All I ask of you is to read it, have the parts copied out and produce it, playing the principal part yourself--nothing more. Your new piece, of course, will not run more than two or three years, and then you will have this ready to fall back upon. The human mind naturally looks forward, and managers cannot make their arrangements too soon. If by any unforeseen and improbable chance you may not fancy the piece (such things have happened), please drop me a sweet little note, so charmingly worded that the unhappy author may swallow the gilded pill without difficulty. There is something in the piece--or I would not inflict it upon you. If well dressed, and carefully put upon the stage, it _might_ be effective.

"This is what is called writing just _one line_. You will of course say it 'wants cutting,' like the piece. So I will cut it--short.

"On reading this rigmarole, I find I have only used the word 'piece' four times. When you give my letter to the copyist, you can make the following alterations: For 'piece' (No. 1) read 'play.' For 'piece' (No. 2) read 'production.' For 'piece' (No. 3) read 'work.' For 'piece' (No. 4) read 'comedy.'"

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[Sidenote: "Our Boys"]

As an instance of his good judgment, on the first night of Byron's comedy, _Our Boys_, which had a phenomenal run, I was in the billiard room of the Garrick Club; a group of men came in who said they had been to see a new comedy at the Vaudeville Theatre. Various opinions were expressed, several present thinking the comedy would only have a moderate run, when Mathews, who was playing pool, said, quietly: "I don't agree with you fellows. I was there, and haven't laughed so heartily for a long while. Byron this time--he doesn't always--has taken his goods to exactly the right shop. That play is sure to run."

Charles Mathews was originally an architect of considerable skill and promise. Although he did not go upon the stage until he was thirty, he became one of the most beloved of the public's favourites. Mathews was distinctly an actor of manners: it was beyond his range to portray emotion. Later on, Charles Wyndham, at one time in his career, had some of his attributes, and so, very strongly, had Kendal. Nowadays, the actor who at times recalls him to me in the delicacy and refinement of his comedy is Gerald du Maurier.

Pictorially, Charles Mathews lives again in {154} the interesting series of stage portraits on the walls of the Garrick Club with which I was first familiar on the staircases when he lived in Pelham Crescent and Belgrave Road.

In a defence of himself and the view he took of his art, he once said: "It has been urged against me that I always play the same characters in the same way, and that ten years hence I should play the parts exactly as I play them now; this I take as a great compliment. It is a precision which has been aimed at by the models of my profession, which I am proud to follow, and shows, at least, that my acting, such as it is, is the result of art, and study, and not of mere accident."

[Sidenote: Charles Fechter]

I can also take the reader back to another link with the past and tell him briefly something of Charles Fechter, also of Victorian fame, whose name opens up a mine of memories. In our early married days we lived in St. John's Wood; Fechter was our neighbour and once our guest. I regard him as the finest actor of the romantic drama I have ever seen. The eye, the voice, the grace--all so needed--were at his command. He was the original of the lover in _La Dame aux Camélias_. I was present at his début in London, so long ago as 1860, when, as Ruy Blas, he forsook the French for the English stage, and I saw his first {155} performance of _The Corsican Brothers_, in which play he also acted originally in Paris. This was at the old Princess's Theatre in Oxford Street, which, a decade earlier, had been the scene of the Charles Kean Shakespearean revivals, most of which I saw in my 'teens. They were a great advance scenically on all that had been done by Macready, while their splendours and pageantry were in turn eclipsed first by Irving and afterwards by Tree; but genius has no part in plastering treacle on jam.

So vivid is my remembrance of Fechter's acting in _Hamlet_, which took the town by storm, that I can describe and illustrate much of it after a lapse of more than fifty years. He made the Prince a fair-haired, almost flaxen, Dane. Dickens said: "No innovation was ever accepted with so much favour by so many intellectuals as Fechter's Hamlet."

Quite recently I came across the impressions of Clement Scott, for many years one of the most prominent of our dramatic critics. He wrote: "Let me candidly own that I never quite understood _Hamlet_ until I saw Fechter play the Prince of Denmark. Phelps and Charles Kean impressed me with the play, but with Fechter, I loved the play, and was charmed as well as fascinated by the player." He {156} afterwards failed as Othello, while his performance of Iago was a triumph. It is a coincidence that Fechter should have received valuable help during his reign at the Lyceum from Kate Terry, whose younger sister, Ellen, in a similar position, did so much for Irving in the same theatre later on.

Fechter died in America in 1879. His last years were sad. But a decade or so before, the idol of the playgoing public, the compeer of all distinguished in the arts, the welcome guest of Charles Dickens at Gad's Hill, he died beyond the seas neglected, friendless, almost forgotten. Few actors at their zenith have held greater sway; few could compare with him in romantic parts; fewer still could claim to have stirred two nations of playgoers in different tongues; but such is the fleeting nature of our work, so faint the record of it left behind, that one might ask how many now can speak of Fechter as he really was, how few will even know his name? "Out, out, brief candle!" His talent was not confined to the stage, as a spirited bust of himself, his own work, now in the Garrick Club, will show.

[Sidenote: Salvini]

Later on, there came the eminent Italian actor, Salvini, whose visit to this country in 1875 may still be remembered by a dwindling few. He was the greatest tragedian I have {157} seen--he was never a tenor trying to sing a bass song. On the stage the Italians, to my mind, have the advantage over other actors in being beyond question the finest pantomimists in the world--they can say so much without speaking. Those two great actresses, Ristori and Duse, made masterly use of this gift.

At an afternoon performance of _Othello_ by Salvini, specially given at Drury Lane Theatre to the leading representatives of the English Stage, who chiefly composed the vast assemblage, I was present. Salvini's superbly delivered address to the Senate at once convinced the remarkable audience that no ordinary actor was before them--so calm, so dignified, so motionless--broken only by the portrayal of love as he caught sight of Desdemona entering on the scene. No ovation that I have taken part in equalled in enthusiasm the reception from his up-standing comrades at the close of the third act. His death scene I took exception to as being too shocking, too realistic, too like an animal dying in the shambles or on a battle-field. There I thought the Italian was surpassed by the Irishman, G. V. Brooke, the only actor I have seen who shared Salvini's natural gifts of voice and bearing, and who, but for his unfortunate intemperate habits, might have achieved lasting {158} fame upon the stage. His death in _Othello_ seemed to me as poetic in conception as it was pathetic in execution. Acting, although not speaking, the closing words, "Killing myself, to die upon a kiss," he staggered towards the bed, dying as he clutched the heavy curtains of it, which, giving way, fell upon his prostrate body as a kind of pall, disclosing, at the same time, the dead form of Desdemona. I agree with the great Frenchman who said: "Even when it assassinates, even when it strangles, tragedy remembers that it wears the crown and carries a sceptre."

In a little letter to my wife, Salvini wrote:

"CHÈRE MADAME,--Que vous êtes aimable! Je tiendrai votre joli cadeau comme un doux souvenir de votre sincère amitié. Ce sera un précieux talisman qui suivra le reste de ma carrière artistique, et qui, je suis sûr, m'apportera du bonheur."

[Sidenote: The perfect Hamlet]

In a conversation I had with Salvini, he modestly said his nationality and Southern blood made it comparatively easy for him to play the jealous Moor, while they stood in his way when he attempted the part of the Northern moody Dane, to which his robust physique was not suited. Salvini's performance, however, of _Hamlet_ has left me {159} memories almost as keen as those bequeathed by Fechter. In his arrangement of the play he acted the long speech of his father's ghost. You only heard, and hardly saw the Phantom. His scene with his mother was very fine: his management of the foils in the fight with Laertes as superb as it was original: his death the most touching I can recall: it was the "Kiss me, Hardy" of Nelson; he felt for Horatio's head and drew it down to his face as the spirit fled. To make a perfect Hamlet I should weld together ever to be remembered portions from the performances of Fechter, Salvini, Irving and Forbes-Robertson.

It is interesting to read what Macready, the greatest of the Victorian classic actors, said of this complex, fascinating character:

"It seems to me as if only now at fifty-one years of age, I thoroughly see and appreciate the artistic power of Shakespeare in this great human phenomenon: nor do any of the critics, Goethe, Schlegel, or Coleridge, present to me, in their elaborate remarks, the exquisite artistical effects which I see in this work, as long meditation, like long straining after light, gives the minutest portion of its excellence to my view."