CHAPTER XV.

MOSTLY “OTHERWISE” (continued).

IN the long-ago sixties the Artillery Ball at Woolwich was the most select and the most sought after function that the dancing community yearned for, and about the same time Major Goodenough, a popular officer of this distinguished regiment—although close upon eighteen stone—fell desperately in love with Tietjens, herself of large pattern. Rumour, indeed, asserted that the ponderous couple were engaged, and so it came to pass that poor old Goody was nonplussed almost to distraction when his application for a ticket for his fiancée was politely but firmly refused.

“But she’s engaged to me,” the poor old chap pleaded.

“And when she’s Mrs. Goodenough we shall always he delighted to see her,” was the stern, uncompromising reply.

Such exclusiveness—which shows that snobbery was even then approaching with gigantic strides—contrasts amusingly with what was then the composition of many of our “crack” regiments.

Otway Toler—a brother of the Earl of Norbury—was one of the best amateur musicians, and it was through his kindly offices that I became acquainted with Giulini and other leading opera singers in London.

No such voice as that gifted being’s has ever been heard before or since, and it is sad to recollect that whilst yet in the zenith of his fame he was ruthlessly struck down by insanity, and eventually died in a madhouse.

It was during this painful period that his voice is said to have reached a pitch of pathos that far exceeded anything it attained when he thrilled London nightly.

To compare it with any tenor that may suggest itself to the reader would be as absurd as comparing an English concertina to the most glorious notes of the most fluty instrument, and yet this divine voice was silenced without apparent cause, and the world—the operatic world—will never hear its like again.

As an old lady in tears was once overheard to say to her unmusical spouse at the opera: “It is the voice of a god, and not of a man,” to which her phlegmatic better-half replied: “Bosh, you should hear Sims Reeves; he can go an octave higher.”

Sims Reeves, indeed! But no matter—may they both rest in peace.

To go to an unpretentious Italian eating-house in Old Compton Street, Soho, that has long disappeared, was as good as attending the opera—if one was in the magic circle. Here all day, and every day, congregated the leading exponents, male and female, of Italian opera. At a piano on the first floor finishing touches were given to morceaux, duets were tried over, and, in addition to the vocalists, soloists of the highest order “ran through” special passages of their scores, while below, viands of the strictest Italian type were being consumed from morning to night.

Here osso-buco, and minestrone, and spaghetti were to be found as undiluted as at Savini’s in Milan, and washed down with such productions of the vine as Chianti, Lacrima Christi, and Capri.

No abominations in imitation of French cookery were to be found here. No half-crown dinners of half-a-dozen courses, with their deadly accompaniments of artichokes fried in tallow (_au Cardinal_) would have been permitted here; no New Zealand mutton garnished with turnip-tops (_ris dé veau garni aux truffes_) could have showed its unhallowed head in those sacred precincts and lived, for no mashers of the present-day type existed, and shop boys and shop girls knew their places too well to venture into such reserved pastures, even with the prospect of eating a veritable dinner as served on the Continong.

One cannot leave the subject of music without a reference to the promenade concerts that came into being about this period at the Queen’s in Long Acre.

It was here that the first public exhibition of the telephone was given, and when a series of grunts had vibrated through the hall and a bald-headed old patriarch had told us that the sound actually came from Westminster, the surprise and delight of the enraptured audience was intense, and we marvelled where such discoveries would end.

And the fun and the frolic at these gatherings was beyond description, often more delectable than correct, but nevertheless delightful and invigorating. The orchestra, moreover, was superb, and the vocalists the best that money could provide, and all these delights were presided over by one Rivière, a pushing musical instrument-maker in Leicester Square, who by sheer impudence had forced himself into prominence before an ignorant public whilst all the time incapable of reading the most ordinary score at sight.

So far as execution and diabolical contortions were concerned he was immense, and as big an impostor as Jullien himself.

When Offenbach was all the rage, and Schneider (under Lord C.’s wing) was his principal exponent, I had the honour of being one of a privileged half-dozen who did homage to the Diva at a dinner party in a private room at Limmer’s. Although in the zenith of her fame, her personal charms at the time were unquestionably on the wane, and I can recollect her comments on popularity and what it was worth as she told us how ten years previously, when young and beautiful, she had appeared in London only to be ignored, and that now everybody was at her feet. And then she shrugged her shoulders with an indescribable fascination peculiarly her own, and complacently puffed away at her cigarette.

It may have been a few years later that Major Carpenter, a wealthy amateur musician, introduced to the operatic world a charming English girl, who, under cover of the Italian name of Chiomi, was to electrify London with her singing.

The opera the fair débutante selected was probably the most formidable a nervous subject could have chosen; and so one night every one attended at Her Majesty’s to hear _Lucia_ expounded. Everything went well up to the mad scene, when, unaccompanied by orchestra, the unhappy heroine has to sing and toss straws about amid a series of impossible runs and shakes. With the straw tossing no fault could be found, but the voice that should have been moving us all to tears was a series of gurgles that eventually subsided into silence.

Sir Michael Costa meanwhile sat grim and immovable, when a few bars would probably have nerved up the fluttering victim, but _that_ to that orthodox Italian would have been “trifling with the text,” and so no aid was forthcoming, and the trumpet blasts that had emanated from Ashley Place ended in a fiasco, and sweet little Chiomi was heard of no more.

That the drama is occasionally unjustly disparaged is nothing new; that it occasionally produces indirect beneficial effects and even prolongs life may be gleaned from the example of a deceased colonel of the Bays, who, returning from India in the sixties with a life not worth six months’ purchase, married a lady connected with the Canterbury Music Hall, and, after increasing the music-hall population, literally died of senile decay within the last year or two.

It was my privilege, on one occasion, in the company of Otway Toler, who knew all the stars, to visit the great tenor Mario and his wife, the equally celebrated Grisi, who had a house during the opera season in the vicinity of Cavendish Square. Grisi, it may be explained, at the time of her marriage, was the proud mother of two children who, by one of those extraordinary freaks of nature one occasionally meets with, resembled in a remarkable degree the family that followed.

“These,” pointing to one group, was Grisi’s usual introduction, “are the _Marionettes_, and these”—indicating the others—“are the _Grisettes_.”

Incredible as it may appear, one of the purest tenors the world has ever produced did not know one note of music, and everything had to be drummed into him by a fiddle. It was at the house at Eaton Place of one of the leading ladies of society that one often met the great tenor, where music alternated with the cotillon and other delights of one’s youth.

About this time the Alhambra, which for some years had been waning in public estimation, obtained a new lease of popularity under the broad-minded direction of one Leader.

This worthy man, to use the familiar expression, “grasped the situation,” and with the able co-operation of his co-directors—Nagle, head of a celebrated firm of bill-stickers; Willing, an enlightened philanthropist and patron of the drama; Captain Fryer (who was accorded that title because he had a second cousin in the Dragoons)—inaugurated an enlightened policy that seemed to provide “a want long felt,” and met the requirements of their numerous patrons (_vide_ daily papers, etc.).

The directors’ box was a huge omnibus capable of holding goodness knows how many, and consisted of partitions innumerable that had been dealt with by the carpenters; a convenient door led to the stage, and to the managing-director’s room—the objective of all visitors—as was only to be expected in a well-conducted theatre. Here were to be met nightly Alfred Paget, a septuagenarian lord, who, when not in attendance at Court, as was supposed, seemed to spend his declining years in wandering from one green room to another. Harmless to a degree, it was pitiable to see the dyed old sinner, chewing a cigar, and indulging in such antics as an occasional double-shuffle with any chorus girl he had selected for his attention.

The Maharajah Dhuleep Singh, too, was in nightly attendance, and never failed to bring some gimcrack which he displayed in the green room with the inquiry: “What nice little girl going to have this?” This, however, was before he had concentrated his affections on pretty Polly Ash, who appearing nightly in white kids up to her elbows gave mortal offence to her fellow-choristers by showing up the cotton “sevens” supplied by the management. Polly, however, was not devoid of common sense, and retired shortly after into a sumptuous flat in Covent Garden and an annuity that survived the donor.

The green room of the old Alhambra was of extensive dimensions, and contained more deal tables than probably any green room before or since. By a magnanimous minute of the directors, ladies of the chorus and ballet had the entrée, and, although none of the plainer members of the company appeared to take advantage of the privilege, every table was fully furnished with champagne (brand doubtful), and giggling artistes and their adorers. Every one smoked like a donkey-engine, and the genial managing director percolated amongst his guests with a kindly inquiry as to how you were getting on. History does not make it quite clear whether any of the fair members were eventually translated to the Upper House; but whether as fortunate in this respect as Mott’s and in later years the Gaiety, it was undeniable that no more beautiful bevy of women were to be found than the representatives of the drama at the Alhambra in those long-ago days.

Captain (!!) Fryer as a director was in considerable demand during the orgies, and a youthful ensign on one occasion (when under the fraternising influence of the stock champagne) having invited the “Captain” to mess, was considerably put about on being informed by the colonel that he was at once to cancel the invitation. With the ingenuity of youth, however, he wriggled out of the difficulty by changing the venu to Limmer’s, and taking him and a select party to Mott’s.

In appearance the Captain gave the idea of having just missed being a gentleman; with a waist abnormally small, and a waistcoat abnormally tight, his shoulders stood out by the aid of whalebone in a manner intended to convey herculean proportions. When he walked it was with the swinging motion attributed by “Ouida” to heroes who crumple pint pots without knowing it, and kick garden rollers about as one would a pebble; he stamped also occasionally with one foot as heavy dragoons once did when they desired to clink their spurs, but which, after all, may only have been a habit contracted by the contemplation of his second cousin who had been in the cavalry.

“Do come here, you provoking Captain,” and “Did you hear what that absurd Captain just said?” and Captain this, and Captain that vibrated through the room to the no small annoyance of the “civilians” present. From all which it will be seen that he was a very fine fellow indeed, and the idol of the ladies of the ballet. But Bobby and some of the youngsters also swore by him to a man; to have the run of the entire back premises, and to be introduced to any siren their fickle fancies desired, was not a privilege to be lightly appraised, and they vowed, till forbidden by the adjutant, that he would be the life and soul of the mess on the next guest night, and that the very rafters would tingle as he recounted his multifarious experiences.

Another theatre that afforded amusement of a different type was the Grecian, and night after night parties of from ten to twenty were made up during the pantomime season to witness the best of pantomimists in his incomparable part. Not that such a privilege was lightly undertaken, for, to begin with, Conquest had to be warned to knock two or three boxes into one, then dinner in the (private) Octagon Room of the “Ship and Turtle” in Leadenhall Street had to be ordered, and then—and then only—the organised party proceeded eastwards in a private omnibus about 5 p.m.

It may seem silly and suggestive of senile decay to descant on such frivolities, but who of the present generation can realise the homely, sumptuous repast that awaited one at the famous old hostelry of the sixties? The milk-punch specially served by Painter himself, the incomparable turtle soup and turtle steaks, the saddle of mutton one felt it a sin to mutilate, and the honest English pancakes washed down with port—fifty years old—and champagne in magnums were one and all incomparable; and then the start as the omnibus pulled up at the door, and the smoking of cigars of brands now unknown, till one alighted at the portals of the Grecian in the City Road, adjoining the celebrated “Eagle,” made famous by the antics of the eccentric weasel that we are assured went “pop” every time it entered its hospitable doors. Can anything of to-day compare with it? But the days of regret for these honest old enjoyments are sadly out of place in these enlightened times, where comic opera has superseded the transformation scene with its adjuncts of clown, pantaloons, and harlequin. The performance and the historian are alike out of perspective.

“Come, Mabel, shall we go to the Covent Garden ball?”

Let us extend our ramble to merry Islington and peep in at the Philharmonic, where now stands the Grand; and although we take a leap into the seventies for the nonce, the “long ago” is sufficiently distant to be beyond the ken of many of our readers.

The rage for Offenbach was at this time at its height, and Soldene and Dolaro drew all the golden calves from the West to gaze on the things of beauty that were provided for their delectation.

A sporting bookmaker—Charley Head—who ran the show, realising that the majority of his patrons were incapable of distinguishing “Hunkey Dorum” from the National Anthem (“The Honeysuckle and the Bee” was, happily, unknown in those days), decided that if the principals were of the highest class, the chorus might fairly be selected for perfection of form rather than perfection of voice, and some seventy of the most beautiful girls in London were engaged to add _éclat_ to the performance.

It was currently reported that half their weekly salary of three shillings was paid in counters, to be expended in the salon after the performance; and the roaring trade in champagne that ensued amply repaid the astute manager’s calculations.

The drama, run on these lines, naturally produced impresarios of a questionable class, and Leo Egremont, in an expanse of white waistcoat and a stripe down his trousers, was nightly ubiquitous and effusively gushing in his attendance on the golden calves. A ballad singer (at the Cave of Harmony) before he lost his voice—a basso of the deepest dye—he had lately opened a “bureau” and advertised for novelties which he “placed”—as he termed it—as the demand and circumstances suggested.

The streaky nobleman and the toothless lady who could sing three octaves had been presented through his enterprise to an East-end audience, and when the “Phil” opened under such unique auspices, Egremont lost no time in securing a footing.

He also belonged to the “Howlers,” a half club, half pot-house, in the vicinity of the Strand.

But the poor old “Phil” has long since been burnt to the ground, Egremont has disappeared below the horizon, and the memories of the seventies are gone to join the mountain of reminiscences of the long-ago Sixties.

Across the river, the Surrey—run on broader lines—was also responsible for the hatching of numerous future hereditary legislators, and during the pantomime season might be found such goddesses as Val Reece, Lardy Wilson, and a score of others, many of whom have since swelled the pages of Debrett and similar works of our religion.

It is no more than the truth to assert that this latter lady—for she had a way with her not strictly histrionic—very nearly upset by her personality a certain Anglo-Russian marriage at a critical period of the negotiations.

The Lamp of Burlesque had not yet been lighted, nor even trimmed, in the future Gaiety—which at the time was a “rub-a-dub” of the lowest class—and so the rumours of duels that filled the air years later between a military attaché and an _off-shoot_ of the noble House of Clanricarde still slumbered in the womb of futurity, only to be roused to vitality by the nimble graces of Kate Vaughan and sweet little Nell Farren.

Passing the Charing Cross Hotel one day, an old semi-theatrical warrior returned visibly to my mind, and I could again see Alfred Paget descending the stairs after one of those informal meetings of directors that occasionally took place in Edward Watkins’s rooms. For the would-be juvenile on the high road to senile decay that the present generation may remember was a very different man to the Lord Alfred of the Sixties, or, looking further back, to the handsome young equerry who pranced beside the late Queen’s carriage in all the glory of manhood. And then incidents long forgotten were re-enacted in my muddled brain; how as a director of the South-Eastern he claimed, or obtained, or arranged, that all repairs on his steam yacht should be done by the artificers and engineers of the company. And then, by no great effort, the _Santa Maria_ appeared lying off Margate Pier, and Old Alfred—as he was gradually becoming—faultlessly attired on “post captain” lines, waiting for his boon companion, Alec Henderson, or possibly a “Poppit,” as all his “frivolities” were christened. And then the launch lying at the steps, and the revels on board, and the grateful “poppits” going over the side after being presented with a straw hat or some article of female attire found in the state cabin, belonging to heaven knows who, during the more respectable cruises. And then the trips to Boulogne and the stocking the store-room with cheap wines, which the genial old sinner chuckled would thus evade duty and come in handy at second-chop gatherings. For with all his display his lordship was undoubtedly thrifty, and could have stated blindfolded the exact number of cigars or cigarettes that were lying about, no matter how apparently negligently.

Lord Alfred had been a yachtsman all his life, and he would tell how our late Queen—with that characteristic woman’s tact that never left her—wrote to him on the occasion of a former yacht being run down by a Channel mail packet, “You must not be ashamed to accept the enclosed £500 as a gift from the Sovereign to a subject.”

“Mighty different woman now,” he would add, pouting his lips, and then toddling off with a six-foot telescope to take the harmless bearings of any “poppits” within hail.

His chum “Alec” was a charming man, and when he and Lionel Brough—as on one occasion—began capping one reminiscence by another on the deck of the _Santa Maria_ the show was as good as anything to be seen at the Opera Comique or Strand, or any of the various theatres of which he was lessee. Years before he had married Lydia Thompson, a name that conveys nothing to the present generation, but who in the sixties was the cleverest and prettiest of burlesque actresses, and there was not a youngster worth his salt that was not desperately in love with her. Lydia Thompson was aunt to Violet Cameron, who attained a certain position in the later seventies at the Strand, but was overshadowed by Florence St. John, one of the very few who, in addition to being the most chic of actresses, possessed a pure and cultivated voice.