as Romeo or Benedick, but he admired him in melodrama and character parts, and as Shylock, while Ellen Terry melted him, and when he saw her play Macbeth, he kept on murmuring, “The dear little child.” But it was the musical traditions which were the more important—the old days of Italian Opera, the last days of the bel canto—Mario and Grisi and, before them, Ronconi and Rubini and Tamburini.
My mother was never tired of telling of Grisi flinging herself across the door in the Lucrezia Borgia, dressed in a parure of turquoises, and Mario singing with her the duet in the Huguenots. Mario, they used to say, was a real tenor, and had the right méthode. None of the singers who came afterwards was allowed to be a real tenor. Jean de Reszke was emphatically not a real tenor. None of the German school had any méthode. I suppose Caruso would have been thought a real tenor, but I doubt if his méthode would have passed muster. There was one singer who had no voice at all, but who was immensely admired and venerated because of his méthode. I think his name was Signor Brizzi. He was a singing-master, and I remember saying that I preferred a singer who had just a little voice.
My father loathed modern German Opera. Mozart, Donizetti, Rossini, and Verdi enchanted him, and my mother, steeped in classical music as she was, preferred Italian operas to all others. Patti was given full marks both for voice and méthode, and Trebelli, Albani, and Nilsson were greatly admired. But Wagner was thought noisy, and Faust and Carmen alone of more modern operas really tolerated.
Sometimes my mother would teach me the accompaniments of the airs in Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia, while she played on the concertina, and she used always to say: “Do try and get the bass right.” The principle was, and I believe it to be a sound one, that if the bass is right, the treble will take care of itself. What she and my Aunt M’aimée called playing with a foolish bass was as bad as driving a pony with a loose rein, which was for them another unpardonable sin.
On the French stage, tradition went back as far as Rachel, although my mother never saw her, and I don’t think my father did; but Desclée was said to be an incomparable artist, of the high-strung, nervous, delicate type. The accounts of her remind one of Elenora Duse, whose acting delighted my father when he saw her. “Est-elle jolie?” someone said of Desclée. “Non, elle est pire.”
Another name which meant something definite to me was that of Fargeuil, who I imagine was an intensely emotional actress with a wonderful charm of expression and utterance. My father was never surprised at people preferring the new to the old. He seemed to expect it, and when I once told him later that I preferred Stevenson to Scott, a judgment I have since revised and reversed, he was not in the least surprised, and said: “Of course, it must be so; it is more modern.” But he was glad to find I enjoyed Dickens, laughed at Pickwick, and thought Vanity Fair an interesting book, when I read these books later at school.
We were taken to see some good acting before I went to school. We saw the last performances of School and Ours at the Haymarket with the Bancrofts. My mother always spoke of Mrs. Bancroft as Marie Wilton: we saw Hare in The Colonel and the Quiet Rubber; Mrs. Kendal in the Ironmaster, and Sarah Bernhardt in Hernani. She had left the Théâtre français then, and was acting with her husband, M. Damala. This, of course, was the greatest excitement of all, as I knew many passages of the play, and the whole of the last act by heart. I can remember now Sarah’s exquisite modulation of voice when she said:
“Tout s’est éteint, flambeaux et musique de fête,
Rien que la nuit et nous, félicité parfaite.”
The greatest theatrical treat of all was to go to the St. James’s Theatre, because Mr. Hare was a great friend of the family and used to come and stay at Membland, so that when we went to his theatre we used to go behind the scenes. I saw several of his plays: Pinero’s Hobby Horse, Lady Clancarty, and the first night of As You Like It. This was on Saturday, 24th January 1885.
One night we were given the Queen’s box at Covent Garden by Aunt M’aimée, and we went to the opera. It was Aïda.
We also saw Pasca in La joie fait peur, so that the tradition that my sisters could hand on to their children was linked with a distant past.
When Mary Anderson first came to London we went to see her in the Lady of Lyons, and never shall I forget her first entrance on the stage. This was rendered the more impressive by an old lady with white hair making an entrance just before Mary Anderson, and Cecil, who was with us, pretending to think she was Mary Anderson, and saying with polite resignation that she was a little less young than he had expected. When Mary Anderson did appear, her beauty took our breath away; she was dressed in an Empire gown with her hair done in a pinnacle, and she looked like a picture of the Empress Josephine: radiant with youth, and the kind of beauty that is beyond and above discussion; eyes like stars, classic arms, a nobly modelled face, and matchless grace of carriage. Next year we all went in a box to see her in Pygmalion and Galatea, a play that I was never tired of reproducing afterwards on my toy theatre.
As I grew older, I remember going to one or two grown-up parties in London. One was at Grosvenor House, a garden party, with, I think, a bazaar going on. There was a red-coated band playing in the garden, and my cousin, Betty Ponsonby, who was there, asked me to go and ask the band to play a valse called “Jeunesse Dorée.” I did so, spoke to the bandmaster, and walked to the other end of the lawn. To my surprise I saw the whole band following me right across the lawn, and taking up a new position at the place I had gone to. Whether they thought I had meant they could not be heard where they were, I don’t know, but I was considerably embarrassed; so, I think, was my cousin, Betty.
Another party I remember was at Stafford House. My mother was playing the violin in an amateur ladies’ string-band, conducted by Lady Folkestone. My cousin, Bessie Bulteel, had to accompany Madame Neruda in a violin solo and pianoforte duet. The Princess of Wales and the three little princesses were sitting in the front row on red velvet chairs. The Princess of Wales in her orders and jewels seemed to me, and I am sure to all the grown-up people as well, like the queen of a fairy-tale who had strayed by chance into the world of mortals; she was different and more graceful than anyone else there.
There is one kind of beauty which sends grown-up people into raptures, but which children are quite blind to; but there is another and rarer order of beauty which, while it amazes the grown-up and makes the old cry, binds children with a spell. It is an order of beauty in which the grace of every movement, the radiance of the smile, and the sure promise of lasting youth in the cut of the face make you forget all other attributes, however perfect.
Of such a kind was the grace and beauty of the Princess of Wales. She was as lovely then as Queen Alexandra.
I was taken by my father in my black velvet suit. I was sitting on a chair somewhere at the end of a row, and couldn’t see very well. One of the little princesses smiled at me and beckoned to me, so I boldly walked up and sat next to them, and the Princess of Wales then took me on her knee, greatly to the surprise of my mother when she walked on to the platform with the band. The audience was splendid and crowded with jewelled beauties, and I remember one of the grown-ups asking another: “Which do you admire most, Lady Clarendon or Lady Dudley?”
Another party I remember was an afternoon party at Sir Frederic Leighton’s house, with music. Every year he gave this party, and every year the same people were invited. The music was performed by the greatest artists: Joachim, Madame Neruda, Piatti the violoncellist, and the best pianists of the day, in a large Moorish room full of flowers. It was the most intimate of concerts. The audience, which was quite small, used to sit in groups round the pianoforte, and only in the more leisurely London of the ’eighties could you have had such an exquisite performance and so naturally cultivated, so unaffectedly
