EMPTY CHAIRS

BY

SQUIRE BANCROFT

LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. 1925

FIRST EDITION ... March 1925 Reprinted ... April 1925

Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

TO MY SON

PREFACE

These pages are mainly concerned with men and women who, in days gone by, have done my wife and me the honour to sit at our table, and have now left us. I think of their Empty Chairs from a warm corner of my heart: their friendship has brightened my life and stored my mind with rosemary.

Having already written Recollections, I am bound to repeat myself, so let me plead forgiveness for the besetting sin of advanced years.

My apology for the book is its last chapter.

S. B.

CONTENTS

I. King Edward VII

II. Place aux Dames

III. The Church

IV. The Law

V. Painting: Sculpture: Music

VI. Literature

VII. More Men of Mark

VIII. The Stage: I

IX. The Stage: II

X. One other Empty Chair

{1}

EMPTY CHAIRS

I KING EDWARD VII

"Blessed are the peacemakers"

All who were born, as I was, in 1841 must count it an honour to have come into the world in the same year as King Edward the Peacemaker. And the honour appeals especially perhaps to one who owes many of his friends and much of his happiness to the stage, for the stage has never found among Royal heads a firmer friend than was the late King; his gracious words and acts went far to conquer a decaying prejudice.

The first time that either my wife or I met or had speech with the Prince of Wales (as he was for many years) was so far back as in 1868, when he, with the present Queen Alexandra, attended an early performance of one of Robertson's comedies during our managerial {2} career at the old Prince of Wales's Theatre (which he had graciously given his permission, through the Lord Chamberlain, to name after him). On this occasion the Prince came for the first time behind the scenes, and honoured our little green-room with a visit. His love of exactitude in all matters of costume enabled us then, I remember, to correct a slight error in a military uniform.

His Royal Highness was accompanied by Frederic Leighton, then young and handsome, who ten years later was elected President of the Royal Academy; and by Carlo Pellegrini, whose caricatures, bearing the now historic signature "Ape," were then attracting both attention and admiration. The celebrated "originals," I imagine, have now all passed away. Lord Chaplin was the last survivor of the unpublished "set" which enrich the Marlborough Club.

The weather was foggy, and during the performance became so dense that at the close the streets were dangerous. The Royal carriages, after great difficulty, arrived safely, surrounded by a body of police, bearing torches, who escorted our visitors to Marlborough House. In all the years of our management the Prince never came again without asking, upon his arrival, to be {3} informed at which interval it would be convenient for my wife to receive his visit to the green-room.

A domestic drama

One of these visits to our theatre caused, indirectly, the plot of a domestic drama.

The Royal box was constructed by throwing two private boxes into one, and on a certain Friday night news reached the theatre that it was required by the Prince for the following evening. This was before the days of telephones. Both boxes had been taken—one at the theatre, the other at a librarian's in Bond Street—and nothing remained unlet but a small box on the top tier. Not to disappoint the Prince of Wales, it was decided that every effort should be made to arrange matters. The box which had been sold at the theatre was kindly given up by the purchaser, and a visit to Bond Street fortunately disclosed the name of the possessor of the other. The gentleman was a stockbroker; so a messenger was at once sent to his office in the City, only to find that he had just gone. After a great deal of difficulty our invincible messenger succeeded in learning his private address, where, on arrival, he was told that "Master went to Liverpool on business this morning, and won't be back till Monday."

The door of a room leading from the hall {4} was opened at this moment, and a portly lady appeared upon the scene.

"Went to Liverpool!" echoed the messenger. "Nonsense! He's going to the Prince of Wales's Theatre this evening."

The lady now approached, and asked if she could be of any service. The messenger repeated his story and stated his errand. The lady smiled blandly, and said that, if the small box on the upper tier were reserved, matters no doubt would be amicably arranged in the evening, and so that man went away rejoicing.

At night, not long before the play began, the gentleman who had in vain been sought so urgently arrived in high spirits, accompanied by a lady, handsome but not portly. When the circumstances were explained to him, he agreed to use the smaller, and upstairs box.

There ended our share in the transaction; but hardly were the unfortunate man and his attractive companion left alone than the portly lady reached the theatre and asked to be shown to Box X. She was conducted there; the door was opened. Tableau! What explanation was given as to the business trip to Liverpool we never knew, or whether the third act of this domestic drama was afterwards played at the Law Courts before "the President."

{5}

Grave illness

It was in the winter of 1871 that the Prince fell seriously ill from typhoid fever. The national excitement reached so high a pitch and the craving for the latest news of his condition grew so great, that the bulletins from Sandringham were read out in the theatres between the acts, and the National Anthem and "God Bless the Prince of Wales" were nightly played by the various orchestras.

The Prince was hardly expected to survive from hour to hour, but when reassuring bulletins were issued I vividly remember the relief they caused. The extraordinary manifestation of loyalty to the Throne and attachment to the Prince which this illness set ablaze culminated on the day of General Thanksgiving, when London was en fête, and Queen Victoria, with her convalescent son, went to the service held at St. Paul's. My wife and I were fortunate in being invited by the Lord Chamberlain to represent the stage—young managers as we then were—at the Cathedral. I shall never forget the effect when the great west door was thrown open and a loud voice announced "The Queen." The imposing ceremony, the aspect of the building, with its splendid assemblage of people, have only since been equalled at the Jubilee Thanksgiving of 1887 in Westminster Abbey, at which we were {6} also present. On the day which followed I remember being at the corner of Pall Mall and St. James's Street while the decorations were being taken down. I said to a police constable:

"You fellows must have had a long and very tiring day, yesterday." "Yes, sir, we had," the man replied, "and we'd willingly go through it all for her again to-morrow."

I also recall an amusing incident which took place at that time in the grounds of Chelsea Hospital. There was a parade of the old Pensioners, looking as if they had stepped from the canvas of Herkomer's "Last Muster." The Prince and Princess of Wales, with other Royalties, including the Duchess of Teck, who was in a bath-chair, passed along the line, the Prince in his kindly way stopping now and then to say a pleasant word. The breast of one old man was ablaze with medals—the Prince handled them and said: "You have indeed seen a deal of service, my man." The old fellow drew himself up, saluted, and answered: "Yes, your wusshup!" The Prince controlled his amusement at the new title and passed along, but, as she was drawn after him in her chair, the Duchess did not repress the merry laughter for which she was loved by all sorts of people.

Dinners to actors

Among my treasured memories is that of {7} the dinner given by the Prince at Marlborough House to the principal actors of London—one of the many acts by which he endeared himself to the theatrical profession. On this occasion I was honoured by being placed on the right-hand of our host. This was in 1882. Without having realised it, I found that I had already been the senior manager in London for some years. Thirty-eight were at table, the actors present being Henry Irving, J. L. Toole, John Hare, Charles Wyndham, Charles Coghlan, W. H. Kendal, John Clayton, David James, Arthur Cecil, Henry Neville, Lionel Brough, Hermann Vezin, George Grossmith the elder, and myself. H. J. Byron was invited, but serious illness kept him away. I am the only survivor of that happy company. Of the guests invited to meet us, Lord Lincolnshire (then known to his intimates as "Charlie Carington") alone is with us still. Lord Knollys, a charming guest, the trusted servant of three monarchs, and Sir Dighton Probyn, for so many years Queen Alexandra's devoted henchman, have both recently gone from us.

The Prince gave a similar dinner a year or two later at the Marlborough Club, and also honoured the actors by accepting an invitation to dine with them at the Garrick.

{8}

During an interval in a performance of Robertson's comedy, Ours, at the Haymarket Theatre, I was conducting the Prince to the green-room, when, on crossing the stage, there was a congested condition of some scenery. I turned to our master-carpenter, whose name chanced to be Oliver Wales, and said, "Which way, Wales?" I realised the effect of the words by an amused look on the Prince's face. My wife on that evening had taken her autograph book to the theatre to ask the Prince to add his name to it; he wrote at once, "Not 'Ours,' but Yours sincerely, EDWARD P."

My wife and I were naturally proud of the personal interest taken by King Edward in the farewell performance which we gave on our retiring from management in 1885. The Prince (as he still then was) suggested the date, in order that with the Princess of Wales he might be present. They were accompanied by the three young princesses.

On November 9th, 1891, some of the leading actors, including Hare and myself—Irving was in America at the time—went to Sandringham as a deputation, to present H.R.H. on his fiftieth birthday with a cigar and cigarette box, in gold, with the feathers mounted in brilliants, the gift of members of the theatrical profession. The Prince was greatly pleased with {9} what was really a handsome present, and, to my knowledge, he never missed an opportunity, when the box was placed by his order in front of him after dinner, to say what it was and who gave it. On the occasion, after a happy luncheon, we were, as was customary, I was told, weighed in the hall, much to the annoyance of one of the party, who had a superstitious objection to the proceeding.

Alone in the storm

London was visited by violent blizzards in March 1892. On an afternoon in that month I determined to go out and face one of the worst of them. I dressed for the enterprise, and as the door of our house—then in Berkeley Square—was opened for me, a solitary pedestrian passed the portico, wearing a black Inverness cape and, with difficulty, holding up an umbrella. In spite of the driving sleet and snow I could not help noticing a remarkable resemblance borne by the passer-by, who was walking towards Piccadilly, to the Prince of Wales. I followed at short distance, and was more and more surprised by what I thought must be a striking "double." At the corner of Hay Hill the pedestrian stopped, turned round, stared at me as I was slowly approaching, and after some hesitation trudged on down Berkeley Street. By this time I felt certain it must be the Prince, so I crossed the road and {10} continued my walk by the side of the wall enclosing the gardens of Lord Lansdowne and the Duke of Devonshire. As I reached the passage which divides them, the Prince again

stopped and looked at me; he then crossed the slushy road with the evident intention of speaking. I advanced towards him. The Prince begged me to put on my hat and walked with me to the pavement I had left; he stood there and spoke of the recent death of the Duke of Clarence, of the grave illness of Prince Louis of Hesse, of the disastrous fire at Sandringham; since when, he said, according to an old superstition, he had known no luck, adding that he was starting that evening with the Princess for the south of France and a stay at Cap Martin, that meanwhile "he did not know what to do with himself, as they were so steeped in sorrow." After some minutes I said that I must not keep him standing longer in such weather. The Prince then shook me cordially by the hand, and said, very simply, "I am so glad to have had this talk with you." He hesitated again as I left him, then turned back and passed out of my sight up Hay Hill.

Visiting the sick

On the evening of the same day it chanced that my wife and I had been invited to a musical party given by Lady Londesborough. {11} We took our places in a row of chairs; a few minutes later the one next to mine was occupied by the then Lord Wharncliffe, whom, as Chairman of the Beefsteak Club and in other ways, I knew. He turned to me and said: "Bancroft, if there is such a thing as a ghost, I saw one this afternoon, for as I was slithering down Hay Hill in a hansom, hanging on to the doors through the dangerous condition of the road, a man was walking on the pavement, so like the Prince of Wales, that I instinctively raised my hand to take off my hat, when I remembered that it could only be some amazing resemblance to the Prince, who never walks in the streets alone." I was able to convince him that it had been no ghost.

A few weeks afterwards I went to Monte Carlo. On my arrival I heard that Arthur Sullivan was lying very ill at Eze. I went to his villa on a broiling hot day, and was talking under the verandah with his devoted nephew, Herbert Sullivan, then a young fellow, when the sound of a carriage stopping at the gate was followed by the figure of a visitor walking up the garden path alone. I saw at once it was the Prince of Wales, who, directly he came close to us, greeted me with the words: "Very different weather from when we last met." The Prince, among other kind acts, {12} sent his own doctor to see the sufferer, who was too ill to be allowed to receive anyone.

At that time I was much occupied by the readings of Charles Dickens's Christmas Carol, which I gave on behalf of hospitals. A great stimulus to their success was one of the many acts of kindness which I have received from the then Prince of Wales. Soon after I started them I had the good fortune to meet the Prince, by the invitation of the late Lord Burnham, at Hall Barn, where he was staying for a shoot extending over several days. The Prince spoke to me warmly about the "Carol," and asked if I would like to give the reading at Sandringham at the coming Christmas-time, when the house would be full of guests. Needless to say, I could have wished for no greater help to any project that I had a part in.

At Sandringham

On my arrival at Sandringham I was met by Sir Dighton Probyn. We were soon joined by my host, who took a personal interest in the preparations for my evening's work. In the drawing-room, before dinner, I found among the "house-party" two old friends, Sir Charles du Plat and Sir Charles Hall. On entering, the Princess of Wales paused to look round the room; she then left the Prince's arm, advanced towards me, and most graciously welcomed me. {13} At the table, also, were the present King and Queen. The audience for my reading was completed by invitations given to many friends and neighbours, the household, the tenants, and the servants—the ballroom being full. The reading was accompanied by laughter and applause, a special tribute being paid to my impromptu description of the memorable turkey as "real Norfolk." In the billiard-room, later in the evening, I had suitable opportunity to show the Prince the cigar-case which was given to me by Queen Victoria at Balmoral, saying that it was the first occasion on which I had carried it. The Prince at once replied,

suiting the action to the word, "Perhaps you would like me to be the first to take a cigar from it?"

When in 1897 the late Marquess of Salisbury submitted to Queen Victoria that the honour of Knighthood should be conferred upon me, none of the many congratulations that my wife and I received were more charmingly or warmly expressed than those of the Prince of Wales.

It was, however, at Marienbad, where King Edward went annually to take the waters, that he might be seen at his friendliest, free from the cares of his high estate and able, as the "Duke of Lancaster," to relax something of Royal {14} ceremony; but, however unbending, the King had great unconscious dignity. Happy luncheons and pleasant dinners have I enjoyed in his company there, charmed by a perfect host, put entirely at ease by his geniality and constantly impressed by his wide knowledge and deep interest in the affairs of the world. Among fellow guests I may mention Pinero, Tree, and Hawtrey.

The one exception to "Marienbad dress" was when the King gave a dinner on the fête-day of Francis Joseph, the old Emperor; then the card bore the words, "Evening dress and decorations." I was honoured with an invitation, and that year had no tail-coat with me. A soldier friend said if his decorations, for which he had telegraphed, did not arrive in time he would lend me his "tails." After luncheon, however, I bolted up to the golf-course, hunted down Sir Edward Goschen's attaché, a charming tall fellow, and, knowing he would have to wear diplomatic uniform at the dinner, asked if he would lend me his ordinary evening coat. On the night of the ceremony the guests were assembled waiting for the King, who went the round of the half-circle with a happy word in several languages to all. His humorous salutation to me was, "A very becoming coat, Bancroft."

{15}

I recall an amusing incident told me by my neighbour at table, who was High Sheriff of his county. At a ceremony which the King had journeyed from London to perform, a provincial Mayor, after being himself presented, nervously said: "May I present Your Majesty to the Mayoress?" The King immediately replied: "Certainly; the Mayoress is generally presented to me, so it will be a novelty."

His love of precision

I have referred to King Edward's well-known love of exactitude in matters of etiquette and ceremony, and I remember a curious instance of this quality. On one of the occasions when I was His Majesty's guest, a discussion arose about the period of some incident that had been mentioned in the course of conversation; one of the guests said that it took place early in the reign of Queen Victoria.

"No," said our host, "you are mistaken; it happened towards the close of the reign of the late King."

Not for a moment or two did those present realise that by "the late King" His Majesty was referring to King William IV, who, sure enough, was strictly "the late King," although full seventy years had passed since the "sailor King" sat on the throne of England, and he had {16} died before anyone then at the table was born. I had occasion to notice also that King Edward was always punctilious to give his predecessors their Royal title. Should anyone, for instance, allude to "the statue of Charles I" at Charing Cross, the King would be sure to reply with a reference to "the statue of King Charles I."

In 1909, the year of the King's last visit to Marienbad, my memory for dates was appealed to at His Majesty's table with regard to the year of Lord Fisher's birth. I answered that the great little "Jacky" was born in the same year as the King and, as it happened, myself. This led to other names, all friends of our host, being similarly mentioned. I told the King that I held the Royal vintage to be a good one. He was both amused and interested, and wished the list of names to be made out for him, adding: "I must ask you all to dinner."

His end