I
have never seen a Falstaff that did not make me miserable.
He is even more impossible to impersonate than Hamlet. A
player will spoil you the character of Hamlet, but he cannot
spoil his thoughts. Depend upon it, we are fortunate not to
have seen Shakespeare in his ghost of Royal Denmark.
In 1861 I married Lady Katharine Egerton, second daughter of
Lord Wilton, and we took up our abode in Warwick Square,
which, by the way, I had seen a few years before as a turnip
field. My wife was an accomplished pianiste, so we had a
great deal of music, and saw much of the artist world. I may
mention one artistic dinner amongst our early efforts at
housekeeping, which nearly ended with a catastrophe.
Millais and Dicky Doyle were of the party; music was
represented by Joachim, Piatti, and Halle. The late Lord and
Lady de Ros were also of the number. Lady de Ros, who was a
daughter of the Duke of Richmond, had danced at the ball
given by her father at Brussels the night before Waterloo.
As Lord de Ros was then Governor of the Tower, it will be
understood that he was a veteran of some standing. The great
musical trio were enchanting all ears with their faultless
performance, when the sweet and soul-stirring notes of the
Adagio were suddenly interrupted by a loud crash and a
shriek. Old Lord de Ros was listening to the music on a sofa
at the further end of the room. Over his head was a large
picture in a heavy frame. What vibrations, what careless
hanging, what mischievous Ate or Discord was at the bottom of
it, who knows? Down came the picture on the top of the poor
old General's head, and knocked him senseless on the floor.
He had to be carried upstairs and laid upon a bed. Happily
he recovered without serious injury. There were many
exclamations of regret, but the only one I remember was
Millais'. All he said was: 'And it is a good picture too.'
Sir Arthur Sullivan was one of our musical favourites. My
wife had known him as a chorister boy in the Chapel Royal;
and to the end of his days we were on terms of the closest
intimacy and friendship. Through him we made the
acquaintance of the Scott Russells. Mr. Scott Russell was
the builder of the Crystal Palace. He had a delightful
residence at Sydenham, the grounds of which adjoined those of
the Crystal Palace, and were beautifully laid out by his
friend Sir Joseph Paxton. One of the daughters, Miss Rachel
Russell, was a pupil of Arthur Sullivan's. She had great
musical talent, she was remarkably handsome, exceedingly
clever and well-informed, and altogether exceptionally
fascinating. Quite apart from Sullivan's genius, he was in
every way a charming fellow. The teacher fell in love with
the pupil; and, as naturally, his love was returned.
Sullivan was but a youth, a poor and struggling music-master.
And, very naturally again, Mrs. Scott Russell, who could not
be expected to know what magic baton the young maestro
carried in his knapsack, thought her brilliant daughter might
do better. The music lessons were put a stop to, and
correspondence between the lovers was prohibited.
Once a week or so, either the young lady or the young
gentleman would, quite unexpectedly, pay us a visit about tea
or luncheon time. And, by the strangest coincidence, the
other would be sure to drop in while the one was there. This
went on for a year or two. But destiny forbade the banns.
In spite of the large fortune acquired by Mr. Scott Russell -
he was the builder of the 'Great Eastern' as well as the
Crystal Palace - ill-advised or unsuccessful ventures robbed
him of his well-earned wealth. His beautiful place at
Sydenham had to be sold; and the marriage of Miss Rachel with
young Arthur Sullivan was abandoned. She ultimately married
an Indian official.
Her story may here be told to the end. Some years later she
returned to England to bring her two children home for their
education, going back to India without them, as Indian
mothers have to do. The day before she sailed, she called to
take leave of us in London. She was terribly depressed, but
fought bravely with her trial. She never broke down, but
shunted the subject, talking and laughing with flashes of her
old vivacity, about music, books, friends, and 'dear old
dirty London,' as she called it. When she left, I opened the
street-door for her, and with both her hands in mine, bade
her 'Farewell.' Then the tears fell, and her parting words
were: 'I am leaving England never to see it again.' She was
seized with cholera the night she reached Bombay, and died
the following day.
To return to her father, the eminent engineer. He was
distinctly a man of genius, and what is called 'a character.'
He was always in the clouds - not in the vapour of his
engine-rooms, nor busy inventing machines for extracting
sunbeams from cucumbers, but musing on metaphysical problems
and abstract speculations about the universe generally. In
other respects a perfectly simple-minded man.
It was in his palmy days that he invited me to run down to
Sheerness with him, and go over the 'Great Eastern' before
she left with the Atlantic cable. This was in 1865. The
largest ship in the world, and the first Atlantic cable, were
both objects of the greatest interest. The builder did not
know the captain - Anderson - nor did the captain know the
builder. But clearly, each would be glad to meet the other.
As the leviathan was to leave in a couple of days, everything
on board her was in the wildest confusion.
