Empty chairs

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.