MORE MARGOBIOGRAPHY.
Proposals—Carlyle—Bismarck—Disraeli—A New Browning Poem
—Napoleon on Living British Statesmen.
[Readers of the vivacious but too reticent serial now appearing in The Sunday Times may have noticed that the narrative is now and then interrupted by a row of what Lord Randolph Churchill, during one of his conversations with Mrs. Asquith and Jowett, called (to the immense delight of the Master of Balliol) "those damned dots." Mr. Punch has, at fabulous expense, acquired the right to publish certain of the omitted passages, a selection of which is appended.]
Many Admirers.
No sooner was I in my earliest teens and had made up my mind as to the best cigarettes, than proposals began to be a matter of daily occurrence, so that whenever I saw the fifth footman or the third butler stealthily approaching me I knew that he was concealing a billet doux. Sometimes they were very flattering. Here is one, written in the big boyish hand of a Prince of the Blood:—
My beautiful, there is no one like you. They want me to marry the daughter of a royal house, but if you will say "Yes" I will defy them. We will be married by the Archbishop, who marries and buries so beautifully; but I shall never need burying, because those who marry you never die.
Poor boy, I had to send him a negative by the fifteenth groom in the third phaeton, drawn by a pair of dashing chestnuts which another of my unsuccessful adorers had given me. I noticed that when they got back to Grosvenor Square the chestnuts had turned to greys.
The Sage of Chelsea.
Thomas Carlyle loved to have me trotting in and out of his house in Cheyne Row, and we had endless talks on the desirability of silence. "Yon wee Meg," he used to say, for he refused to call me "Margot," declaring it was a Frenchified name—"yon wee Meg is the cleverest girl in Scotland—and the wittiest."
I remember once that Ruskin was there too, and we had a little breeze.
Ruskin (patronisingly). What do you think of the paintings of Turner?
Margot. He bores me.
Ruskin (drawing in a long breath). Bores you?
Margot (with a slow smile). He probably bores you too, only you daren't admit it.
What would have happened I cannot imagine had not dear old Carlyle offered me a draw of his pipe, while remarking laughingly, "She's a wonder, is Meg; she'll lead the world yet."
One day he asked me what I thought of his writing.
Margot. Too jerky and overcharged.
Carlyle (wincing). I must try to improve. What is your theory of authorship?
Margot. I think one should assume that everything that happens to oneself must be interesting to others.
Carlyle (as though staggered by a new idea). Why?
Margot (simply). Because oneself is so precious, so unique.
I asked him once what he really thought of Mrs. Carlyle, but he changed the subject.
Bismarck.
It was in Berlin, when I was seventeen, that I met Bismarck. It was at the Opera, where, being a young English girl, I was in the habit of going alone. The great Chancellor, who was all unconscious that I had penetrated his identity, watched me for a long while between the Acts and then overtook me on my way home and in French asked me to supper.
Margot (also in French). But I am not hungry.
Bismarck. In Germany you should do as the Germans do and eat always; (with emphasis) I do.
Margot (scathingly). I wonder if you are aware that I am English?
Bismarck (muttering something I could not catch about England lying crushed at his feet). But you are beautiful too! Some day you will be a countrywoman of mine.
Margot. How?
Bismarck. Because we shall make war on England and conquer it, and it will then be our own and all of you will be our people and our slaves. At least we should conquer it if——
Margot. If what?
Bismarck. If it were not for a young man who will then be Prime Minister. It is of him we are afraid.
Margot. What is his name?
Bismarck. Asquith.
Could prescience further go? Bismarck then left me with another ungainly effort at French: "Au revoir, Mademoiselle." But we never met again.
Disraeli's Last Days.
I was with Disraeli (who was one of the few men who did not propose to me) not long before the end, and he gave me many confidences, although he knew all about my friendship with Gladstone. But then I have always chosen my friends impartially from all the camps. My exact memory enables me to repeat my last conversation with Dizzy word for word:—
Margot. You look tired. Shall I dance for you?
(Continued on page 104).
THE REAL MUSIC.
John Bull. "I WISH THEY'D LET ME HEAR THE LADY."
The Wife (bitterly). "Yes, it makes a nice outin' for me, don't it—settin' in the rain all day guardin' a tin o' worms?"
Dizzy. No, no.
Margot (brightly). Let us be sensible and talk frankly about your approaching death. Have you any views as to your biography?
Dizzy. Need there be one?
Margot. Of course.
Dizzy (earnestly). Would you write it? You would be so discreet.
I had to refuse, but I am sure I could have made a more amusing job of it than Mr. Buckle has done, in spite of the love-letters. What a pity they didn't entrust it to my dear Edmund Gosse!
A Browning Poem.
Here is a little poem that Browning wrote for me on hearing me say that when we were girls "we did not know the meaning of the word 'fast'":—
We all of us worship our Margot,
She's such a determined escargot.
Talks with the Dead.
The great Napoleon had died many years before I was born; and how unjust it is that the lives of really interesting people should not coincide! But with the assistance of my beloved Oliver Lodge I have had many conversations with him. Our first opened in this manner:—
Margot. Do you take any interest in current English politics?
Napoleon. Oui (Yes).
Margot. What do you think of Lloyd George?
Napoleon. An opportunist on horseback.
Margot. I love riding too. I met most of my friends in the hunting-field. You should have seen me cantering into the hall of our town mansion. Who do you think our greatest statesman?
Napoleon. Asquith beyond a doubt.
Both Plato and Julius Cæsar, whom my beloved Oliver has also introduced to me, said the same thing.
E. V. L.