These latter incidents occurred some time after 1873. When we got back to England after our Dresden wedding we took up our abode almost immediately in the old Adams house in Great Russell Street. The two rooms which Mr. Jameson sub-let to us were all that we could at first obtain above the Dispensary, but they were large and quite sufficient for the Bohemian life which was all that we could then afford; anyway no subsequent home of ours was pleasanter and nothing was ever again so little burthensome.
At a long table by the door of the one large dwelling-room the old couple who had been our predecessor’s factotums served our meals; and around the handsome Adams chimney-piece at the other end, or in the panelled window-seats looking on the restful façade of the British Museum, we gathered Joe’s friends—they were all Joe’s friends—for a “pipe and a chat.”
And what chats they were!
James Sime, the historian, kindliest of men with his Teutonic philosophies and his deep Scottish sentiment and enthusiasm; Churton Collins richly capping his host’s poetical quotations and sometimes boldly challenged for an inaccuracy; W. Minto, afterwards Professor of Literature at Aberdeen, who was just starting his Editorship of The Examiner, and pressing Joe into the ranks of his contributors; Camille Barrère, now French Ambassador in Rome, but then a Communist refugee earning a living by London journalism, and of whose friendship and instruction in French Joe tells himself; Frederick Jameson and Beatty Kingston with their friends at piano and violin, to say nothing of the colleagues with whom my husband had just become associated in his work on The Globe and of whom he again tells in his Eminent Victorians.
Dare I recall the evening when my husband proudly named me to Minto as the writer of a little descriptive article which he had read in the Pall Mall Gazette and the consequent suggestion that I should do the series of Italian sketches for The Examiner which were afterwards reprinted in a volume with Randolph Caldecott’s illustrations.
Of course I should never have done even as much without their kindly encouragement, but to the end of his life I think a good review of any small effort of mine pleased Joe far more than one on his own serious work. But I must admit criticism affected him little—never when it was adverse and, in fact, only when it showed real insight.
In his own merry manner he would say: “People always mean blame when they talk of criticism. But I can blame myself; all I want from others is praise—fulsome praise.” And so it was! He had the need of it which came of the Celtic blend of self-confidence and apprehensiveness. Often have I heard him say of another of like blood: “He couldn’t swim across the stream if he hadn’t our native conceit.” And then add gravely: “Believe me, praise is the only sort of criticism that ever helped a man on his road.”
And in his own opportunities as critic and editor he always acted up to this belief.
In these rosy days of our early struggles and joys, the “first nights” at which Joe was due in his capacity of dramatic critic were red-letter days to me.
The occasion when Ellen Terry first played Portia under the Bancroft management of the famous little House in Tottenham Court Road was one of them; I can see her again in her china-blue and white brocade dress with one crimson rose at her bosom. Neither the fashion of the dress or of the coiffure were perhaps as correct to the period as the costumes which I designed for her later on for the better remembered run of The Merchant of Venice at the Lyceum; but how lovely she looked and how emphatically Joe picked her out as the evening’s star beside Coghlan’s Jew! Our hearts beat with pride at the laurels often gathered by our friend, even in those early days before her long list of triumphs with Henry Irving; and Joe, as we made our way home, took some credit to himself for the vehement advice as to her resuming her temporarily suspended career, which he had given her a short while before. There were never any first-nights quite like the Ellen Terry ones to us; but there were many pleasant and exciting evenings—notably the nights of Irving’s remarkable performances at a time when he was playing under the Bateman management in The Bells, The Two Roses, and many other of his early successes; also the famous runs of Robertson comedies at the little Prince of Wales theatre, where the charming Marie Bancroft was at the top of her long popularity and John Hare’s delicate impersonations vied with his manager’s carefully studied portraits of the dandy of the day. Mrs. Kendal was also then at the height of her brilliant career, and last but not least, the first performances of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas were nights when the privilege of seats was not easily won.