A last token of the love which those friends bore him is being made to him now by “His Fellow-Craftsmen”; it is a bronze medallion, made by the sculptor, Mr. Albert Toft, and will be placed where Harry’s body lies, at the Cemetery at St. Germain-en-Laye. The beautiful thought originated with Mr. Cyril Harcourt and Mr. Dion Clayton Calthrop, and many who loved Harry have joined hands with them. As I write, a letter has just come to me from Mr. Harcourt, saying: “It is done, and we think beautifully. The face and hand, with the cigarette smoke curling up, are wonderful.” I can fancy that Harry sees it too, and says in that beautiful voice of his, full of all the tones and music I know so well:
“And I, in some far planet, past the skies,
I shall look down and smile;
Knowing in death I have not lost my friends,
But only found in death their lasting love.”
Of his wonderful charm it is almost impossible to write, and yet it was essentially part of him, and a feature of his personality. Whatever his faults may have been—and he had them, as have all of us—it was his wonderful charm which made them so easy to forgive. As Fred Grove used to say of him:
“Though to the faults of mortals he may fall,
Look in his eyes, and you forget them all.”
His friends know, as I do, his generosity; that keen anxiety to help, either by money or kindness, anyone who was unfortunate. Harry never waited to wonder if his help was wise or judicious; a man or woman was poor, underfed, or unhappy, that was enough for him, and any help he could give was at once forthcoming, and given with such unfeigned pleasure at being able to help that I am convinced many of those who asked him for money went away feeling they had conferred a favour on Harry Esmond by borrowing his money.
On his work, both as a writer and an actor, I shall try to touch later. I have tried here to give you the man as I knew him: A boy with the soul of a poet; a man who always in his heart of hearts believed that most men were brave, and, unless life had been unkind, all women good; who evolved a philosophy which, though it may not have been very deep, was always gay; to whom life was full of small excitements, wonderful adventures, and splendid friends; who remained, after thirty years of married life, still a very perfect lover; and who understood his children and was their most loved playmate, because he never ceased himself to be a child; complex, as all artistic natures must be, and sometimes, if he seemed too ready to sacrifice the real to the imaginary, it was because the imaginary to him seemed so much more “worth while”.