In the following July I went up to spend a Sunday afternoon with the centenarian. It was quite impossible to believe that he was indeed in his 101st year. He actually displayed more vivacity than at the time when I was commencing lessons with him, while even in those days my mother had asserted that he seemed more hale and active than he had been when she in her turn was studying under him twenty-five years before. Truly as he grew older he appeared to become younger.
Charles Klein came to call on the maestro on this same afternoon, and was put through many searching questions with regard to the latest phases of American thought and character. When tea arrived our host displayed the most extraordinary energy, jumping up and insisting upon getting a small table upon which the playwright might rest his cup and plate. The latter he watched with anxiety. When it was empty, he promptly fetched a plate of scones, and with the most wonderful humour and good spirits pressed the guest to take some more. As for his own wants, it was perfectly futile for one to offer to take charge of his cup. Nothing would satisfy him but that he should himself take it over to be refilled. When I rose to go, the maestro insisted on coming to the front door, as in the old days, and in shaking hands said, "I shall hope to see you here soon again."
For the next nine months Manuel Garcia led a life almost incredible in one of such age. He continued to rise early, go to bed late, and enjoy walks, drives, theatres, concerts, and dinners as thoroughly as a man forty years his junior.
His hale old age he would ascribe to his mental and physical activity, his moderate living (he did not touch wine or spirits until he was ninety), and his good digestion.
His piano continued to be a favourite friend, and frequently he would play for an hour in the forenoon and again in the evening. The selections would be mostly snatches from the old Italian operas—especially Rossini, Meyerbeer, and Mozart,—played from memory. His hearing was excellent, and his sight still comparatively good; indeed, he spent a great deal of time in reading, for he took an interest in everything that went on in the world. His evenings would be passed in conversation, or a bout at chess—a game in which he had many a time in the old days tried conclusions with Sir Charles Hallé. Sometimes he would go out for a game of cards with his neighbours.
He went to visit many old friends, and one day actually walked up to the fourth floor in a block of flats, disdaining the lift. He went to register his vote at the general election. During his walks he used to offer adverse criticisms of the motor-omnibuses which were beginning to make their appearance. 'Bus conductors used to get their own back without knowing it, for they would point to "Mon Abri" as they passed, and remark to the passengers, "That's where the Centurion lives."
In the following autumn I was at work on the little book of reminiscences of my mother and her circle of friends, and at the close of November wrote to Señor Garcia telling him that I wished to devote a portion to his own career, as her chief instructor in singing. This letter at once brought a reply that he would like to see the MS. of that part of the memoir.
Hence there came about what must have been unique in the experience of book publishers, for when the manuscript was finally returned to them after revision, marked for press, it contained some corrections in the handwriting of one who was within three months of entering his 102nd year.
The coming of the new year appeared to bring with it little visible diminution in the maestro's mental and bodily activity. Indeed, during the winter of 1905-06 he attended quite a number of public dinners, including one at the Savage Club, another given by the "Vagabonds" to Mr and Mrs H. B. Irving, and a third at the Mansion House in honour of the King of Spain, by whose special request the Centenarian was invited to be present.
