49 Gower St., July 2, 1894.
Dear Mrs. Howe;
It is delightful to know you are in London but alas, I am in the thick of the fight over the Gen. Election, and only at home in the afternoon for the next ten days. Is it possible you will come and hear Stopford Brooke to-morrow and return with us to lunch? You shall have quiet and repose all alone after it and then bless us with your presence at afternoon tea. I shall keep a sharp look out for you at chapel, which building is but a short way from here.
What a tremendous political fight we are having. I am everywhere at express speed—four huge meetings at Darlington last Monday and so on every day somewhere, and to-night I have two meetings in different parts of London. To-morrow is a breathing space, and on Monday I have two more meetings in London and am off for three Cornish constituencies on Tuesday.
This is merely to explain why I am prevented from doing what I should so love to do, to welcome you. I hope I shall see you, it will be such a pleasure. Is there anyone you want to be introduced to, I wonder?
My love to you and please tell me how long you are going to stay here.
Yours very sincerely,
L. Ormiston Chant.
I find many notes from Lady Aberdeen, Lady Somerset, and her sister, the Duchess of Bedford, and communications from the Central National Society for Women’s Suffrage. Mr. Gladstone had lately published a most unsympathetic pamphlet on “Female Suffrage”, for which he was soundly rated by our suffrage friends. In spite of this nearly all the people we played with were on his side in the great fight of the General Election. Our old friend Cyril Flower was running for parliament to represent the Rothschild interests. He was a supporter of Mr. Gladstone’s and a staunch Liberal. We went down with him and his wife (Constance de Rothschild) to Battersea and heard him address his future constituents. The whole affair was more like the election in Pickwick than like anything I had ever seen. The speeches were highly spiced with personalities, the orators were chaffed by the crowd, till everybody was in a good humor, and of course, the band played “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.” The contest seemed gayer, lighter, less sordid than such things at home. I wonder if the fact that the contested office carried no salary had anything to do with this? There is much to be said in favor of unpaid representatives!
Among the happy hours were those spent at Cromwell Road with Henry and Aline Harland. They kept open house for literary folk and musicians. Harland, who in America had written his first books under the name of Sidney Luska, had now taken root in England and seemed more British than American. He was one of the best talkers I have ever heard; the conversation at his table never lagged. His wife was a singer with a heavenly voice. Among the familiars of this house were Theodore Marzials, the composer, and Henry James. Marzials had a winning personality, a little eccentric—his boots were usually unbuttoned—a little timid. He sang many of his compositions for us, and, on being urged, his most popular if not his best song, “Twickenham Ferry.” Harland’s attitude towards James was that of an admiring disciple. It was pleasant to see them together, the elder Henry responding affectionately to the devotion of the younger. James had begun to soften already and the eyes had lost something of the keenness that recalled those penetrating glances of his father, when as a naughty child I sat upon his knee and exchanged personal remarks with him.
At that time James was living at Number 34 De Vere Gardens. He was beginning to weary of London life and casting about as to how he might escape its exactions. We had many pleasant excursions together; he was a famous sight-seer and knew his London well. I always felt in him a certain defenselessness in the matter of guarding his own time. He was forever being called upon to write introductions to other people’s books and to listen to other writers’ manuscripts. He was over generous in these things and I often felt a righteous indignation against the swarm of less important authors, Mrs. Humphry Ward among them, who somehow managed to steal his only possession, his time, and impose upon his good nature.