At this time the Russian bogey was much in evidence, the Eastern question was the burning issue, and Disraeli’s coquetting with Turkey much criticized. Most of our friends were Gladstonians, though we knew some of the leading Tories who supported Disraeli. These two famous statesmen were more in evidence in the political arena than any others.
Mr. Biggar was pointed out as “the biggest Parliamentary bore on record” and Sir Charles Dilke as having set all England by the ears by his advocacy of cremation and his attitude on the Deceased Wife’s Sister bill. I remember there was some talk about the Suez Canal and discussion of what constituted contraband of war. The ladies’ gallery where we sat was hot, crowded, uncomfortable, and screened like the musharabeah window of an Egyptian harem. I disliked it so much that I never went there again.
People who live in London must inevitably find the circle where they belong, and remain more or less fixed therein. The charm of that first London season was that we were made welcome in a dozen different circles and counted among our friends extreme conservatives and arrant radicals.
After all these years the people I remember best are the literary men and the artists. My first meeting with Robert Browning was at the home of Mrs. Lehmann. The son of the house, Rudolph Lehmann, the writer and athlete, was an interesting boy with a mop of dark curls and large, expressive eyes.
“As Mr. Browning often dines with us,” the hostess said, “I always show him the list of guests and let him choose who shall sit beside him: to-night you are to have the honor.”
I felt it a very great honor indeed, and awaited his coming with beating heart.
In conventional evening dress Browning, then about sixty-five years old, looked less the traditional poet than his portraits. He was spruce, with waxed mustache and a man-of-the-world air, not at all like the pictures of Byron or Shelley, our own Walt Whitman, or the silvery Longfellow. When we were seated at table he adjusted his monocle and glanced at the menu.
“I know this cook’s best dishes,” he said, “I will advise you in choosing the plats.”
It was unreasonable, but I was shocked! To come trembling into the presence of the adored poet and find him only a man and an epicure was a cruel disillusionment. What did I expect? Quien sabe?
Soon after I had an opportunity to visit Tennyson in the Isle of Wight. I promptly refused the invitation. I had heard of the Laureate’s being rude to some Americans and would not risk another disappointment in poets.