Those few months of leave in 1885 picked Lord William up wonderfully, and he thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the time after his nine years of India, a big slice out of the prime of a man’s life, but he had the satisfaction of feeling he had faced the music, so to speak, by beginning his life afresh, yet returning after nine years comfortably off, and holding a high position of great responsibility, thanks to nobody but himself. Viceroys came and went, but Lord William Beresford remained, year in and year out, becoming the cornerstone of the social fabric of India, and ruling its society with an iron hand, though very much gloved in velvet.
I remember comparing notes with him as to what we looked forward to most on returning to England after a spell abroad. He said he “yearned for Curraghmore and Piccadilly, and after that devilled sole and brown bread and butter!”
Most people will, I think, sympathise with Lord William in his longing for dear feverish London. She casts a spell over us all, and when we are exiles the remembrance of her brings on more fits of home-sickness than almost anything else, visions of Piccadilly come back to us as we remember her perhaps in the still early morning, when returning from balls and parties, the streets deserted by all save a few market carts filled with cabbages and other garden produce on the way to Covent Garden Market, a few lonesome souls sleeping on benches between the policeman’s “move on” visits; or perhaps the visions that come back to us are the evenings when the hurrying mass of people, the cabs and carriages were all shrouded in the blue-grey misty haze peculiar to London at night. We remember how we used to speculate on where they were all hurrying to, and fit histories to them, all so bent on tasting and testing life, often regardless of consequences. Each individual wearing that self-absorbed mind-your-own-business air, that is one of the fascinations of a great city.
Lord William said he felt “beside” himself with joy when he again beheld the buses and heard the newspaper boys, and then “The Eton Boating Song,” so wrought with memories, played on a street organ filled him with an ecstasy of joy and sadness. He heard again the splash of the oars, saw again the pals of those old days whose names were at one time on everybody’s lips, now only little black splashes of ink on white paper.
I wonder if any of my readers remember the fine old man who used to sit in the Row during the summer of 1885 fancying himself king; the way he used to swagger up as if all the world belonged to him, his servant walking immediately behind him watching for the imperious wave of his master’s hand, which, being interpreted, meant he wished to sit down. Two chairs were then hastily arranged, on one of which he sat down with a good deal of action, the other proudly supported his legs. This arrangement took up a good deal of room where people were walking up and down, but nobody interfered with this aristocratic-looking, well dressed and groomed old man, with his large flowing moustache and huge button-hole, consisting one day of a sunflower, another a peony, or something equally remarkable. The old gentleman used to talk a good deal to himself about the bad manners and ingratitude of his subjects who passed up and down without bowing to him. We often wondered who he was. One day Lord William found out from a policeman on duty in the park. An accident had upset the equilibrium of the old sportsman’s brain, but he was quite harmless and nobody objected to him, so he was allowed to remain. As our bad manners and ingratitude caused him so much uneasiness, Lord William suggested we should muster strong one day and march past in couples, bowing deeply. We felt a little nervous as to what might happen, but acquiesced, and we all marched past bowing and smiling, being amply repaid for our courage by the evident pleasure of the king, who took off his hat with a graceful flourish to us and presented the sunflower out of his button-hole to one of the girls of our party.
Memories of those days come tumbling over one another with such rapidity it is hard to know where to stop, the pleasure is so great in recalling them.
One evening I remember well, during that same leave (I think) of Lord William’s, he was dining with us, and after dinner somebody said would I play some dance music as they wanted to dance, so we adjourned to the dining-room and had it cleared at one end. After dancing awhile, the men began American cock-fighting. There were some fierce encounters and amusing scenes. I was still sitting by the old cottage piano which stood in a corner of the room, when one of the combatants, breathless from a contest with Lord Bill, came and leaned against the piano whilst drinking a whisky and soda. Somehow accidentally the greater part of the whisky and soda got upset down into the vitals of the piano, the top being open at the time.
Poor old piano, it is going still, but the shock to its nervous system was so great it every now and then has the sulks for a time, until coaxed by a tuner into fresh efforts.
At the party to which I am referring, I remember the men with us were Corney Grain, Gerry Portal, Jim Lowther, Lord Hay of Kinfauns, and my young brother, as well as Lord William. Those who knew the men will guess what the evening was like. I was afraid we should disturb the neighbourhood with our laughter over an impromptu that Corney Grain gave us at the partially intoxicated piano of his experiences at the houses of some of his patrons where he had been engaged to amuse the guests. No names were mentioned, but so excellent was his mimicry that we at once recognised a number of people. Having been cheered and heavily patted on the back he proceeded to give us a musical sketch of a certain V.C. hero on board ship making love to a shy young lady. Lord Bill was much tickled and so were we. It was screamingly funny, and with our eyes shut we could have imagined it was Lord William speaking, or perhaps I should say cooing.
This was followed by another sketch, this time Gerry Portal supposed to be bamboozling some foreign potentate into believing we, the British, were doing everything for his good, from pure unadulterated philanthropy, while really benefiting ourselves. This was considered too much, and brought the house down. They all set upon Mr. Grain, who, I had better explain for those who never saw him, was a huge man both in height and figure. He clung desperately on to the music-stool with his legs and the piano with his hands, until the piano, music-stool, and Mr. Grain began to move together first in one direction and then another. Lord William tried to get his arms round Mr. Grain’s rather voluminous waistcoat, and Mr. Gerry Portal tried to untwiddle his legs from the music-stool. Jim Lowther seized the tea-cosy from the sideboard and clapped it over the musician’s head. This led to one hand relinquishing its grip on the side of the piano to remove the head-dress, a weak moment on Mr. Grain’s part, for he got separated from the instrument and dragged half across the room when crack went the long-suffering music-stool, and he was on the floor. My brother held the door open while the rest tried to eject the man who dared to be ribald about Mr. Portal’s foreign policy, but each time when it was nearly accomplished out flew a huge and long leg slamming the door to again. At last, when all were hot and exhausted, Mr. Grain was laid unresisting on the front-door mat.