I came to know another grand old man—of another type—in connection with that work for the Shakespeare Committee. The first time I met Lord Roberts, that little white falcon of England, whom often I had seen riding in royal processions through the streets of London, with a roar of cheers following him, was in his house in Portland Place when I “touched” him for a donation to the Shakespeare Fund and persuaded him to join the General Committee. He was going to a reception that evening, and I remember him now, as he stood before me, a little old soldier, in full uniform, with rows and rows of medals and stars, all a-glitter, but not brighter than his keen eyes beneath their shaggy brows. After listening to my explanation, he spoke of his love of Shakespeare as a man might speak of his best comrade, and declared his willingness to do any service for his sake.
The next time I saw Lord Roberts was at one of those early aviation meetings which I have described. I stood by his side, and he chatted to me about the marvel of this coming conquest of the air. As he spoke an aëroplane danced over the turf and rose and soared away, and the little old man, cheering like a schoolboy, ran after it a little way with the rest of the crowd, as young in spirit as any man there, sixty years his junior.
Toward the end of his life a shadow darkened his spirit, though it did not dim his eyes or the fire that still burnt in him, as when, half a century before, he blew up the gates of Delhi and brought relief to the beleaguered survivors. He saw very clearly the approach of the German menace to Europe and that war in which we should be involved, unprepared, without a national army, with untrained men. Again and again he tried to warn the nation of its impending peril, of the tremendous forces preparing the destruction of its youth, and he devoted the last years of his life in another attempt to induce Great Britain to adopt some form of compulsory military service, without avail.
I remember traveling down to his house at Ascot on the morning following one of those speeches in the House of Lords. I went to ask him to write some reminiscences for a weekly paper. He would not listen to that, and when we sat together in a first-class carriage on the way to town (I had a third-class ticket!) he buried himself behind The Times, and was disinclined to talk. But I was inclined to talk, because it is not often that I should sit alone with “Our Bobs,” and when I caught his eye over the top of The Times, I ventured a remark which I thought might please him.
“Powerful speech of yours, sir, last night!”
He put down The Times, and stared at me, moodily.
“Do you think so? Shall I tell you what the British people think of me?”
“What is that, sir?”
“They think I’m a damned old fool, scare mongering and raising silly bogies. That’s what they think of my speech.”
And it was true, and to some extent I agreed with them, as I must confess, not believing much in the German menace, and believing anyhow that by wise diplomacy, a little tact, friendly demonstrations to a friendly folk, we might disarm the power of the military caste and insure peace.