At the end of the evening, Arthur Sullivan played a "Sir Roger," with Chappell's man at the piano; I realized none of the dire effects I had expected, and the next day felt better than I had done for months.
The capriciousness of one's memory is extraordinary (at least in the light—or darkness—of one's usual forgetfulness). I remember my first dinner-party perfectly; and my kind host and hostess had on this occasion invited a particularly attractive girl for me to take down. Most of the guests were elderly people, and some of them were hungry people also. I had received an invitation from my hostess for almost a fortnight previously, but on that occasion the dinner had been postponed, and their usual hour altered for the convenience of a guest. I, who had not been notified to that effect, arrived in consequence half an hour late, to find the guests still waiting; my inward embarrassment was great when I faced the pairs of hungry and expectant eyes. There was one awfully fat parson who looked as though food came before Church matters. I remember even now his expression of intense relief. I hope he was satisfied. We had a most perfect dinner, and I took down my partner. I felt my hostess's eye upon me; I do not think the lady realized that the fault lay with herself and not with me.
My first dinner-party at home was spoiled for me by an accident. I sat next to Mrs. Edmund Yates, who was a beautiful woman, resplendent that evening in a gorgeous gown. Everything had up till now gone smoothly, and I felt that I was getting along nicely when my sleeve caught my glass and swept it over—as Fate would have it—Mrs. Yates' dress. I was terribly upset—so was she, and so was the liqueur.
Commissioned portraits were occupying most of my time in those days, and I exhibited (at the Royal Academy) one drawing of my brother Russell, and one of my sister Beatrice. The latter work was much admired by Mr. "Dolly" Storey,[2] who paid me the compliment of offering to buy it from me; but on hearing my parents wished to keep it in the family, he offered me a very good price for any other drawing of similar character.
Although I made a considerable number of portraits, I was always caricaturing the various personalities—interesting, extraordinary or amusing—who crossed my path.
At a garden party at Lord Leven's, in Roehampton Lane, I saw Professor Owen or "Old Bones" (as he was irreverently nicknamed), and, struck with his antediluvian incongruity amidst the beautiful surroundings of the garden, and the children there, I resolved to caricature him. Impressing his strange and whimsical face upon my memory, I returned home and at once conveyed my impressions to paper. I "caught" him in his best clothes, with the tall white hat, which made a contrast to his florid face; it is hardly one's idea of a garden party "get up" as will be seen by the boots. I suppose some eccentricity must be forgiven in the light of his genius, for "Old Bones" was a man, and a scientist, of prodigious activity. There was no end to his works—especially their titles, of which, for instance, "On the Archetype and Homologies of the Vertebrate Animals," is a fair example; while "Memoir on a Gigantic Sloth," has possibilities. He belonged to innumerable societies, geological, zoological, chirurgical, and so forth; and he was, as Vanity Fair described him, "a simple-minded creature, although a bit of a dandy."
SIR WILLIAM CROOKES.
1903
SIR OLIVER LODGE.
1904.