Prince Francis of Teck
I enjoyed the acquaintanceship of Prince Francis of Teck, who was certainly a man of mark, at a social club as well as at the Middlesex Hospital, of which he was the energetic chairman. Having been a member of the weekly board for more than thirty years, I ought to know something of the value of his services and devotion to the welfare of that institution. My wife first met the Prince in the Engadine, long before he was our guest; in fact, when he was a boy on a visit to St. Moritz, in the company of his mother, the Duchess of Teck, his sister, Queen Mary, and other members of his family.
The Prince was a good soldier, and bore himself well, with an air of command. He served with distinction in Egypt and South Africa.
He died at forty, or thereabouts. I saw him in the Welbeck Street nursing home before he succumbed to that enemy, even of the robust, pneumonia, and was one of the deputation from the hospital bidden to Windsor, where he was buried.
I now find myself up against a duke. There is no need to dwell at any length on the name of his late Grace of Beaufort, beyond saying that he was a great lover of the stage and gave us his friendship. (I mean the grandfather of the present Duke.)
When it became known that my wife and I had decided to abandon the old Prince of Wales's Theatre, and had a lease of the Haymarket, a movement was set on foot, in which the Duke took a prominent part, to present us with a "testimonial." That sort of thing was always obnoxious to me; and, happily, the intention came to my ears in time for me to bring it to a prompt end.
Referring to our farewell night at the Haymarket Theatre, later on, the Duke wrote to my wife:
"Do you know, I feel it to be too melancholy an occasion to assist at. I should hate it all the time. Some day, when you both play for a benefit or a charity, I hope to be there to welcome you. Let me say how very much I regret your determination to retire from management. What a loss I feel it, and how sure I am the general public share that feeling."
Another duke!—but merely a viscount when he sat at our table—Viscount Macduff, a close friend of Horace Farquhar, whose name reminds me of his amusing brother Gilbert, generally known as "Gillie" Farquhar. Gillie, when it was rumoured that he intended to go on the stage, was angrily sent for by Horace, his elder and prosperous brother, who loudly expostulated on such a step being taken, but learned from Gillie that he was quite in earnest. Horace then thundered: "Of course you will take some other name. What do you mean to call yourself?" Gillie quietly replied: "I have thought of calling myself Mr. Horace Farquhar!"
When we first knew Macduff we were neighbours, and constantly saw him lead his father, the old and infirm Earl of Fife, into the garden of Cavendish Square, where tea was taken across the road to them.