The Prince gave a similar dinner a year or two later at the Marlborough Club, and also honoured the actors by accepting an invitation to dine with them at the Garrick.
During an interval in a performance of Robertson's comedy, Ours, at the Haymarket Theatre, I was conducting the Prince to the green-room, when, on crossing the stage, there was a congested condition of some scenery. I turned to our master-carpenter, whose name chanced to be Oliver Wales, and said, "Which way, Wales?" I realised the effect of the words by an amused look on the Prince's face. My wife on that evening had taken her autograph book to the theatre to ask the Prince to add his name to it; he wrote at once, "Not 'Ours,' but Yours sincerely, EDWARD P."
My wife and I were naturally proud of the personal interest taken by King Edward in the farewell performance which we gave on our retiring from management in 1885. The Prince (as he still then was) suggested the date, in order that with the Princess of Wales he might be present. They were accompanied by the three young princesses.
On November 9th, 1891, some of the leading actors, including Hare and myself—Irving was in America at the time—went to Sandringham as a deputation, to present H.R.H. on his fiftieth birthday with a cigar and cigarette box, in gold, with the feathers mounted in brilliants, the gift of members of the theatrical profession. The Prince was greatly pleased with what was really a handsome present, and, to my knowledge, he never missed an opportunity, when the box was placed by his order in front of him after dinner, to say what it was and who gave it. On the occasion, after a happy luncheon, we were, as was customary, I was told, weighed in the hall, much to the annoyance of one of the party, who had a superstitious objection to the proceeding.
Alone in the storm
London was visited by violent blizzards in March 1892. On an afternoon in that month I determined to go out and face one of the worst of them. I dressed for the enterprise, and as the door of our house—then in Berkeley Square—was opened for me, a solitary pedestrian passed the portico, wearing a black Inverness cape and, with difficulty, holding up an umbrella. In spite of the driving sleet and snow I could not help noticing a remarkable resemblance borne by the passer-by, who was walking towards Piccadilly, to the Prince of Wales. I followed at short distance, and was more and more surprised by what I thought must be a striking "double." At the corner of Hay Hill the pedestrian stopped, turned round, stared at me as I was slowly approaching, and after some hesitation trudged on down Berkeley Street. By this time I felt certain it must be the Prince, so I crossed the road and continued my walk by the side of the wall enclosing the gardens of Lord Lansdowne and the Duke of Devonshire. As I reached the passage which divides them, the Prince again stopped and looked at me; he then crossed the slushy road with the evident intention of speaking. I advanced towards him. The Prince begged me to put on my hat and walked with me to the pavement I had left; he stood there and spoke of the recent death of the Duke of Clarence, of the grave illness of Prince Louis of Hesse, of the disastrous fire at Sandringham; since when, he said, according to an old superstition, he had known no luck, adding that he was starting that evening with the Princess for the south of France and a stay at Cap Martin, that meanwhile "he did not know what to do with himself, as they were so steeped in sorrow." After some minutes I said that I must not keep him standing longer in such weather. The Prince then shook me cordially by the hand, and said, very simply, "I am so glad to have had this talk with you." He hesitated again as I left him, then turned back and passed out of my sight up Hay Hill.
Visiting the sick
On the evening of the same day it chanced that my wife and I had been invited to a musical party given by Lady Londesborough. We took our places in a row of chairs; a few minutes later the one next to mine was occupied by the then Lord Wharncliffe, whom, as Chairman of the Beefsteak Club and in other ways, I knew. He turned to me and said: "Bancroft, if there is such a thing as a ghost, I saw one this afternoon, for as I was slithering down Hay Hill in a hansom, hanging on to the doors through the dangerous condition of the road, a man was walking on the pavement, so like the Prince of Wales, that I instinctively raised my hand to take off my hat, when I remembered that it could only be some amazing resemblance to the Prince, who never walks in the streets alone." I was able to convince him that it had been no ghost.
A few weeks afterwards I went to Monte Carlo. On my arrival I heard that Arthur Sullivan was lying very ill at Eze. I went to his villa on a broiling hot day, and was talking under the verandah with his devoted nephew, Herbert Sullivan, then a young fellow, when the sound of a carriage stopping at the gate was followed by the figure of a visitor walking up the garden path alone. I saw at once it was the Prince of Wales, who, directly he came close to us, greeted me with the words: "Very different weather from when we last met." The Prince, among other kind acts, sent his own doctor to see the sufferer, who was too ill to be allowed to receive anyone.