CHAPTER VI
LATER DAYS, AND DEATH
For twenty years Kinglake lived in Hyde Park Place, in bright cheerful rooms looking in one direction across the Park, but on another side into a churchyard. The churchyard, Lady Gregory tells us, gave him pause on first seeing the rooms. “I should not like to live here, I should be afraid of ghosts.” “Oh no, sir, there is always a policeman round the corner.” [111] “Pleaceman X.” has not, perhaps, before been revered as the Shade-compelling son of Maia:
“Tu pias lætis animas reponis
Sedibus, virgaque levem coerces
Aurea turbam.”
Here he worked through the morning; the afternoon took him to the “Travellers,” where his friends, Sir Henry Bunbury and Mr. Chenery, usually expected him; then at eight o’clock, if not, as Shylock says, bid forth, he went to dine at the Athenæum. His dinner seat was in the left-hand corner of the coffee-room, where, in the thirties, Theodore Hook had been wont to sit, gathering near him so many listeners to his talk, that at Hook’s death in 1841 the receipts for the club dinners fell off to a large amount. Here, in the “Corner,” as they called it, round Kinglake would be Hayward, Drummond Wolff, Massey, Oliphant, Edward Twisleton, Strzelecki, Storks, Venables, Wyke, Bunbury, Gregory, American Ticknor, and a few more; Sir W. Stirling Maxwell, when in Scotland, sending hampers of pheasants to the company. “Hurried to the Athenæum for dinner,” says Ticknor in 1857, “and there found Kinglake and Sir Henry Rawlinson, to whom were soon added Hayward and Stirling. We pushed our tables together and had a jolly dinner. . . . To the Athenæum; and having dined pleasantly with Merivale, Kinglake, and Stirling, I hurried off to the House.” In later years, when his voice grew low and his hearing difficult, he preferred that the diners should resolve themselves into little groups, assigning to himself a tête-à-tête, with whom at his ease he could unfold himself.
No man ever fought more gallantly the encroachments of old age—on sut être jeune jusque dans ses vieux jours. At seventy-four years old, staying with a friend at Brighton, he insisted on riding over to Rottingdean, where Sir Frederick Pollock was staying. “I mastered,” he said, in answer to remonstrances, “I mastered the peculiarities of the Brighton screw before you were born, and have never forgotten them.” Vaulting into his saddle he rode off, returning with a schoolboy’s delight at the brisk trot he had found practicable when once clear of the King’s Road. Long after his hearing had failed, his sight become grievously weakened, and his limbs not always trustworthy, he would never allow a cab to be summoned for him after dinner, always walking to his lodgings. But he had to give up by and by his daily canter in Rotten Row, and more reluctantly still his continental travel. Foreign railways were closed to him by the Salle d’Attente; he could not stand incarceration in the waiting-rooms.
The last time he crossed the Channel was at the close of the Franco-Prussian war, on a visit to his old friend M. Thiers, then President. It was a dinner to deputies of the Extreme Left, and Kinglake was the only Englishman; “so,” he said, “among the servants there was a sort of reasoning process as to my identity, ending in the conclusion, ‘il doit être Sir Dilke.’” Soon the inference was treated as a fact; and in due sequence came newspaper paragraphs declaring that the British Ambassador had gravely remonstrated with the President for inviting Sir Charles Dilke to his table. Then followed articles defending the course taken by the President, and so for some time the ball was kept up. The remonstrance of the Ambassador was a myth, Lord Lyons was a friend of Sir Charles; but the latter was suspect at the time both in England and France; in England for his speeches and motion on the Civil List; in France, because, with Frederic Harrison, he had helped to get some of the French Communists away from France; and the French Government was watching him with spies. In Sir Charles’s motion Kinglake took much interest, refusing to join in the cry against it as disloyal. Sir Charles, he said, spoke no word against the Queen; and only brought the matter before the House because challenged to repeat in Parliament the statements he had made in the country. As a matter of policy he thought it mistaken: “Move in such a matter openly, and party discipline compels your defeat; bring pressure to bear on a Cabinet, some of its members are on your side, and you may gain your point.” Sir Charles’s speech was calmly argumentative, and to many minds convincing; it provoked a passionate reply from Gladstone; and when Mr. Auberon Herbert following declared himself a Republican, a tumult arose such as in those pre-Milesian days had rarely been witnessed in the House. But the wisdom of Kinglake’s counsel is sustained by the fact that many years afterwards, as a result of more private discussion, Mr. Gladstone pronounced his conversion to the two bases of the motion, publicity, and the giving of the State allowance to the head of the family rather than, person by person, to the children and grandchildren of the Sovereign. Action pointing in this direction was taken in 1889 and 1901 on the advice of Tory ministers.
Amongst Frenchmen of the highest class, intellectually and socially, he had many valued friends, keeping his name on the “Cosmopolitan” long after he had ceased to visit it, since “one never knows when the distinguished foreigner may come upon one, and of such the Cosmo is the London Paradise.” But he used to say that in the other world a good Frenchman becomes an Englishman, a bad Englishman becomes a Frenchman. He saw in the typical Gaul a compound of the tiger and the monkey; noted their want of individuality, their tendency to go in flocks, their susceptibility to panic and to ferocity, to the terror that makes a man kill people, and “the terror that makes him lie down and beg.” We remember, too, his dissection of St. Arnaud, as before all things a type of his nation; “he impersonated with singular exactness the idea which our forefathers had in their minds when they spoke of what they called ‘a Frenchman;’ for although (by cowing the rich and by filling the poor with envy), the great French Revolution had thrown a lasting gloom on the national character, it left this one man untouched. He was bold, gay, reckless, vain; but beneath the mere glitter of the surface there was a great capacity for administrative business, and a more than common willingness to take away human life.”
“I relish,” Kinglake said in 1871, “the spectacle of Bismarck teaching the A B C of Liberal politics to the hapless French. His last mot, they tell me, is this. Speaking of the extent to which the French Emperor had destroyed his own reputation and put an end to the worship of the old Napoleon, he said: ‘He has killed himself and buried his uncle.’” Again, in 1874, noting the contre coup upon France resulting from the Bismarck and Arnim despatches, he said: “What puzzles the poor dear French is to see that truth and intrepid frankness consist with sound policy and consummate wisdom. How funny it would be, if the French some day, as a novelty, or what they would call a caprice, were to try the effect of truth; “though not naturally honest,” as Autolycus says, “were to become so by chance.”
He thought M. Gallifet dans sa logique in liking the Germans and hating Bismarck; for the Germans, in having their own way, would break up into as many fragments as the best Frenchman could desire, and Bismarck is the real suppressor of France. Throughout the Franco-Prussian war he sided strongly with the Prussians, refusing to dine in houses where the prevailing sympathy with France would make him unwelcome as its declared opponent; but he felt “as a nightmare” the attack on prostrate Paris, “as a blow” the capitulation of Metz; denouncing Gambetta and his colleagues as meeting their disasters only with slanderous shrieks, “possessed by the spirit of that awful Popish woman.” Bismarck as a statesman he consistently admired, and deplored his dismissal. I see, he said, all the peril implied by Bismarck’s exit, and the advent of his ambitious young Emperor. It is a transition from the known to the unknown, from wisdom, perhaps, to folly.
His Crimean volumes continued to appear; in 1875, 1880, finally in 1887; while the Cabinet Edition was published in 1887–8. This last contained three new Prefaces; in Vol. I. as we have seen, the memorial of Nicholas Kiréeff; in Vol. II. the latter half of the original Preface to Vol. I., cancelled thence at Madame Novikoff’s request, though now carefully modified so as to avoid anything which might irritate Russia at a moment when troubles seemed to be clearing away. In his Preface to Vol. VII. he had three objects, to set right the position of Sir E. Hamley, who had been neglected in the despatches; to demolish his friend Lord Bury, who had “questioned my omniscience” in the “Edinburgh Review”; and to exonerate England at large from absurd self-congratulations about the “little Egypt affair,” the blame of such exaggeration resting with those whom he called State Showmen.