His remains were cremated at Woking, after a special service at Christchurch, Lancaster Gate, attended by Dr. and Mrs. Kinglake with their son Captain Kinglake, the Duke of Bedford, Mr. and Mrs. Lecky, Mrs. W. H. Brookfield and her son Charles.
No good portrait of him has been published. That prefixed to Blackwood’s “Eothen” of 1896 was furnished by Dr. Kinglake, who, however, looked upon it as unsatisfactory. The “Not an M.P.” of “Vanity Fair,” 1872, is a grotesque caricature. The photograph here reproduced (p. 128), by far the best likeness extant, he gave to Madame Novikoff in 1870, receiving hers in return, but pronouncing the transaction “an exchange between the personified months of May and November.” The face gives expression to the shy aloofness which, amongst strangers, was characteristic of him through life. He had even a horror of hearing his name pealed out by servants, and came early to parties that the proclamation might be achieved before as few auditors as possible. Visiting the newly married husband of his friend Adelaide Kemble, and being the first guest to arrive, he encountered in Mr. Sartoris a host as contentedly undemonstrative as himself. Bows passed, a seat by the fire was indicated, he sat down, and the pair contemplated one another for ten minutes in absolute silence, till the lady of the house came in, like the prince in “The Sleeping Beauty,” though not by the same process, to break the charm. He gave up calling at a house where he was warmly appreciated, because father, mother, daughter, bombarded him with questions. “I never came away without feeling sure that I had in some way perjured myself.”
On his shyness waited swiftly ensuing boredom; if his neighbour at table were garrulous or banale, his face at once betrayed conversational prostration; a lady who often watched him used to say that his pulse ought to be felt after the first course; and that if it showed languor he should be moved to the side of some other partner. “He had great charm,” writes to me another old friend, “in a quiet winning way, but was ‘dark’ with rough and noisy people.” So it came to pass that his manner was threefold; icy and repellent with those who set his nerves on edge; good-humoured, receptive, intermittently responsive in general and congenial company; while, at ease with friends trusted and beloved, the lines of the face became gracious, indulgent, affectionate, the sourire des yeux often inexpressibly winning and tender. “Kinglake,” says Eliot Warburton in his unpublished diary, “talked to us to-day about his travels; pessimistic and cynical to the rest of the world, he is always gentle and kind to us.” To this dear friend he was ever faithful, wearing to the day of his death an octagonal gold ring engraved “Eliot. Jan: 1852.” He would never play the raconteur in general company, for he had a great horror of repeating himself, and, latterly, of being looked upon as a bore by younger men; but he loved to pour out reminiscences of the past to an audience of one or two at most: “Let an old man gather his recollections and glance at them under the right angle, and his life is full of pantomime transformation scenes.” The chief characteristic of his wit was its unexpectedness; sometimes acrid, sometimes humorous, his sayings came forth, like Topham Beauclerk’s in Dr. Johnson’s day, like Talleyrand’s in our own, poignant without effort. His calm, gentle voice, contrasted with his startling caustic utterance, reminded people of Prosper Mérimée: terse epigram, felicitous apropos, whimsical presentment of the topic under discussion, emitted in a low tone, and without the slightest change of muscle:
“All the charm of all the Muses
Often flowering in a lonely word.” [130]
Questions he would suavely and often wittily parry or repel: to an unhistorical lady asking if he remembered Madame Du Barry, he said, “my memory is very imperfect as to the particulars of my life during the reign of Lous XV. and the Regency; but I know a lady who has a teapot which belonged, she says, to Madame Du Barry.” Madame Novikoff, however, records his discomfiture at the query of a certain Lady E—, who, when all London was ringing with his first Crimean volumes, asked him if he were not an admirer of Louis Napoleon. “Le pauvre Kinglake, décontenancé, repondit tout bas intimidé comme un enfant qu’on met dates le coin: Oui—non—pas précisément.”
He had no knowledge of or liking for music. Present once by some mischance at a matinée musicale, he was asked by the hostess what kind of music he preferred. His preference, he owned, was for the drum. One thinks of the “Bourgeois Gentilhomme,” “la trompette marine est un instrument qui me plait, el qui est harmonieux”; we are reminded, too, of Dean Stanley, who, absolutely tone-deaf, and hurrying away whenever music was performed, once from an adjoining room in his father’s house heard Jenny Lind sing “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” He went to her shyly, and told her that she had given him an idea of what people mean by music. Once before, he said in all seriousness, the same feeling had come over him, when before the palace at Vienna he had heard a tattoo rendered by four hundred drummers.
Kinglake used to regret the disuse of duelling, as having impaired the higher tone of good breeding current in his younger days, and even blamed the Duke of Wellington for proscribing it in the army. He had himself on one occasion sent a cartel, and stood waiting for his adversary, like Sir Richard Strachan at Walcheren, eight days on the French coast; but the adversary never came. Hayward once referred to him, as a counsellor, and if necessary a second, a quarrel with Lord R—. Lord R—’s friend called on him, a Norfolk squire, “broad-faced and breathing port wine,” after the fashion of uncle Phillips in “Pride and Prejudice,” who began in a boisterous voice, “I am one of those, Mr. Kinglake, who believe R— to be a gentleman.” In his iciest tones and stoniest manner Kinglake answered: “That, Sir, I am quite willing to assume.” The effect, he used to say, as he told and acted the scene, was magical; “I had frozen him sober, and we settled everything without a fight.” Of all his friends Hayward was probably the closest; an association of discrepancies in character, manner, temperament, not complementary, but opposed and hostile; irreconcilable, one would say, but for the knowledge that in love and friendship paradox reigns supreme. Hayward was arrogant, overbearing, loud, insistent, full of strange oaths and often unpardonably coarse; “our dominant friend,” Kinglake called him; “odious” is the epithet I have heard commonly bestowed upon him by less affectionate acquaintances. Kinglake was reserved, shy, reticent, with the high breeding, grand manner, quiet urbanity, grata protervitas, of a waning epoch; restraint, concentration, tact of omission, dictating alike his silence and his speech; his well-weighed words “crystallizing into epigrams as they touched the air.” [133] When Hayward’s last illness came upon him in 1884, Kinglake nursed him tenderly; spending the morning in his friend’s lodgings at 8, St. James’s Street, the house which Byron occupied in his early London days; and bringing on the latest bulletin to the club. The patient rambled towards the end; “we ought to be getting ready to catch the train that we may go to my sister’s at Lyme.” Kinglake quieted his sick friend by an assurance that the servants, whom he would not wish to hurry, were packing. “On no account hurry the servants, but still let us be off.” The last thought which he articulated while dying was, “I don’t exactly know what it is, but I feel it is something grand.” “Hayward is dead,” Kinglake wrote to a common friend; “the devotion shown to him by all sorts and conditions of men, and, what is better, of women, was unbounded. Gladstone found time to be with him, and to engage him in a conversation of singular interest, of which he has made a memorandum.”
Another of Kinglake’s life-long familiars was Charles Skirrow, Taxing Master in Chancery, with his accomplished wife, from whose memorable fish dinners at Greenwich he was seldom absent, adapting himself no less readily to their theatrical friends—the Bancrofts, Burnand, Toole, Irving—than to the literary set with which he was more habitually at home. He was religiously loyal to his friends, speaking of them with generous admiration, eagerly defending them when attacked. He lauded Butler Johnstone as the most gifted of the young men in the House of Commons; would not allow Bernal Osborne to be called untrue; “he offends people if you like, but he is never false or hollow.” A clever sobriquet fathered on him, burlesquing the monosyllabic names of a well-known diarist and official, he repelled indignantly. “He is my friend, and had I been guilty of the jeu, I should have broken two of my commandments; that which forbids my joking at a friend’s expense, and that which forbids my fashioning a play upon words.” He entreated Madame Novikoff to visit and cheer Charles Lever, dying at Trieste; deeply lamented Sir H. Bulwer’s death: “I used to think his a beautiful intellect, and he was wonderfully simpatico to me.” But he was shy of condoling with bereaved mourners, believing words used on such occasions to be utterly untrue. He loved to include husband and wife in the same meed of admiration, as in the case of Dean Stanley and Lady Augusta, or of Sir Robert and Lady Emily Peel. Peel, he said, has the radiant quality not easy to describe; Lady Emily is always beauteous, bright, attractive. Lord Stanhope he praised as a historian, paying him the equivocal compliment that his books were much better than his conversation. So, too, he qualified his admiration of Lady Ashburton, dwelling on her beauty, silver voice, ready enthusiasm apt to disperse itself by flying at too many objects.
He was wont to speak admiringly of Lord Acton, relating how, a Roman Catholic, yet respecting enlightenment and devoted to books, he once set up and edited a “Quarterly Review,” with a notion of reconciling the Light and the Dark as well as he could; but the “Prince of Darkness, the Pope,” interposed, and ordered him to stop the “Review.” He was compelled to obey; not, he told people, on any religious ground, but because relations and others would have made his life a bore to him if he had been contumacious against the Holy Father.