第89章 CHAPTER XXXV(3)
During the breakfast itself, Rogers, though seated at table in an armchair, took no part either in the repast or in the conversation; he seemed to sleep until the meal was over.
His servant would then place a cup of coffee before him, and, like a Laputian flapper, touch him gently on the shoulder.
He would at once begin to talk, while others listened. The first time I witnessed this curious resurrection, I whispered something to my neighbour, at which he laughed. The old man's eye was too sharp for us.
'You are laughing at me,' said he; 'I dare say you young gentlemen think me an old fellow; but there are younger than I who are older. You should see Tommy Moore. I asked him to breakfast, but he's too weak - weak here, sir,' and he tapped his forehead. 'I'm not that.' (This was the year that Moore died.) He certainly was not; but his whole discourse was of the past. It was as though he would not condescend to discuss events or men of the day. What were either to the days and men that he had known - French revolutions, battles of Trafalgar and Waterloo, a Nelson and a Buonaparte, a Pitt, a Burke, a Fox, a Johnson, a Gibbon, a Sheridan, and all the men of letters and all the poets of a century gone by? Even Macaulay had for once to hold his tongue; and could only smile impatiently at what perhaps he thought an old man's astonishing garrulity. But if a young and pretty woman talked to him, it was not his great age that he vaunted, nor yet the 'pleasures of memory' - one envied the adroitness of his flattery, and the gracefulness of his repartee.
My friend George Cayley had a couple of dingy little rooms between Parliament Street and the river. Much of my time was spent there with him. One night after dinner, quite late, we were building castles amidst tobacco clouds, when, following a 'May I come in?' Tennyson made his appearance. This was the first time I had ever met him. We gave him the only armchair in the room; and pulling out his dudeen and placing afoot on each side of the hob of the old-fashioned little grate, he made himself comfortable before he said another word. He then began to talk of pipes and tobacco. And never, I should say, did this important topic afford so much ingenious conversation before. We discussed the relative merits of all the tobaccos in the world - of moist tobacco and dry tobacco, of old tobacco and new tobacco, of clay pipes and wooden pipes and meerschaum pipes. What was the best way to colour them, the advantages of colouring them, the beauty of the 'culotte,' the coolness it gave to the smoke, &c. We listened to the venerable sage - he was then forty-three and we only five or six and twenty - as we should have listened to a Homer or an Aristotle, and he thoroughly enjoyed our appreciation of his jokes.
Some of them would have startled such of his admirers who knew him only by his poems; for his stories were anything but poetical - rather humorous one might say, on the whole.
Here's one of them: he had called last week on the Duchess of Sutherland at Stafford House. Her two daughters were with her, the Duchess of Argyll and the beautiful Lady Constance Grosvenor, afterwards Duchess of Westminster. They happened to be in the garden. After strolling about for a while, the Mama Duchess begged him to recite some of his poetry. He chose 'Come into the garden, Maud' - always a favourite of the poet's, and, as may be supposed, many were the fervid exclamations of 'How beautiful!' When they came into the house, a princely groom of the chambers caught his eye and his ear, and, pointing to his own throat, courteously whispered: 'Your dress is not quite as you would wish it, sir.'
'I had come out without a necktie; and there I was, spouting my lines to the three Graces, as DECOLLETE as a strutting turkey cock.'
The only other allusion to poetry or literature that night was a story I told him of a Mr. Thomas Wrightson, a Yorkshire banker, and a fanatical Swedenborgian. Tommy Wrightson, who was one of the most amiable and benevolent of men, spent his life in making a manuscript transcript of Swedenborg's works.
His writing was a marvel of calligraphic art; he himself, a curiosity. Swedenborg was for him an avatar; but if he had doubted of Tennyson's ultimate apotheosis, I think he would have elected to seek him in 'the other place.' Anyhow, Mr. Wrightson avowed to me that he repeated 'Locksley Hall' every morning of his life before breakfast. This I told Tennyson.
His answer was a grunt; and in a voice from his boots, 'Ugh! enough to make a dog sick!' I did my utmost to console him with the assurance that, to the best of my belief, Mr. Wrightson had once fallen through a skylight.
As illustrating the characters of the admired and his admirer, it may be related that the latter, wishing for the poet's sign-manual, wrote and asked him for it. He addressed Tennyson, whom he had never seen, as 'My dear Alfred.' The reply, which he showed to me, was addressed 'My dear Tom.'