[begin page 144]

Let us get back to England.

Mr. Ashcroft’s note:

The garden party at Windsor was a striking spectacle, and I was sharply reminded of it when I witnessed that memorable show, the Oxford Pageant, four days later—for the garden party itself was like a histrionic scene acted in the open air. When they repeat the Oxford Pageant, a thousand years from now, this garden party can be added to it with advantage—particularly if this part of the pageant shall be transferred to Windsor and exhibited upon that more spacious stage, for nine thousand finely dressed men and women must take part in it, and room will be needed. There will be plenty of it; there would be abundance of room for a hundred thousand, in those far-spreading lawns; also towering out of the lawns like a Gibraltar will be the vast bulkⒶtextual note of the Castle, the most imposing and majestic pile of picturesque old architecture in Great Britain—an effect not to be lightly regarded. If it should chance to be mainly a ruin, in that distant day, the effect will rather gain than lose by that circumstance; already it is populous with the ghosts of seven centuries of English monarchs, and one cannot look at it without drifting into dreams of the bygone ages and in fancy seeing the robed and sceptred spectresⒶtextual note flit dimly by the windows—and here, present in the flesh, was Edward VII,Ⓐtextual note the latest of the line and the completion of the dreams to date, a fact which powerfully reinforced the impressiveness of the vision by concreting it into a reality, to a certain degree.

The multitude floated hither and thither over the sward, in groups and squadrons, making a gay and ever-changing color-scheme very beautiful to look upon. The first friendⒶtextual note I chanced upon was the premier of England, Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, and in his company I wandered through the crowds for an hour, shaking hands right and left with strangers, and with an astonishing number of men and women whom I had known in earlier years—some as long ago as thirty-five. I had not supposed I knew so many. Among the oldest of these friends was Ellen Terry. She is fifty-nine, and with her was her new husbandⒺexplanatory note, aged thirty-four. She came charging down upon me with both hands extended, and looking as young as her husband, and twice as vivacious. I had known her thirty-five years; the first meeting was at a large dinner partyⒶtextual note at Mr. Bateman’s house—the father of the “Bateman Children.”Ⓐtextual note I used to see that pair of pretty littleⒶtextual note girls frequently in St. Louis, in 1858Ⓔexplanatory note, when their precocious acting was crowding the theatre nightly with charmed and worshiping admirers. At that time one of them was eleven years old, the other thirteen; they were beautiful little creatures, and a delight to look [begin page 145] upon in that ancient day, forty-nine years ago; they are venerable old ladies now, with the snows of many winters upon their heads.

Henry Irving was present at that dinner partyⒶtextual note at Mr. Bateman’s house. He had recently been promoted from comedy to tragedy. The promotion came about in a curious way, if the legend of the day was correct: Irving was a very popular comedian, and had never aspired to tragedy; he was a member of Bateman’s company; for a good many years it had been the dream of Bateman’s life to appear on the stage in high tragedy, but his managersⒶtextual note would never allow him to do it; but he was his own manager now, and proprietor of a theatre, and he made up his mind to make the attempt. He chose as his venture either “The Bells” or “The Lyons Mail”—“The Bells,” I think. He studied the part, advertised it widely—then, almost at the last moment, his courage vanished, and he gave up the project. He astonished Irving by asking him to take his placeⒺexplanatory note. Irving reluctantly consented, mastered the part in the brief time at his disposal, achieved a triumph, and never played anything but tragedy afterward, at least as a steady diet.

At the garden party, when the time came for presentations, the King and Queen stood in the shelter of a gay pavilion, and back of them were grouped His Royal Highness the Duke of Connaught and his heir; the King of Siam and his heirⒺexplanatory note; and some other great personages and ladies of the court. The public were solidly massed in a semicircle in front of the pavilion, with a grassy space, ten yards wide, between them and it. Ambassador Reid presented me to the King, who shook hands with me cordially—“courteously,” the newspapers said, a word not well chosen, for the King is a man who would not know how to be otherwise than courteous to anybody, therefore the word was quite unliterarily superfluous. One newspaper said I patted hisⒶtextual note Majesty on the shoulder—an impertinence of which I was not guilty; I was reared in the most exclusive circles of Missouri, and I know how to behave. The King rested his hand upon my arm a moment or two, while we were chatting, but he did it of his own accord. A newspaper said I recounted a funny incident of sixteen years before, when I met the King—then Prince of Wales—several times at Homburg. That was incorrect; it was the King that mentioned the funny incident, not I; and I didn’t recount it; it was not necessary to recount it, for he evidently remembered it well enough, and I didn’t need to refresh my memory about it. I dictated it more than a year ago, and it will be found, some day, in its place in this Autobiography.

When I turned to speak with the Queen I had my hat in my hand, of course—I would not accost any lady with my hat on; such conduct is not permitted in America, and I had my American manners with me. The newspaper which said I talked with herⒶtextual note Majesty with my hat onⒺexplanatory note, spoke the truth, but my reasons for doing it were good and sufficient—in fact unassailable. Rain was threatening, the temperature had cooled, and the Queen said, “PrayⒶtextual note put your hat on, Mr. Clemens.” I begged her pardon, and excused myself from doing it. After a moment or two she said, “Mr. Clemens, put your hat on”—with a slight emphasis on the word “on”—“I can’t allow you to catch cold here.” When a beautiful queen commands, it is a pleasure to obey, and this time I obeyed—but I had already disobeyed once, which is more than a BritishⒶtextual note subject would have felt justified in doing; [begin page 146] and so it is true, as charged; I did talk with the Queen of England with my hat on, but it wasn’t fair in the newspaper man to charge it upon me as an impoliteness, since there were reasons for it which he could not know of.

H.R.H. the Duke of Connaught introduced himself to me, then introduced the Prince his son, and afterward the King of Siam and his heir.Ⓐtextual note