THE BOOKFELLOW.

Press, Volume LXV, Issue 13597, 4 December 1909, Page 7

THE BOOKFELLOW.

(Bt A. G. Stephens.)

(Written fob "The Press.")

A LIVELY OLD LADY

The Countess of Cardigan and Lancastro is 84 years of age. On Christmas Eve she will be 85. A saving clause is unnecessary, for the Countess of Cardigan and Lancastre ''wills to live" to be 100. Sho is "enjoying herself thoroughly." She is "young at heart." Sho likes a good dinner. She can amuse herself with singing and playing. She is still capable of entertaining her friends, in both town and country. And she has just ipublished the most scandalous memoirs of a generation. Tho Countess of Cardigan and 1 Lancastre is nourished by some of the bluest blood in England. Her father was Spencer Horsey de Horsey, a commoner of "better family" than most men with a great title. Her mother was youngiest daughter of the Earl of Stradbroke. Her Army brother was a Lieutenant-General. Her Navy brother >was an Admiral-. She does not re fen to children, but she has buried two husbands, pai_ off £36p,000 of mortgages, and spent £200,000 more in improving her landed estate. "I have seen everything worth seeing, and known everybody worth knowing; and in the pleasant evening of my days i am just as happy as I was sixty years ago." ■■ The Counters of Cardigan and Lancastre has had a good time. ''What woman,"*she asks, "does not appreciate having a thoroughly good time?" "All is vanity," she sum. up with _?olomon. "Yet life's little vanities are tho sauce -piquante of existence." "My Recollections" for the Countess are jnst another little vanity, a fillip to her appetite to live. But to the members of a score of tho "best families" in England the Countess's sauce is more than piquante; it is red pepper and the hottest variety" of chili. Part of fashionable London is raving over ber book. The remainder is devouring it voraciously. There have been three "editions" in three months: there may very well be thirty more. At _6 the Countess of Cardigan and Lancastr© is like to be "the best seller of the season." One can foresee for her a long career of diminished prices before she reaches the classic shelf of "Reynold's Newspaper" and becomes an argument in the arsenal of the British plebs. How delightful for that kind of old lady at 841 All over the world, in all classes of society, "modern women" ar© striving to make their little bits of individuality valid. The heart of a potential queen beats under every brave bodice. Some hay© beauty, some have brains; some are charitable and pious, others are merely unclothed suffragettes, intoxicated with their refusal of prison raiment. Most ar© swallowed by th© greedy maw of Monster Man, and never attain a separate existence worth mentioning. And they writhe! they revolt! " They _ shake their bars and bite their chains, their hands aro red and raw, Then cower like a frightened flock and cringe before the Law." Y©t th© lady who would stand in the limelight all the time has to enter upon plots and cogitations. When she loses Nature's pretty bait, what has sh© to tempt th© world with? Ther© is a career open to talent * but talent is not a weapon in every woman's armoury. Still, to stand in the oentr© of the stage, and keep on standing; to hook the wary fish and to keep on hooking; it is the unavowed ideal of the "modern woman." -,-,- The Countess of Cardigan and Lancastre has fired l plumb to th© centre of the target of publicity. At 84 she is th© most talked-of woman in her world. £be to b© relegated to the ranks of negligible dowagers! She has been— sh© has seen —and she remembers. Sh© has looked into other people's hearts and written. Her excoriating pen has flayed the skin from a thousand fashionable victims. From the Carltoi Club to Buckingham Palace thero is a trail of Mood. Your father! his mother! my unlucky aunt! their giddy uncle! our revered grandmother! th© Countess of Cardigan and _La nea str c has apparently scalped all her female enemies and a large number of her male friends. She is "enjoying life thoronghly," and still "sh© walks <be streets unashamed." says a shocked British censor. The book is the abstract and brief chronicle of the old lady's "good timo- " She is very woman. I n her preliminary portrait she has an air of th© Monna Lisa, hoarding the instincts of a long line of secretive ancestresses, smiling subtly at her incommunicable ■wisdom, a daughter of Earth equipped to mar the laborious civilisation cf men, a cat purring behind her claw.*. Other illustrations show th* tufts of hair sh« has rent from a noble victim. <*T could have married a Prince of the Poval Family of Spain, the Count de Montemolin. who was at on© time regarded as the rightful King of Spain." And there in photographed fac-simile is the Count's love letter— on© of several that the enamoured Spaniard wrote. Adeline, Countess of Cardigan, had to give ud the letters wh<*n sh© broke th© engagement; but sh© kept on©—it had been ''destroyed."

doubtless. It. turns up forty years after the Count is dead, proof positire. Yet the Countess adds the very envelope of the letter, back and front, in further photographed proof. She ha 6 treasured letter and envelope «=ince 27th February, 1840!

'He was a distinguished-looking man.' , reflects the Countess who might have been Countess de Montemolin and attractive—barring "the Bourboa eye." But the lady did not love him It doe? not appear that she really loved any man bnt the Earl of Cardigan. and him she loved enthusiastically, madly. Lo r< | Cardigan was 'singularly handsome.' He Mr hi* Countess all his possessions and the great country h:iu?e of Dec no. £he married him in IBOS he d-.ert ten yeans later. Then in 1873 t!i> widowed Countess saw in Paris D"i Antonio M,inuelo, Count de Lancastre, a Portuguese nobleman, •ii.d made another matrimonial aiIhuce. Don Antonio died in 1898. "I think of him with affectionate remembrance.'" The second marriage displeased Queen Victoria, ''who objected to widows marrying again, and. besides, dib'iked one of -her Euhjects talinsr the titl« of Countess of Lancaster, which she herself was fond o* using when sh* , travelled incognita." The Countess of Cardigan was not one to be daunted , by a Queen's dis pleasure. Besides, the present Kin.i was her friend. He her not to marry Disraeli. She had -wavered Ov-"i Disraeli. So she f>sked the King's advice, and the King kindly said that he did not think the marriage would be a happy one. ExitDisraeli.

'•Th<? King." says tho Countess < f Cardigan and Lanonstre. "is a born artist. We have often discussed art tegethrr, and those who y.iy thnt a taste for high art can only be acquired are quite for the King is a born artist." The friendship of t:i« King is another bit of lace in the Countess's widow's cap. " His Majesty honoured mc with constant visits, and I cannot write too . ntr.nsiastically about the pleasure I experienced from his agreeable visile and kind friendship."

liideed, the Countess has been much sought after. When she was a girl she went to a fortune-teller, who said to her. "My pretty young lady, you will not marry for years, b-jfc-when you do it will be a widower. You will obtain much and lose much.

'•You will marry again niter your husband's death, and yon will Hvo to a great age." And it all came true. "Lord Cardigan was a widower, and nearly all the men who proposed to mc were" widowers." The Countess tells them off like the beads of a rosary. There -was Lord Sherborne. with ten children; the Duke of Leeds, with eleven children; C. M. Talhot, afterwards Father of +he House of Commons, four children. Also Prince Soltykoff, the Duke of St. Albans.. Harry Howard, and Disraeli—all widowers— "so I suppose I must have had some unaccountable fascination for bereaved husbands." Of course, "I was a very pretty girl, with a slight but fine figure, and long hair that fell ,in curls below mv knees.' .

But only Lord Cardigan was the Countess's grand passion. She quarrelled with her family over him, for the first Lady Cardigan was still alive, though an invalid. And Adeline de Horsey met and rode with and corresponded with the Earl, regardless. Father and brothers protested; but Adeline was a woman pf thirty, and she left home nnd took a little house of her own in Norfolk street, Park lane. There, at seven o'clock in the morning of July 12th, 1858, Before Adeline was up, she heard a loud knocking at her street door, and the noise of unbarring bolts. She had just time to get into a dressing-gown before Lord Cardigan came up to her room and took her in his arms and said, "My dearest, she's dead. Let's get married at once." "Then I knew that the tryins period of our long probation was over, and we are free to be happy together at last.' - •"When Cardigan grew calmer he told m© he had just come from his wife's death-bed." Some months later the pair sailed way in Lord Cardigan's yacht and were married at Gibraltar. Then they went to Rome and received the Pope's blessing. Then the Countess o- Cardigan returned to b© chatelaine of Deene House, in Northamptonshire, for 50 years of her "thoroughly enjoyable'" existence. She tells stories, does th© Countess, with a wicked chuckle. The story of George 111., asked to invest stupid Lord Westmorland with the Order of the Thistle: "Well, I'm afraid he'd think h© was meant to eat it." Tbe story of Lord de Ros, that greatgambler, who was found out cheating at cards, was cut by society, and presently died. This epitaph was suggested as appropriate:— Here lies Lord de Ros. Waiting for tbe Last Trump! The story of Lady Conyngham, whom "I didn't admire at all. Sh© was a coarse, fair woman, who seemed very dull, and not at all the 6ort of person one would think would have fascinated George IV. as completely as she did, and what was more to th© point, obtained so much money from him. I remember bearing it said that when the King transferred his affections from Lady Hertford to Lady Conyngham, he exchanged St. James's for St. Giles's!" Of Lady Ailesbury, too, whom our Countess emphatically did not love at all. She was worldly to the finger-tips, and she used often to say, "I'm always civil to girls, for you can never tell what they will become." Lady Ailesbury was another great gambler, and lost £40,000 on the Stock Exchange. There was a terrible to-do. Lord Walton and th© Marquis of Ailesbury settled it between them, hut the famous Ailesbury pearls had to be sold in consequence. Lord and Lady Belfast lived at Cowes. She was called "Tlie Dragon," on account of her fiery temper. One day Lord Adolnhu. FitzClarence said to Lord Belfast (who was enjoying a peaceful time during his wife's absence from home): "Well, Bel., we get on very well without the Dragon, don't we?" —and afterwards the Belfasts were known as Bel and the Dragon. Louis Napoleon had charming manners. When a guest at Lord Anglesey's place, Beaudesert, be was asked how he liked the house. He replied, "J'aime beaucoup Beaudesert, mais:" turning to Lady Desart: "Encore plus la bell© Desart." Th© old Duchess of Cambridge, on a railway journey, opened a large recticule and took out a German sausage, which she devoured with great relish, cutting slices off it with a silver knife, with which she transferred, them to her mouth. . Lady Waldegrave, who had four husbands* was at a Dublin theatre, and a gallery wit shouted, "There's Lady Waldegrave! Arrah, mc lady, and which of tbe four did ye like the best?" Instead of being covered with confusion, Lady W. answere! "Why. tlu* Irish one, of course!"—and gained loud applause. The grandfather of the present Duke of Westminster had tbe reputation of b<**ing a great miser. One day he looked at his valet's trousers, and said, "Those are very good trousers. Did I give them to" you?" "Yes. my lord. "Well, here's a shilling, and I'll have them back attain." Lord Tankerville said to his lady after a friend's death: "Ah, my dear, how sad it is to sco our friends going before us." "Yes," replied his wife, "but it would be sadder if we were to E o before fhem." A sweet old lady. She was a sweet child, too, or we may infer so. '-Children in my young days were much sweeter, more natural, and far better behaved. The horrible child, ■K-jtb blase ideas and cynical self-conceit, did not exist years ago. We had our

faults, but they were those of impulsive chimbood," not the faults of the boy and girl of to-day, which are, I am afraid," says the distinguished moralist, -the result of the orer-induJ-gence of a decedent and degenerate society." As a child Adeline de Horsey went to breakfast et St. Dunstan's, in Regent's Park, with Lord Hertford, Thackeray's "Lord Steyne." Thackeray somewhat maligned him she thinks now. True, he was a roue; but "he wore his rue with a difference." "At least he always looked c great nobleman, never forgetting hie manners, however much he neglected his morals—a refreshing contrast to, the fast men of to-day."

"There were all kinds of rumours about the orgies at St. Duns ton's after the opera." But what a change when the fashionable work, came up to breakfast with his Lorciship a few hours later! Then came the little Adeline to drink milk warm from Lord Hertford's b.autiful Alderney cows—pastoral innocence! And seventy years later she looks back fondly in reminiscence, and delays her narrative of conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, to think how pleasant it all was—heigho! —resuming how pleasant it all isr— aha! —to this wonderful Countess of Cardigan and Lancastre. serenely preening ' n t^le sun. and gaily stabbing the ghosts of her enemies among the tombs of long ago. THREE LADIES~AND A LOOKINGGLASS. The last time I saw Jimmy O'Neill, he was playing the same old Boucicault parts with tho Holloway Company, and playing them admirably as ever, with tho tender, husky brogue that I delight in. The first timo I _aw him It ivas years ago. I was sub-editor, leader-writer, and the very youthful dramatic critic of a Brisbane paper. Of all the theatrical people who came and went in a lively year I can recollect without nudging only two —a lady and a gentleman. Tlie lady was a Miss Cushman—not the great Adelaide, of course; but a lesser artist who was infinitely pleased at being told, with the easiest rhyme, that citv-raan and bushman camo to see Miss Cushman. The gentleman was just Jimmy O'Neill. 1 came down to tho Theatre Royal ono evening at ten minutes past eight to find nothing doing. Nothing on the stage, at least; though the audience was beginning to do things with its | feet and hands and mouths in the hor--1 rid way that an audience has. The j curtain hung ominously still; and, j when the audience ceased for a moment to make its noise, another smaller muffled noise penetrated from behind the scenes.

Using tl'e privilege of a very youthful dramatic critic, very proud of his vocation, 1 went round and followed the voices to the door of the principal dressing-room. The door was shut. At the door, with his head bent to the keyhole, and a crowd of emotions chasing each other over the florid and expressive countenance of Conn or Myles— whichever it was that evening—was Jimmy O'Neill. He was stage-manag-ing ; but it seemed that something had gone wrong with the stage or the management. A little behind was a lady looking like a very indignant lady, apparently half-dressed for the part of Eily, if it was Eily's turn that evening. Around these two were collected a doF.en other actors and actresses in full grease-paint, with all the scene-shifters and hangers-on of the theatre. Only the members of the orchestra were missing. They were in front endeavouring to calm tho rising passions of the audience with plaintive Irish melodies. As I came up, Jimmy O'Neill was murmuring through the keyhole: "What's that ye say? Eh? Say ye will, now, there's a good gurrl!" And through the door of the dress-ing-room a female voice said very decisively : "I won't!"

Jimmy turned a flushed face to mo and. the world at large. "'The divil's ml her," he said. " "Very well, Mr O'Neill," (this was the indignant Eily). ''You have my last word. I don't play to-night. (Staccato and very emphatically)-^'^ —I — do—not—get—my—large — mirror—l — do—not—play—to-night. I hope I make myself quite clear." - (The child unborn could have apprehended her). "That is my last word, Mr O'Neill. , She turned and flounced oft into obscurer regions, and Jimmy raised his tragic mask once more. . ,; The divil's in her, too," he informed tho universe. , •'And the divil's in the audience, said I. "Listen!" , There was no need to listen; the noise was deafening. Crash.—howl!— crash 1 Yells. Whistles. Hoarse voices: '■Up with the rag!" ' Bang! thump! bang! thump! And through it all, gently meandering between the _s reT . lce ? and pauses of the riot came "The Last Rose of Summer/ , like a trickle of scented -water in Gehenna. "Vis, three diyils. Hell's loose m this theatre to-night," eaid Jimmy O'Neill. In a pause to mop his face carefully he exposed the situation. This was an all-star company—or a no-star company—whichever you like There were three ladies—young (naturally), beautiful (undoubtedly), and accomplished (of course) —each -with an equal claim to lead (and, it follows in defiance of the logic of Euclid, each with a greater claim to Igad than the others). And "the delicate question which, arose."

Jimmy O'Neill, as stage-manager, had answered the question in c manner -worthy of Solomon. There werer six acting days in the -week; three into six goes twice. For two days, then, Miss De Lacy would lead. For two days, in her turn, Miss Montmorency. And for two days, Miss Dβ Vere. Equal justice; and the audience could decide which of the three stars shone with the greatest lustre. The ladies could find fault with the compromise; hut they could find no valid reason for revolt. None of them had been definitely engaged as "star" with a stipulation of the largest type used in the advertisements, and letters no less than three inches high on the bills. Miss Montmorency did indeed point out that the evasion was futile, since genius will out, and "I lead naturally, whoever takes the leading part." Miss I>e Lacy immediately seized the idea, end expressed it as her own. Miss De Vere sniffed. Have you ever eeen c star sniff? Have you ever seen an unacknowledged star, whose radiance is temporarily obscured by a conspiracy of the management's minions, sniff? Why are these marvellous effects achieved only off the stage?

So on Monday Miss De Lacy was the Colleen Bawn. I have no doubt that Jimmy O'Neill privately told her that ehe. was ''the most iligant Colleen that iver sthepped." I have no doubt that he privately told Miss Montmorency and Miss 3>e Vere exactly the same thing. What does the renowned Shakespeare say? He says (by the mouth of a female character):

"Alas, poor women! make us but believe, Being compact of credit, that you love Uβ. Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;

We in your motion turn, and you may move us." Some stage-managers read Shakespeare. Other stage-managers do not need to lead Sh«kespoare.

At that period, in the Theatre Royal, Brisbane, there was only one decent dressing-room, proper for a star. Tho others were shocking little cupboards, without room to swing a cat in, much less a leading lady. And the lookingglasses! You know those disgusting strips of glass cix inches by four, with a brownish-reddish frame—price 9d commercially. But? in the large dress-ing-room, by some strange chance, there stood a largo mirror—quite, a monster among mirrors—one would call it the most magnificent theatre-mirror in

Australasia. Not only did it exhibit you full-length, but it was without spot or blemish, and it disengaged a soft moony radiance that gloririea the gazer. Naturally, as soon as the ladiescame to the theatre, Miss De Lacy ran up t( ku > sl) ' on^Ki looking-glass and eaid, 'Oh. - Naturally the next thing she! said was. -Til have this room." "But, ! dear, said Miss Montmorencv. aiiu, •'but, dear, excuse mc," said' Miss Dβ Vcre. lhere was a short, sharp skirmisi., and Solomon was called. \gam his decision was worthy of .Solomon. •1 he-lady who takes the pnncip.il part ht,l be wanting the largest drchsing-room; so, or course, ye will take it in turrn, ladies." \r Th ?J l 'r ts m - v tu * t turn -" «»d .Mis? De Lacy, and was immediately m.vuUiod. Miss Montmoroncy .and L I Wre to the cupboards, consoling themselves moderately. A night would come. It came It was Wednesday night. W De Lacy had fallen from the iusvens and Miss Mommorencv was the Colleen. And then Miss De Lacy revolted. What woman will blrme her.- She could not, no, dice uid not leave that noble mirror. Ana whether she could or no, she wculd not, no, she would not! I hat was what she was telling M n - ,y °J ,edL through the keyhole. -Uias Dβ Lacy had come down early, taken possession of the large dressing-room and the large mirror, am', locked the door. Miss Montmcrency, arriving flushed with the premonition of her triumph, ten minutes later, had passed, with a series or "quick changes," through a succession oi massive emotions ;>urpr>e! Incredulity! Alarm I Indignation! Horror! Despair! ■•For you know, aear, I a.n the leading lady of this company, whatever the part 1 play," cooed the sweet ■voice through the keyhole. *11%l l % Montmorency* ran for Jimmy ONeill. • To that wary veteran :t seemed a caee tor diplomacy. 'Niver you mind, Miss Montmorency; but. its nearly eight o clock. You go ana commence dressing and I'll have her out in two shakes 'of a lambs tail." Then commenced the parley that had led up to the scene at a quarter past eight. And Miss Do Lecy had dragged all the furniture in toe dressing-room, bar the big mirror, against the door.

At twenty minutes past eight everybody had lost patience except Miss l)e Lacy, who was gurgling information ct her scenic triumphs from behind the fortifications. " The theatre, viewed from the proscenium, would have served Danto tor another vision — his worst, and Jimmy had to give his orders thrice before" the carpenter heard and came with an axe.

After that it was short work. Down went the door, over went the chairs and the dressing-table. Miss De Lacy was dragged forth weeping; Miss Moiitmorency -was hustled in flaming. The curtain rose at haltpast eight, and I have no doubt Miss ■Montmorency was artificially marvellous, but I have forgotten. Miss D-< Lacy was possibly irozen • but that also I have forgotte'i. J have even forgotten Miss Do Yore. I remember only the glorious mutiny of tho big mirror, and how it was quelled by Jimmy O'Neill whom I l«st saw playing the same old parts with the Hollowav C>mp;iny, ana playing them admirably .ns <vt.-, with the insinuating brogue that curls round the cockles of your heart, the tender, husky brogue that 1 isllght in-