Until the general election of 1880, Mr. Labouchere remained regular in his attendance at the office, and actively interested in the affairs of his journal if his principal work for it was purely literary. But after he was returned for Northampton and began to make a figure in Parliament, which he did almost from the first, Truth began to have a secondary place in his affections. In the course of the next year or two he seems to have gradually relinquished the entire editorial control into Voules's hands. He ceased to supply dramatic criticism, and to write with any regularity on city matters. On the other hand, he naturally began to write regularly on politics, which up to that time he had done only now and then and without expressing any strong opinions. At that date the connection between the Press and Parliament was much less intimate than it has since become. The journalistic M.P., so familiar a figure in recent years, was virtually unknown. There were only two or three newspaper proprietors in the House of Commons; none in the House of Lords. The descriptive reporter had not yet made his appearance in the Press Gallery; the gentlemen there were shorthand writers only. The Lobby correspondent had not risen to that public importance for which he was destined. Mr. Labouchere consequently had the field very much to himself as a parliamentary journalist. Perhaps he did not make as much use of the opportunity as he would have done three or four years earlier, when journalism for its own sake had such a hold upon his affections. He was always extremely averse to using his parliamentary position for the advantage of his own paper; indeed, so far did he carry this feeling that in later years when any matter was under ventilation in Truth, which naturally furnished matter for the interrogation of a Minister, it was most difficult to obtain his assistance, and quite impossible to persuade him to ask a question himself. If he consented to give his help, he nearly always got a friend to put the question down. From first to last—to the intense annoyance of Horace Voules—his disposition was always to use his own journal as an aid to his schemes and ambitions in Parliament, never his parliamentary position for the advantage of his journal.
Nevertheless, the reputation that he speedily made for himself in the House of Commons, his novel and individual style of handling politics and politicians—friends and foes alike—and the audacity of the opinions which he was always delivering with an air "that was childlike and bland," necessarily had their effect upon the paper that he owned and wrote for. As the organ of a rising M.P., constantly before the public, and a mouthpiece of advanced Radicalism, Truth gained more than it lost by the cessation of Mr. Labouchere's exuberant literary activity. The circulation of the paper, which had not increased to any great extent between 1877 and 1880, now began to display considerable buoyancy. At the same time Horace Voules was beginning to make his hand felt. He enlisted many useful recruits to fill the space left vacant by Mr. Labouchere. In particular he developed the paper on the financial side, having a strong fancy, as well as great aptitude, for that line of journalism. In fact he may be considered a pioneer in it, for at that time there was not a single financial daily paper in London, and the financial articles in the general daily Press were framed in a very bald and perfunctory style. With the assistance of Mr. L. Brousson, who wrote for Truth with most valuable results for nearly twenty years under the pseudonym of "Moses Moss," Voules made the paper as strong in finance as Mr. Labouchere made it in politics, and very much more popular. Voules was a man of great enterprise, courage, and resource, a sound judge of "what the public wants," and at the same time a born fighter. He wrote little himself, but he had a good eye for literary ability in others—at any rate the kind of ability that he needed for his own purpose. Following up the lead which Mr. Labouchere had given in attacking frauds and abuses, he made during the 'eighties several big journalistic coups by the exposure of financial swindles. From this he passed on to the fertile field of charity. By this time he had got together a fairly complete and competent staff for dealing with such matters. He made a thorough investigation of every subject he dealt with. He interviewed witnesses himself; he inspired every line that was written for publication. Thus fortified, he threw down the gauntlet to one swindler after another. Many were routed and driven out of the field by the mere force of the case made against them in Truth. Others, who defended themselves by proceedings for libel, were met and overthrown one after another in the Law Courts. The story of all these personal encounters, which lasted almost continuously for ten or twelve years, would fill a volume—and a volume without any parallel in the history of journalism. The work ended only because there was no more to be done. There was no game left worth powder and shot. Horace Voules had simply cleared out this particular field. Nor was his activity confined to any one field. The public services—particularly the Army—the Church, the administration of justice, especially by justices of the peace, and indeed almost every sphere of human activity where there was any wrong or misconduct that required castigation, brought perennial supplies of grist to the journalistic mill over which Horace Voules ruled in Carteret Street.
Thus it came about that towards the end of the last century Truth had become a journal with a unique record, an influence that was felt—mostly for good—all over the English-speaking world, and incidentally a very valuable property. Before the end of the 'eighties it must have begun to yield Mr. Labouchere—a rich man independently of it—a larger income than would have sufficed for all his requirements, which were never extravagant. The attitude of the parent towards his bantling, which had grown in such an unexpected fashion, was very much like his attitude towards everything else that happened to him in life. If he took any pride in his offspring, he did not manifest it openly; in a general way he betrayed no concern in its performances. When he visited the office, which he usually did for an hour or two on Monday and Tuesday mornings on his way to the House of Commons, it was only to correct the proofs of his own contributions—by this time almost entirely confined to politics, except when he went abroad in the autumn—to consume a frugal lunch, and to chat about anything but the business of his paper with anybody whom he could find to talk to.
A personal reminiscence of this period will show how strangely uninterested he was in the affairs of the paper which he was supposed by the public to direct. In the spring of 1893, Horace Voules had a bad illness, the first of many, and as he kept the whole business of the office in his hands the situation was rather serious. I went down to see him at Brighton, where he lived for the last twenty years of his life, and heard from his doctor that if he ever came back at all it could not be for many weeks. On returning to town I went straight to the House of Commons and reported this alarming intelligence to Mr. Labouchere. If I had reported it to the Speaker he could not have manifested less concern. What chiefly interested Mr. Labouchere was the nature and treatment of Voules's ailment; he was always prepared to give advice, publicly or privately, on the preservation of health. "You know Voules eats a great deal too much," he said, which was no doubt true. "His doctor should do so and so. I will write to him at once." I suggested to him that it might be more useful if he would write something for Truth, as we had not an editorial article in sight for next week. "You can do very well for once without an article, can't you?" was the staggering reply. I endeavoured to convey to him that there was a great deal of work at the office which somebody would have to do in Voules's absence, among other things about fifty letters a day requiring to be attended to. "I should not bother myself about answering letters if I were you," said my employer. This did not surprise me so much, for I had previously heard from Voules of our proprietor's golden rule for dealing with correspondence: "I never knew a letter yet, Voules, which would not answer itself if you left it alone for two months." It did not take many minutes' conversation to show that the editor was quite the last person from whom any assistance was likely to be obtained in carrying on the paper in the emergency that had arisen; at the same time I remember that we had a very interesting talk about the Home Rule Bill before I left him. I wondered afterwards what he would have said if I had written to him in his own words to Voules, "I don't think I shall bring the paper out next week." Probably it would not have disturbed him seriously. It should be added that he did write to Voules as he had promised—a very kind, sympathetic letter, in which he begged Voules above all things not to hurry back, and assured him that everything would go on all right in his absence. I forget whether he said that he would see to that, but it is quite possible that he did. It is a fact that the following week—the first in which Voules had been absent for about fifteen years—Mr. Labouchere also omitted his customary visit to the office on a Monday morning. I suppose he thought that as Voules was away I should not have much time to talk to him.
To those who were behind the scenes there was something ludicrous and something supremely "Laboucherean" in the contrast between this airy indifference to the fortunes of his journal, and the public conception of the proprietor as an indefatigable editor personally inspiring and directing all its performances. Possibly it amused Mr. Labouchere himself, but far more probably he never gave it a thought, for nothing in his life that appeared to other people abnormal ever presented itself in that light to him. To any one who knows the laissez-aller spirit in which he treated every affair of life, it cannot cause the slightest surprise that he allowed himself to drift into a position which was, on the face of it, somewhat equivocal. The best evidence of the view that he himself took of this anomalous position is afforded by the way it came to an end. Horace Voules chafed for a long time under his own relation to the titular editor, and it is really more difficult to understand his long acceptance of this position than Mr. Labouchere's failure to do anything towards altering it. The explanation in his case, no doubt, is that with the growth of the profits of the business he gradually came into a very handsome income, and he was a man who valued this a good deal more than personal glory. But he certainly felt aggrieved, as most men would, that so much of the credit of his work should go to another, and what perhaps annoyed him more was Mr. Labouchere's characteristic indifference to everything that was done in his name. Out of this there grew up a coolness between them, and at last Voules openly kicked. The moment the question of the editorship was raised in this way, Mr. Labouchere instantly conceded it, as Voules might have known he would. "My dear Voules," he said, in mild surprise. "I don't want to be the editor. You can call yourself the editor if you like." In his own mind he probably said, "If you attach any value to such an absurd trifle, why, in the name of wonder, did you not say so before?" In this characteristic fashion, Mr. Labouchere divested himself of the last rags of editorship. Voules recounted the conversation to me immediately after it took place. I cannot fix the date precisely, but it was probably in 1897 or 1898.
There remains little to be related of Mr. Labouchere's career as a journalist. But it may assist the comprehension of what appears difficult to understand, in his relation to the real editorship of his paper during so many years, to refer to what passed between him and Voules on a lamentable occasion in 1902. At that time certain unfortunate circumstances had come to light which made it impossible that Mr. Brousson should remain on the staff of Truth, or that Horace Voules should continue in the formal position of editor; I trust I may be forgiven for referring in mere detail to the indiscretion of an old and dear friend and the sad end of a brilliant career. Mr. Labouchere, to whom the situation must have been as painful as to anybody, took counsel with Sir George Lewis, as a friend of both parties, and between them they excogitated an announcement for publication to the effect that Mr. Voules had resigned the editorship of Truth, but would remain associated with the paper. It was the least that could have been announced under the circumstances, but naturally poor Voules fought hard against it, and a warm debate took place at Sir George Lewis's office. Voules wanted to know who was to be appointed editor, and in what capacity he himself was to be "associated with the paper." He declined to submit to the humiliation of having to serve under one of his own subordinates. Mr. Labouchere told him that he did not see the necessity of appointing another editor. "You can't seriously propose that the paper is to be carried on without an editor," said Voules. "My dear Voules," replied the proprietor, "I have now been connected with newspapers over forty years, and I have never yet discovered what an editor is. If you like, I will resume the editorship, but it seems to me quite unnecessary." So little did Voules understand his old friend even at that date that he came to me at the end of the interview in a terrible state of agitation, convinced that Labouchere was playing with him, and that he and I were to change places. Labouchere was, of course, perfectly serious, and for the next seven years Truth remained without an editor. I suppose that in all his life Mr. Labouchere never did a more extraordinary thing than this, judging by what would be considered ordinary conduct for a man in his position in such a case. Yet surely the extraordinary course which he took is an example of the way in which his habit of looking at the essential things in life, and snapping his fingers at conventions and traditions, guided him to the best possible solution of a serious difficulty. He regarded it as essential that Voules should not be formally and officially the man in control of the paper. He regarded it as equally essential—but how few would have done so!—that the man who had served him so well and honourably for five-and-twenty years should not be cast out to end his days in disgrace. So he said: "I will have no editor in future. I see no necessity for it. Manage as best you can without one!" Is not this really a stroke of genius, seeing that it is a solution of the difficulty that no one else would ever have dreamed of, that it is so perfectly simple, and that it effected everything that was really necessary? It also becomes easier, I think, after this to understand how Mr. Labouchere had previously allowed his paper to go on for about seventeen years under the editorship of its business "manager" without suspecting that there was anything anomalous in this arrangement until his manager surprised him by protesting against it.
I feel that I cannot close this narrative of Mr. Labouchere's relations with Truth without a reference to the termination of his sole proprietorship of that journal, for it was very characteristic of him. Slight as was the interest that he evinced in his property in his later years, he never seemed desirous of parting with it, naming a prohibitive price when any one offered to buy it, as many did, including Horace Voules. When, after poor Voules's death in 1909, I myself pressed him to turn his proprietorship into a company, he politely but firmly declined, observing that he distrusted boards, and had always believed in finding a man who can manage your business for you and leaving him to do it. Undoubtedly that was the principle on which he had conducted many of his affairs. But in the end I ventured to suggest to him that it would be a great kindness to me and other members of his staff, who had been connected with the paper for many years, if he could see his way to put the proprietorship on a permanent footing, and save us from the possible results of a sale of the paper to the first bidder in the event of his predeceasing us. His response was instantaneous and most sympathetic. He practically offered me an option on the paper at half the price he had asked Voules a few years previously, and interested himself warmly in explaining to me how I was to turn this opportunity to the best advantage. When the proposed deal did not promise to come off very speedily, he finally said that he would waive his objections to converting himself into a mere shareholder, and leave us to form a company, taking from him or placing with others such shares as we could. So ended Mr. Labouchere's proprietorship of Truth—in an act of pure kindness of heart. It is an exact parallel to his easy-going abdication of the editorship at the first hint from Voules that the existing position was rather hard on him.
Mr. Labouchere was a man of most extraordinary character. "He was an extraordinary person!" is the exclamation that one has heard a hundred times rising involuntarily to the lips of those who knew him well. The story of his connection with journalism is an extraordinary one, but as loosely sketched in the foregoing reminiscences it can give but an inadequate impression of what was most remarkable about him. This would be equally true of any mere narrative of the events of his career, or any collection of his disjointed utterances. In writing of him one is always in danger of conveying the impression that he was a mere eccentric or freak. In reality he was something very much more. Among other things he was one of the most prolific and spontaneous writers that ever lived, and everything that he wrote, however trivial the subject, bore some mark of his own unique personality. His love of his pen was perhaps his most vital characteristic; it resembled, indeed, his love of his cigarette, and the two affections always came into play simultaneously. He would take up a pen anywhere, and commit his thoughts to paper without regard to external circumstances—during a debate in the House of Commons, during a children's party in Old Palace Yard, in a public room of an hotel. When abroad on his holidays he used to write contributions to Truth as regularly as if he were under contract to supply so much copy each week—evidently writing purely as a pleasure. Probably Mr. Labouchere is the only man who ever wrote for publication, systematically and voluminously, without ever being paid for what he wrote. Indirectly, of course, as the proprietor of Truth, he profited by his contributions to his own paper; but nobody who knew him will suppose that this consideration ever presented itself to him as a motive for exertion. Neither was he actuated by that common weakness, love of seeing himself in print. On the contrary, what became of anything he wrote after he had produced it was a matter of profound indifference to him. "I am the only person, I believe, on the Press," he wrote in his later days, in answer to an apology for consigning to oblivion a rather long-winded article forwarded from Florence, "who does not care in the least whether his lucubrations do or do not appear in print." He wrote to me many times in the same strain, and it was no doubt literally true. Frequently he would write an article and omit to post it; sometimes he mislaid it permanently, sometimes he accidentally destroyed it. Sometimes he would send a second edition of an article already received and printed, explaining that he could not remember whether he had posted the first edition or torn it up by mistake. From long experience of him, I doubt whether he ever looked at anything he had written after it was printed and published, unless some accidental circumstance gave him occasion to refer to it.
No man who ever wrote more strikingly exemplified the aphorism "le style c'est l'homme." His style was entirely his own—a pure, spontaneous growth, neither derived from reading, nor formed by conscious effort. It reflected as vividly as his conversation the characteristics of his intellect, his lucidity of thought and expression, his quick apprehension, his distaste for display, his unconventional habit of mind, his dry humour, his naïve wit. A very good judge, and an old acquaintance in Parliament, writing of him in the Saturday Review after his death, said that "Mr. Labouchere's prose was Voltairian." It was Voltairian because his mind was Voltairian, and because he reproduced on paper, instinctively and without effort, exactly what was in his mind. But it is out of place to speak of anything that Mr. Labouchere did in terms of uncritical eulogy. On the technical side Mr. Labouchere's literary work was marred by the failings which beset him in everything he undertook—his repugnance to "taking trouble," and his supreme indifference. Although he would overhaul his proof mercilessly, and go on doing it as often as a proof was submitted to him, the process was generally that of expanding and rewriting, rarely of touching up and improving what he had written. He thought as little about "polishing up" a sentence for the sake of literary effect as of brushing his hat before he went for a walk. The consequence was that the inevitable blemishes in the work of a man who wrote so fluently, but never had the patience to read and correct his own manuscript, constantly made their appearance in print. No one who reads his work, knowing the way it was done, can doubt that he had it in him to enrich English literature with veritable masterpieces. It was the will that he lacked, not the ability, and so it was with nearly everything he undertook.
Mr. Labouchere was a man of genius—genius real, original, and many-sided. The signs of it are evident in almost everything he did, including his mistakes and his eccentricities. But he had the misfortune to be born very rich, and if he was not by nature indolent he acquired an indolent habit of mind through never being under the necessity of exerting his powers to their full capacity. His genius was of the critical, not the creative order, and this also contributed to his forming a view of life inconsistent with strenuous exertion, for it led him to despise nearly everything that men ordinarily prize, success in all its shapes included. During all the time I knew him, his attitude towards life was that of a man playing a game, interested in it certainly, but only for the amusement it afforded him. It is worthy of note that he confesses to having been in youth an inveterate gambler, and having given up play because he found that it was acquiring too much hold over him. To be interested in everything, but too much interested in nothing, was a cardinal principle of his life. Few men have ever incurred more obloquy, and many worthy people regarded him with aversion; but it was only from misunderstanding or lack of knowledge. To this he himself contributed by his perverse habit of self-depreciation, his indifference to the opinions of his fellow-men, and the amusement he found in mystifying them. It is absurd to put him on a pedestal—a position which he never allowed any one else, and which he took good care to show he never desired for himself. But it was impossible to be much in contact with him without appreciating that he was a being of a rare order of intellect, with something in him that placed him above the ordinary failings and foibles of humanity, however much he might try to magnify his own. It was my privilege to know him pretty closely for over thirty years, and very intimately for the last ten. Though he did in that time many things that one would have wished he had not done, and said many that would have been better left unsaid, I can look back to him now only with admiration for his wisdom and his wit, and affection for his drolleries and his indiscretions, no less than for his many virtues.
There comes back to me the last time I sat with him, by the side of the lake at Cadennabia. "Let us get away from this beastly band," he had said, in the hall of the hotel after dinner, "one can't hear oneself speak." So we sat down outside, and he rambled on: "I can't think why people want bands when they come here. Wonderful place this for stars! What I like about it is that you can see them in the lake without craning your neck. I sit here and follow Bacon's advice: look at the stars in the pond instead of in the sky, and you won't tumble into the pond. There was a Greek named Pythagoras—or some ass at any rate—who comforted himself with the notion that in the future state he would be able to hear the music of the spheres. Who wants to hear the music of the spheres? Bother that band! What strikes me most about the stars is that they do their work so quietly. Pythagoras picked up his notions in the East—probably from the Jews. They imagined angels with harps and a perpetual concert in heaven. Good God! Think of having to sit at a concert for all eternity! Wouldn't you pray to be allowed to go to hell? The only reason that I can see for desiring immortality would be the chance of meeting Pythagoras and the other asses, and having a few words with them. Now Socrates was not an ass. He was for banishing musicians from his republic. No doubt he saw that this would get him a lot of republican votes. Gladstone once said to me——"
And then he dropped off to sleep. He was beginning by that time to doze at odd times, though all his life it was characteristic of him not to be able to take his sleep like an ordinary mortal. And not long after I left him sitting there by the lake, sleep finally overcame him, and he passed out into the night, to learn more of the silence of the stars, and to have it out, if possible, with Pythagoras.
Upon only one occasion in his life could a charge of Jingoism have been brought against Mr. Labouchere. The last long speech he made in the House of Commons was against the second reading of the Women's Enfranchisement Bill, in which he said that he objected to women being given the vote because they could not be soldiers; in short, because their physical limitations prevented them from being able to take a place in the battlefield. A member pointed out that the speaker himself was not a military man. With passion he replied that, whereas there was not a man alive who could not fight, and, if necessary, swim through seas of gore to protect his native land, the other sex were incapable of putting up with the hardships and privation involved in warfare.[1]
It was in the third session of Mr. Balfour's Parliament that Mr. Labouchere made his last speech in the House of Commons. He was nearly seventy-four years old, and had been hankering for some time after the delights of a reposeful old age in the retirement of the beautiful villa he had bought in the neighbourhood of Florence four years before. Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman had written to him in the previous December, when a rumour of his intended retirement had reached him: "I hope you are not really thinking of breaking off with Parliament, though I frankly say it is what I should do if I could, who have the advantage of a year or two over you, but I think we old stagers with sound views are wanted to steady the new-century gentlemen by a little of our early Victorian wisdom." But Mr. Labouchere was wise enough to know how dull it would be to exist in a modern Parliament as almost the only survivor of the grand old Victorian Radical party, whose sympathies and ideals, the policy of the Labour members alone resembled, in the remotest degree. His mind was made up, but he kept his own counsel, except to his leader, because, as he wrote to Mr. Robert Bennett at the time of his retirement, a man who is known not to be going to stand again becomes a nonentity in Parliament.
In a letter to Mr. Edward Thornton, the month before his withdrawal from public life, he gave his view of the Parliamentary situation at that time:
Just now politics are dead. When Parliament meets, the Liberals will try to put the Government in a majority during the session, and Balfour will try to carry on to the end of it. There seems no reason why he should be beaten, provided that he can keep his men in the House. But this is also our difficulty. The individual M.P. never wants an election.... Campbell Bannerman is now absolutely certain to be the next Premier unless his health breaks down. All that you see about this or that man in the Cabinet is only intelligent anticipation. He is not de jure on the succession to the Premiership, there are no consultations, and he has a wholesome distrust of his Front Bench friends who almost all have intrigued against him. I know him intimately, and he talks to me pretty freely, for I have expressed to him that I want nothing. At seventy-four a man is a fool to be a Minister.
The news of Mr. Labouchere's retirement came as a surprise to most of the world. The first intimation to the public was his letter to the Liberal electors of Northampton announcing his decision. It was written from Florence, and dated December 14, 1905. It ran as follows:
GENTLEMEN,—I have been elected by a majority of you to represent you in six Parliaments. I have received no intimation from any of the Radicals, to whose votes I have owed my having been your member for twenty-five years, that they disapprove of my Parliamentary action whilst serving them, or that they do not wish me to be one of their candidates at the next general election. Were I, therefore, to come forward again as a candidate there is little doubt that I should be one of your representatives in a seventh Parliament. But I am now seventy-four years old. At that age a man is neither so strong nor active as he once was, and any one who wishes to represent efficiently a large and important constituency like yours in Parliament should be strong in wind and limb. I feel therefore that I ought not to take advantage of your consideration towards me in a matter so vital to you in order to lag superfluous on the political stage.
I have delayed until now making this announcement because it was impossible to know when a general election would take place, and I thought that it would be more convenient to you for me to wait until the date of the election was settled and near at hand. I do not think that my withdrawal will affect the position of parties in Northampton. In Dr. Shipman you have a member whose Parliamentary action has been in accord with the pledges that have already secured his return, and on whose personal worth all are agreed. You will have no difficulty in finding a man to replace me, as eager to promote the cause of democracy as I am, and who will be better able to fight for the cause than one in the sere and yellow leaf.
Mr. Labouchere remarked once, that he had on one occasion only been asked by a constituent for a pledge with regard to his Parliamentary action. He had unhesitatingly given it, and been unflinchingly true to his word. The elector's injunction had been, "Now, mind, I say, and keep your hi on Joe." But whether the story is a slight exaggeration of the confidence his constituents had in him to faithfully represent their views at Westminster or not, it gives elliptically a description of his attitude during the twenty-five years he served the electors of Northampton. He became their member as an anti-Imperialist, in Lord Beaconsfield's interpretation of the term, and he took his leave of them as an anti-Imperialist, in the more modern, and what may be called "Chamberlain" sense of the word.
I shall quote Mr. T. P. O'Connor's farewell on the occasion of his retirement, which he published under the title of "The Passing of Labby," for, apart from its literary merit, it is the fine appreciation of a friend of many years' standing, who knew the value of Mr. Labouchere from the social as well as the Parliamentary and journalistic points of view:
There is no old member of the House of Commons who will not feel a pang of personal regret at hearing that Labby is leaving that Assembly. No one has a right to criticise a man for giving up an active life at seventy-four years of age—he has done his work. But Labby had become an almost essential part of the House of Commons; and there never will be anybody who can quite take his place there. That extraordinary combination of strong party zeal, with a lurking desire to make mischief; the sardonic and satirical spirit, mingled with a certain fierce, though carefully concealed zeal for the public good; the mordant wit that was equally the delight of the House and of the smoking room; the world-wide and varied experience of all life in almost every country and in almost every form—these are the possessions of but one man, and his like we shall never see again. There are two Labbys. There is the Labby who almost corrodes with his bitter wit, and who seems to laugh at everything in life. There is the other Labby who has strong, stern purpose, who hates all shams, all cruelty, all imposture, all folly, and who has made war on all these things for more than a quarter of a century. There is even a third Labby—the man who hates to give pain even to a domestic, and who is laughingly said to have run out of a room rather than face the irritated looks of a maidservant whom he had summoned by too vigorous a pull at the bell. One of the reasons of the popularity Labby enjoyed in the House was his tolerant amiability. I have seen him in the smoking room in the most friendly converse with many a man whom in previous years he had most fiercely attacked; he bore no ill will, and treated all those encounters as demanded by business, and as dismissable when the fight was over. Finally Labby was a far straighter, far more serious, far more effective politician than his own persiflage would allow people to think. With all his light wit, there was something stern and rigid in the man, as you could see from the powerful mouth, with the full compressed lips. He was perfectly honest in his hatred of extravagance, pretence, vainglory. He preferred riding in a tramcar to riding in a coach and four. He dressed so shabbily sometimes that his counsel used to have to remonstrate with him when he had to answer a charge of libel. He was an ascetic in eating. Once he dined quite comfortably, when he was electioneering, on ham sandwiches with sponge-cake for bread. He rarely, if ever, tasted wine; he smoked incessantly the poorest and cheapest cigarettes. As he was in private, so he was in public life. He derided all great Imperial designs as snobbery and extravagance; he hated ambition—in short, he was in both his personal habits and his public opinions, a true devotee of the simple life. He did immense service to his party in his time. During the heat of the Home Rule controversy he spoke in scores of towns; took journeys by night and by day, never spared himself exertion, never complained of discomfort; in his laughing air, with his assumed air of languor, he was a strenuous, manly, courageous fighter. And he never changed, he never concealed, he never explained away his opinion upon anything. And so I bid him with regret farewell from a scene where he was a model of honest good faith and courage.[2]
So Labby goes! [mourned the Morning Post]. What Parliament and public life will be without him, I hate to think. The letter of cheery regrets to his Northampton constituents subtracts the sauce piquante from the Parliamentary dish. The House has long counted Labby as the last of its originals, has prized him as a refreshing relish, has looked to him for the unexpected flavour. All strangers would ask inevitably to have him pointed out, and the House would fill at once when the word went round the corridors and lobbies and smoking rooms that Labby was "up" and holding forth from his customary corner seat below the gangway—the best of all positions from which to address the House. So too the smoking room became suddenly crowded when Labby was to be seen standing there with back to fireplace, the eternal cigarette between his lips, ready for talk. It gives a peculiar pang to realise that he will be seen there no more. But the pang is lessened when one finds Labby—Labby of all men—seriously pleading old age as a ground for his retirement. It sounds like one of his little jokes, or, perhaps, it is a genuine case of hallucination. Labby had possibly a touch of old age at twenty, but he had also the sense to outgrow it. Since then he has never relapsed, and now in the seventy-fifth year of his youth, and with a pen several years younger, it is a vain and commonplace and un-Labbyish thing to pretend that youth and he are no longer "housemates still." An unbelieving world will not accept that plea.... I daresay that, half a century ago, Labby was, not unlike the wise youth Adrian in Meredith's Richard Feverel, quite unnaturally cool and quizzical, long-headed and non-moral, but an Adrian humanised by something of the Bohemian spirit and a turn for careless pleasuring. And in those days, no doubt—his Eton and Cambridge days—he struck his contemporaries as really old. But no one, for fifty years, has ever accused him of not having overcome his early weakness; and it was the very last charge I ever expected to hear Labby prefer against himself.[3]
There was something about Mr. Labouchere's personality, apart from his deeds and thoughts, which appealed almost irresistibly to the affectionate sympathies of all mankind. To find an ill-natured comment in any of the articles that were published about him in the press when he left the House of Commons is so difficult that, were such a one to be recorded in this volume, it would give its author an almost unenviable position of distinction. But in order to be perfectly impartial, I shall merely quote the pleasant part of the only one I could find, so that its writer need not feel that he has been placed in an out-of-the-way corner with a fool's cap on his head:
On the whole Mr. Labouchere has done a great deal of good in his life, more good and less evil than many so-called statesmen. He has exposed swindlers and moneylenders and rotten companies. He has obtained for the public the right to ride, drive, and walk up and down Constitution Hill. No victim of cruelty or injustice ever appealed to him for a hearing in vain. Above all he wrote an English style of remarkable purity, logic, and humour.
Letters of regretful farewell poured in upon Labby in his Florentine home, and he possessed a kindly characteristic common to nearly all frankly unpretentious human beings. He loved his post. In his cosy armchair by the fire he read his letters and enjoyed them, and what was more—he proceeded to answer them. No pre-occupation, however diverting, ever prevented him from, at the first available moment sitting down to his writing-table, and, in the almost illegible hand which he vainly tried to improve, penning answers to his welcome correspondents.
"I have been very sorry, but not surprised," wrote Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman to him on Christmas Day, "to read in the newspapers of your retirement. It is not over kind of you to put it on the ground of age, for that hits some of the rest of us hard. For my part, I confess my sentiment when I read it was: O si sic omnes—and envy was the prevailing feeling. But, seriously, we shall miss you greatly as one always ready to hoist the flag of the old Liberalism, as distinguishable from the less stout and stalwart doctrine which passes for Liberalism with the moderns.
"But now as you are going would you care to have the House of Commons honour of Privy Councillor? If so it would be to me a genuine pleasure to be the channel of conveying it. You ought to have had it long ago. I may add that in the highest quarter gratification would be felt. I have taken soundings. I think we have done and are doing pretty well. The Government are pretty well the pick of the basket, though there are some good men left out, and I think we can make it a change of policy and not a mere change of men. All seasonable wishes to you and yours.—Yours always,
"H. C. B."
"Knowing you to be a wise man," wrote Lord Selby, who had been Speaker of the House in three of the six Parliaments of which Mr. Labouchere had been a member, "I was not surprised to see that you had made up your mind to eschew Westminster, and enjoy Florence and its climate, but if I were still in the Chair I should miss you in the next Parliament, and I am sure the smoking-room will be a forlorn place without you; and I do not see how the loss is to be repaired, for it takes a good many years to grow a plant of the same kind. I wish you and Mrs. Labouchere long leisure and much pleasure in your Italian home, seasoned with occasional visits to England. The election may be said to have begun with Balfour's speech at Leeds, and Campbell Bannerman's at the Albert Hall...."
The leader of the Irish party wrote from Dublin:
"DEAR LABOUCHERE,—When writing the other day, I did not know that you had any idea of retiring from Parliament. I learned your intention with deep regret. You have been so long one of the truest friends of Ireland that you will be missed by us all, and at a time when we can badly spare a real friend. With heartiest good wishes, and many thanks for your advice and assistance on so many occasions, I remain very truly yours,
"J. E. REDMOND."
"I have just read your farewell to Northampton," wrote Sir Wilfrid Lawson, on December 17, "and it has troubled me. I am going to stand again for Cockermouth (I am older than you!) with a fair chance of success, but, if I win and get back to the House, I shall feel that it is not exactly the same place without you. I therefore just write this to say how sorry I am to lose you. Certainly you have always held up bravely and ably the banner of the Radicalism in which I believe, and it remains to be seen whether we shall get it as well held up in the Parliament which is to be. Any way those who believe in Government 'of, for, and by the people,' ought to be grateful to you for your persistent preaching and teaching of that doctrine.
"The new Government promises well, but I remember a story on which you trenchantly commented in Truth some years ago. When Lord Dudley was married it was proposed in the Kidderminster Corporation that they should give him a wedding present, on which an old weaver rose and suggested that it should be postponed 'till we see how he goes on.'
"Well, I hope that you will go on well and happily till the end of your days, and, meantime, not forget to give outside help to your old comrades, who for a bit longer are grinding in the Parliamentary mill."
Lord James of Hereford wrote:
"The announcement of your departure from the House of Commons seems almost to affect me personally. I recall a day in the end of August, 1868, when you and I and John Stamforth were sitting in front of the Kursaal at Homburg. You and I were discussing our relative chances in Middlesex and at Taunton, and then you asked Stamforth how he was getting on at Athlone. "I am member for Athlone," replied that unfortunate man, who afterwards, as you know, polled one vote.
"Well, the water has been flowing on since then. You and I have seen a good deal of political life, and taken a fair share in it. I hope we have not done much harm, but Heaven only knows. I am very sorry that you are not continuing in the fight....
"I know how little I can do, for I am three years older than you are—but the House of Lords offers some opportunities for easy going to an old one."
"DEAR LABOUCHERE," wrote Lord Edmond Fitzmaurice,—"We have enjoyed sweet converse together in the House of Commons and in the woods of Marienbad on 'men and things.' We are both leaving the House of Commons at the same time, so I send you a word of greeting—or farewell, or by whatever other name it may be appropriate to describe these words.... A short Parliament generally follows a long Parliament, and I expect to see this canon once more illustrated."
"The New York Herald of this morning announces your appointment as a P. C.," wrote Sir Edmund Monson from Paris. "I am very glad that you have received this distinction, which, in my own case, I have always regarded as the most acceptable of all that have been bestowed on me.... I can quite understand your relinquishing Parliament, and I hope you may long enjoy the otium cum dignitate which no place better than Florence can supply.... Believe me, always your sincere old friend,
"EDMUND MONSON."
Lord Brampton wrote on the last day but one of the year: "I have just received your note. Your reasons for retirement from Parliament are unreasonable. But, as far as I am concerned, although I have not a word of objection to offer, still I remain sorry. With all my heart I rejoice in to-day's Times, and offer to you, my right honourable friend, my heartiest congratulations to you and all yours, and every good wish for the coming New Year. I wish I could avail myself of your invitation to Florence, but I fear I have no chance, as I am very weak still and can hardly hold a pen."
Only one other letter must be quoted from the friends of Labby's youth. Sir Henry Lucy wrote on Christmas Day:
"MY DEAR LABOUCHERE,—You will find in the forthcoming issue of Punch some reflections on 'The Sage of Queen Anne's Gate,' from the Diary of Toby, M.P. I believe they echo the feeling of the whole House of Commons, irrespective of party, at the prospect of your withdrawal from the scene.
"But why cut Westminster altogether? There is still the House of Lords. If I might behold you walking out shoulder to shoulder with the Archbishop of Canterbury to vote 'content' or 'not content' as the case might be, I should feel I had not lived in vain.... With a warmth and friendship dating back nearly thirty years—Eheu! we were colleagues on the World staff in 1875."
Toby, M.P., recalled in a pathetic little article in Punch the way Mr. Gedge had tried to do Labby out of his corner seat below the gangway, where Sir Charles Dilke had sat beside him on one side of the House or the other ever since Mr. Gladstone's Parliament of 1892. In order to secure a seat in the House, members had to be present at the reading of prayers, during which any one could slip a card with his name upon it into the back of the place he wanted. Now Labby was never at prayers, and yet, Mr. Gedge noticed, he had always had the same seat secured to himself in the orthodox manner. Accordingly, one day he allowed his thoughts to wander whilst the House of Commons devotions were proceeding, and his eyes followed his thoughts. Between his fingers held devoutly before his face, he peeped, and noticed Sir Charles Dilke, buried in prayer as usual. Then he saw his devotion relax for a moment. Sir Charles was slipping a card into the back of the seat which he intended to secure for himself, and Mr. Gedge was horrified to see that he proceeded to slip a card with Labby's name upon it into the back of the next one—the coveted corner seat below the gangway. Mr. Gedge subsequently drew the attention of the House to this piece of underhand dealing, but honourable gentlemen did not choose to take any notice of what would clearly not have been observed, if Mr. Gedge had been paying proper attention to his prayers.
A propos to the seating accommodation in the House of Commons, it should be remembered that as far back as 1893, when the disgraceful scrimmage for seats took place at the introduction of Mr. Gladstone's Home Rule Bill, Mr. Labouchere had begun to agitate for a new House of Commons with seats for every member. He explained to a journalist at the time his plan for an ameliorated House:
"At present," he said, "a man goes before a constituency and, after a lot of trouble and expense, wins a seat—so it is called. He then comes up here to Westminster, and finds he has gone through only half the preliminaries necessary for securing a seat. He has taken only the first steps, which are simply child's play to what he has yet to do. Getting elected is simply nothing comparatively. First I wanted an octagonal chamber," he proceeded, "but I find general opinion will retain the present form. So my idea is to have eight rows of seats on each side of the House, curving round at the end opposite to the Speaker. If each row will seat forty-two members, you will find that will provide a seat for the whole six hundred and seventy-two. Then every one could retain his seat throughout the session. The difficulty about the square shape of the House is that it gives you an equal number of seats for each party and the Government is generally in a majority. That is why I would run the seats round at one end—so that the supporters of the Government could have the whole of one side, and as far as the second gangway on the other. Having a broader House would necessarily mean enlarging the Press and Strangers' Galleries also. All the members are in favour of it, with the exception of the front benches. They have got their seats assured, so they say that the House is cosy, and to enlarge it would force them to pitch their voices higher." The journalist who was interviewing him commented on the extreme moderation of his designs for an ameliorated House of Commons. "Oh," remarked Mr. Labouchere, "these are just the alterations we shall probably make. What I personally should have liked would be to clear the Lords out of their House, which is bigger than the House of Commons, and install ourselves therein."[4] Eight years later he went to Vienna, and poured forth in Truth the story of his envy when he saw the Austrian House of Deputies:
I went to see the Parliament House, and, after inspecting it, I felt that I could with pleasure join a mob to disinter the remains of the eminent architect who built the Palace at Westminster and hang his bones on a gibbet. The Vienna architect has erected a building which is Parliament Architecture. Everything is adapted to the wants and requirements of those who want to use it. The members of each of the two Chambers sit in a semi-circular room, and each member has an armchair and a desk before him. The general objection made to this plan of a deliberative room is that it obliges members to speak from a tribune. But at Vienna they speak from their places, and, owing to the excellent acoustic properties of the Chamber, they can be perfectly heard. I went over the place in the company of a priest who was visiting it at the same time. He perceived that I was an Englishman, and asked me how the place compared with the English Parliament House. "The members in England," I said, "sit in an oblong room, in which there are only places for half their number." "But what do the others do?" he asked. "They do not listen to the debates," I replied; "they seldom know what is under discussion. A bell rings and they come in, and are told to vote as their leader orders them." As a good Radical I felt it necessary to give a further explanation, so I continued: "The majority of the members are the supporters of the Government; it is one of the worst Governments with which a country was ever cursed; it is called the 'stupid party,' and it is composed of Junkers and men who have made much money. They want the laws to be made for their benefit, and not for the benefit of the poor." "But why," he said, "do they have a majority, for I suppose that the poor have votes as well as the rich, and there must be more poor than rich in England?" "They gained their election by corruption and falsehood," I answered. "Their wives and their daughters went about giving the electors feasts, and they went about saying everywhere that the Radicals wanted to destroy the Empire. In this way they bought some with gifts, and others they deceived with falsehoods. Soon the electors discovered how they had been fooled, and for five years they have wanted to take away the Government from the 'stupids,' but, by our laws, a Parliament is elected for seven years, and the country is still obliged to submit to the disgrace of having such a Government for one or perhaps two more years. Then there will be another election, and the 'stupids' will be in a minority, and the Radicals who represent the sense and intelligence of the country will become the Government." "And the Radicals," he said, "will, I suppose, make a Chamber large enough to hold all the members." "I am not sure of that," I answered. This seemed to surprise him, but he thanked me for having made clear to him the party differences in England.[5]
But my story is wandering backwards instead of forwards. And so stories usually do in the City of Flowers, where the present is so full of ease and pleasure that a man's mind is free to linger where it will, either lazily in the middle ages, or to stray with graceful discrimination in the bye paths of memory to find the savour again of some of the deeds of a gallant past. He may choose, perhaps, to grasp contentedly and almost without effort, the gifts of the gods that lie about in profusion, but he must always remember that care and earnestness, strenuousness and ambition have no place in Florence. It was of course a home after Mr. Labouchere's own heart. He went to London in the January of 1906 to be sworn in as a Privy Councillor, and, in February, he came back with delight to his villa to enjoy the merry continental train de vie he had always loved.
Whilst in London, he wrote to Mr. Edward Thornton, who was then in India:
I did not, as you see, stand. At seventy-four one gets bored even with politics. I am only over here for a fortnight, as I have to get sworn into the Privy Council. The Unionists have been beaten badly, because they seem to have gone out of their way to court defeat. One never knows what may happen, but they will remain in a minority for the next twenty years, if they run on Protectionist lines. Joe swaggers and has captured the machine, and Balfour would do well to fight him instead of knocking under to him. The Chinese labour helped us greatly. They ought to have known that the old anti-slavery feeling is still strong, but they seem to imagine that every one has Rand shares.... The really important thing connected with the election is the rise of a Labour Party. I do not think, however, that there are above six M.P.'s returned who are bona fide and Socialists, they are all jealous of each other.
He wrote to Mr. Thornton again on March 10:
I had had enough of Parliament, for one gets bored with everything.... I have not the slightest notion what a Privy Councillor is, except that I had to take half a dozen oaths at a Council, which were mumbled out by some dignitary, and then Fletcher Moulton, who was also being sworn in, and I performed a sort of cake walk backwards. I don't precisely know whither we shall go in the summer—for it is such a relief to let the day take care of the day. It is lucky C. B. has so large a majority, otherwise things would have been difficult with the Labour lot—far more difficult than with the Irish.
Mr. Labouchere's most regular correspondent up till the time of his death in January, 1911, was Sir Charles Dilke. The friendship between them had continued uninterruptedly since 1880. Two letters that Mr. Labouchere wrote to Sir Charles Dilke in 1910 have an especial interest, bearing as they do upon the problem that had always interested Mr. Labouchere so keenly throughout the whole of his political career, and which, in the first twentieth century Liberal Parliament, had assumed a new aspect. The first of these letters was written on February 11:
MY DEAR DILKE,—What is the Government going to do in regard to the Lords? I can understand a one-Chamber man, in default of getting directly what he wants, trying to get it indirectly, by having a sham Upper Chamber. But if the Government has to appeal to the country on a suspensory veto, I doubt this creating much enthusiasm. If it be carried, this suspensory vote would, of course, be used by the Peers for all that it is worth when a Liberal Government is in to throw batons dans leurs roues. I should have thought, with the experience of the last Parliament, that it would be realised that Peer obstruction, cleverly managed, could reduce any Liberal Government to ridicule and contempt. So long as a Reform is hung up by the Lords, the electors have no heart in further Liberal legislation, which, in its turn, would also be hung up. A Party with a H. of C. majority at its back cannot afford to be unable to carry through its measures. Why not go at once for the abolition of the H. of Peers, and its being replaced by some sort of an elected Upper Chamber? Nothing is easier than to contrive one. The basis would be the constitution of the U.S. Senate mutatis mutandis. It should have only one half of the membership of the H. of C., and if the two Houses cannot agree, then they should sit and vote together on the issue. Notwithstanding the curious way in which Senators are elected in the Senate of the U.S., I never heard of any serious proposal to alter this. Its main strength is due to its executive powers, and this we need not provide for in our Senate. With any reasonable plan of election, and the members reduced to about 300, it is odds against there ever being a majority of one Party of above 40 or 50. No Government at present can get on long without a certain majority of slaves of more than this in the Commons, so the Commons would always get their way. I have been at times a President of and a member of several Abolition of Lords Associations, and have advocated abolition in thousands of speeches in the country. The feeling was generally against hereditary Legislators, for this comes home to all as an absurd abuse. If I were in the House I would move an amendment on the Address against hereditary Legislators, and the vast majority of the Government supporters would vote for it, as they would most of them be afraid of their electors. What surprises me is that the Unionists do not counter the plans of the Government by many such an amendment. They are sacrificing what is their interest to a lot of obscure Peers, who are of no importance. As for the House of Lords, with only a suspensory veto, it is worthless to them, except for tactical obstruction in order to discredit a Liberal Government.
It is rather curious that if the H. of C. reflects the opinions of the country there is a majority for Tariff Reform, as all the National M.P.'s are Protectionists. As it is, they will find it difficult to vote for the Budget, with O'Brien painting Ireland red against it. He is a power in Ireland, and Redmond is perfectly aware of it. Anyhow the manœuvring in the H. of C. and the Debates will be amusing. There will be difficulties with the Labour men, headed by Keir Hardie. If I were the Unionists I would buy him.—Yours truly,
H. LABOUCHERE.
The second was written on November 17, and ran as follows:
MY DEAR DILKE,—... It is a curious thing that in the discussions about Home Rule all round, no one has pointed out that in the German Empire Bavaria occupies a peculiar position. It has far more independent rights than any other State. It was only on these terms that it came into the Empire, for there is no great love lost between the Prussians and the Bavarians. Yet it sends its quota of representatives to the Reichsrath. Therefore there seems to me no particular reason why, if there be Home Rule all round, the position of Ireland should not be that of Bavaria.
I confess that I do not think much of the Government proposal in regard to the veto. It seems to me a stupid arrangement. The Upper Chamber is a fifth wheel on the coach which only can make itself a nuisance by persistent obstruction, which in two years is swept aside automatically. My experience in going to lots of anti-Lords Meetings led me to the conclusion that the country hates an Upper Chamber on hereditary lines, but does not quite believe in a Single Chamber which is absolute master. Why does no one propose to "scrap" the H. of L. and to have an elected Upper House, one-third of whose members are renewed by election every two years, or some such period? This would be on the lines of the U.S. Senate, only with a popular franchise, instead of the strangely illogical one of the U.S. Such an Upper Chamber would probably be conservative in the real, and not the party sense of the word, and yet command respect. It would rarely act except when the decision of the H. of C. was influenced by a small minority, threatening to turn the Government out if it did not knock under to it. Were the Unionists to come forward with such a scheme, they might very probably get a majority.—Yours truly,
H. LABOUCHERE.
After Sir Charles Dilke's death, Mr. Labouchere wrote the following interesting letter to Lord Channing, dated Feb. 18:
DEAR CHANNING,—No, I am not writing any memoirs. I shall find it more agreeable to read yours than to do so.... I knew him (Dilke) very well since his start in politics. When in the House, he was the only man well up, particularly in domestic legislature, and, really, it is thanks to him that many useful measures were passed. In explaining them, however, he was too apt to lose himself in minor details. In foreign politics he never clearly knew what he wanted, and he was given to believe in mares' nests which he thought he had picked up abroad.... He fancied that he would be able to become the leader of the Labour M.P.'s. They were ready to profit by his speeches, but it soon became clear that they would only have a Labour M.P. for their leader. We started a sort of Labour Party with a Whip. But they came to me and said that it must be understood that he was not to be either President or Chairman. In the main this was due to jealousy of him.... I did all that I could with Campbell Bannerman for him to be in the Cabinet. Campbell Bannerman hesitated. Then Morley made a speech asserting that the Liberals would not be satisfied unless he was included. At once the Bishop of Rochester and a head dissenter (I think it was Clifford) published letters protesting. Campbell Bannerman then pointed to these letters, and said that we should have a split in the party if he were in the Cabinet. Personally, I quite agree with you as to his ostracism from office, but you know what the English are, and particularly the dissenters....
Why did you resign your seat? It was a perfectly safe one. I resigned because I had got to an age, when I got tired out at a long sitting. It is curious I was with Campbell Bannerman and his wife and mine. She wanted him to give it up, as his doctor had told him that he ought to. I urged him to go on. He said that this was odd advice, when I had said that I should do so, and he was younger than I was. I replied that it was worth taking risks to be Prime Minister, but not for anything else. And he is dead and I alive....
If ever you want to rest calmly you must come down here and see me. I have a big villa close to Florence, and live a vegetable existence.—Yours truly,
H. LABOUCHERE.
A great grief befell Mr. Labouchere in 1910. He and Mrs. Labouchere had been spending the summer as usual at Villa d'Este and Cadenabbia, and had returned to Florence in the early days of October. Never had Mrs. Labouchere appeared to be in better health and spirits. On the evening of the 30th October, she had delighted every one with her inimitable reading aloud of David Copperfield, and life at Villa Cristina, on that day, had seemed, if possible, more joyous and serene than usual. The next morning the blow fell, but so gently as to be almost imperceptible. Mrs. Labouchere, feeling a little giddy on rising, had returned to her bed to allow the temporary sickness to pass off. By the afternoon she was beginning to slip away into unconsciousness, and before the bells in the neighbouring convent had begun to welcome the dawn of the Tutti Santi, she had gone forth alone on her last long journey.
The winter of 1910 and 1911 passed quietly away for Mr. Labouchere. His days were cheered by the constant presence of his daughter, who had married Marchesa Carlo di Rudini, the son of the former Prime Minister of Italy, and Mr. Thomas Hart Davies stayed with him till Christmas Day, returning to Florence again in the early spring. A succession of visitors from England and Rome kept the house gay and lively as he loved to have it, always provided that he had to take upon himself none of the activities or responsibility of entertaining. "I am merely a passenger on the ship," he would say, when he wanted to wriggle out of any active participation in the organisation of whatever might be going on. But it always happened to be towards the corner of the ship where that particular passenger was resting that the pleasure and interest of every one converged. It was not so much the charm of his talk, that was, perhaps, more entertaining in his old age than it had ever been, as the extraordinarily youthful and never failing interest that he continued to take in the affairs of every one else that made him the best conversationalist in the world. No little event of the smallest human interest was too trivial to amuse him, and to awake the never failing source of his mother wit. He passed the summer at Villa Cristina and went to Villa d'Este in September. Though his spirits were as gay and unflagging as ever throughout the winter, it was easy to see that his physical strength was beginning to weaken. The walk which he took daily round his garden fatigued him so much that, by Christmas, he had given up even that mild form of exercise.
He experienced another bereavement during the winter in the death of his oldest and most intimately associated friend, Sir George Lewis. He felt his loss very deeply, and I remember that when he told me the news his voice was full of emotion. He related that Sir George Lewis had always looked upon him as his mascotte. "As long as you're alive and flourishing, Labby," he used to say, "I shall be all right too, so mind you take care of yourself." "Just shows what nonsense all those things are," continued Mr. Labouchere, "for here am I as well and strong as ever, and there is poor Lewis dead and gone." The return of Mr. Hart Davies to the Villa early in December cheered him up immensely, and his devoted friend did not leave his side again, until the last sad morning when he bade farewell to him on the hill of San Miniato.
It was fitting perhaps that almost the last letter that Mr. Labouchere should have written, should have been to one of his old theatrical friends. Mr. Charles James Sugden, the actor, wrote to him and asked him to write a preface to his (Sugden's) forthcoming volume of Reminiscences. Here is Mr. Labouchere's reply:
VILLA CRISTINA, Jan. 4, 1912.
MY DEAR SUGDEN—You ask me to write a preface to your forthcoming book. I don't think that I ever read one in my life, for they always seem to be platitudes, impertinently thrust forward by some person who has an exaggerated idea of his own importance, in order to hinder me from getting at what I really do want to read. Good wine needs no bush, and I shall be greatly disappointed if I do not derive great pleasure from reading yours, for you have been brought into close contact with so many persons of note in their day, and some of whom are still in this world, and can throw many sidelights on them, and know many anecdotes about them. Pray bring it out as soon as possible. I am now over eighty, and at about that age senile imbecility commences, so I do not want it to make progress before I have had the opportunity to read the book and can appreciate it.[6]—Yours truly,
H. LABOUCHERE.
But it was not until the beginning of the second week in January that we all felt certain that he would never be well again. He was sauntering along so gently and carelessly, as only Labby knew how to saunter, towards the brink of the dark river. When the little heaps of cigarettes, that were arranged about his library so as to be always ready to his hand, ceased to dwindle as usual, it became clear to each and all that he must be very ill indeed. As simply as a child, tired with play, he took to his bed on the 11th of January, and did not get up again. He died peacefully at midnight on January 15, 1912.
The earliest remark of Mr. Labouchere's that I have recorded in this book was a jest, and so was the last I heard him utter. On the afternoon of the day before he died, as I was sitting at his bedside, the spirit lamp that kept the fumes of eucalyptus in constant movement about his room, through some awkwardness of mine, was overturned. Mr. Labouchere, who was dozing, opened his eyes at the sound of the little commotion caused by the accident, and perceived the flare-up. "Flames?" he murmured interrogatively, "not yet, I think." He laughed quizzically, and went off to sleep again.
* * * * * * *
The words in which Mr. Hart Davies conveyed the news of his end to Carteret Street are so beautiful in their simple directness that no others can fitly replace them in this biography:
"His mind always remained perfectly clear. He took a lively interest in the German elections, the political crisis in France, and the events of the Italian-Turkish War. He was ever one for whom nothing that concerned the human race (nihil humani) was alien to his vivid intelligence. But his bodily powers were constantly declining, and on Monday, January 15, just before midnight, the end came, peacefully and painlessly, a fitting termination to the career of one who had ever been a fighter and ever in the forefront of the battle.
"He was buried on Wednesday morning, under the cold drizzling rain of the Florentine winter, at San Miniato, in the same grave with his wife, who died some fifteen months before him. There, his tomb, at the edge of the western battlement of San Miniato, looks over the Tower of Galileo and the dark cypresses of Arcetri. It may be said of him, as Heine said of himself, that on his grave should be placed 'not a wreath, but a sword, for he was a brave soldier in the war for the liberation of humanity.'"
Before his death, he had expressed a strong wish as to the place of his burial. He wanted to rest beside his wife at San Miniato. But, when the arrangements for the funeral were about to be made, it was remembered that only Catholics were permitted to lie in the beautiful cemetery of the Florentines. The difficulty seemed insuperable, and the preliminary steps had already been taken to bury him in the Protestant graveyard. His daughter, however, determined to leave no stone unturned so that she might carry out her father's dying wishes. An appeal was made to some municipal authority, and, by an extraordinary coincidence, that seemed to make Labby's funeral fit in with all the rest of his strange paradoxical career, it was ascertained that, just at that moment, the possession of the cemetery was passing out of the hands of the religious body to whom it had hitherto belonged, and was becoming the property of the lay ecclesiastical authority of the city, and there had been no time for new regulations or restrictions to be formulated. There were, therefore, from a legal point of view, none in existence, and so it turned out that Mr. Labouchere was permitted to lie in the spot that he had himself chosen.