Tamron hall and prince relationship with dukes

The Scene is Changed, by Ashley Dukes

I was afforded a malicious sidelight on all this bourgeois socialism by evening visits to the Highgate home of Prince Kropotkin, author of The. Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, Prince Harry are posing for a picture: " When William becomes the Prince of Wales, he will take on a lot of. Prince of Monaco, Duke of Valentinois, Duke of Estouteville, Duke of Mazarin, Duke of Mayenne, Prince of . After the relationship ends, he is said to have ' loved and lost' her. . daughter, Jazmin Grace, the result of a vacation fling in with a married Californian, Tamara Rotolo. . (Hall, , p).

This is no doubt clearer to me to-day than it could ever have been at the time, for a young foreigner finds nothing harder to grasp than the social distinctions or lack of them in the country where he happens to be. To an Englishman the absence of what is technically called a lady was noticeable in Munich, and I confess sometimes welcome. Such beings must have existed in Prussia and Saxony, and even in their most formidable shape; but in Bavaria all women seemed to be women and amiable at that.

A Cambridge scientist who was in Munich with a vivisection permit, making experiments on mice, told me that German women had one passion, the cream bun; but this was a falsehood of specialist observation.

They certainly liked cream buns, as Nora in A Doll's House liked macaroons; but above all they enjoyed being approached as human beings, neither housewives nor bluestockings. The girl from the suburbs who came for a day's walk in the mountains remained almost indistinguishable in her manners, her reserve or abandonment or charm, from the young professor's wife presiding at a tea-table.

If these social observations are allowed, a word can be said about the racial question too. In all that time I was in [20] Germany I cannot remember any feeling against Jews, either in the theatre where many of them were working or in ordinary life.

There may have been some such prejudice among the student or official classes, but a looker-on would never have noticed it.

Only in the years after did mutterings begin to the effect that the Jews had undermined German culture.

And since the Nazis have attributed "culture-bolshevism" in Germany to the Weimar Republic, I would add that this "culture-bolshevism", meaning liberalism in thought and art, flourished before under Wilhelm II and was then much commoner than at any time in the 's.

My day's work in the university began at seven in the morning by attendance at an hour's lecture on the physics of the sun, and continued in the forenoon with some laboratory work on physico-chemical subjects.

But with no examinations to pass, there was no need to take all this too seriously; and in fact discoveries in the field of radioactivity had made theories obsolete which had been the foundation of my knowledge as schoolboy, student and graduate.

The movement of knowledge seemed suddenly to have taken the increasing tempo of the world which was manifesting itself in the internal combustion engine and the beginnings of flight. Or was this partly the fancy of a young man turning from exact knowledge to drama?

I made friends in the university with liberal students, outside the duelling Corps, who were glad to talk with an Englishman of these things; and these companions tended to be students of literature rather than my fellows from the research laboratories. Our conversations often took the [21] form of one hour's English exchanged for one hour's German. I had brought a silk hat and tail suit with me from England, and this made me an embarrassing number of new friends, for every student needed such an outfit in which to pay his formal call on his professors once a term.

Borrowing was the rule; and sometimes the student returning my clothes was accompanied by another known to him but not to me, who bowed stiffly on my threshold and asked if he might have the honour of wearing them next.

The afternoons were spent in walking or riding, horseback or bicycle, with such student acquaintances; and on Sundays we joined in scrambles on the Bavarian peaks, where the rock was friable and treacherous compared with the basalt of the Lakes or North Wales which I already knew. We carried coils of rope which were seldom used: On such days one returned too late for the theatre; but most of my other evenings were spent there, always with a student card at minimum price.

By this time I knew the personalities of all the players, and even of the prompter who read each part aloud, sometimes too audibly, from his hooded box in the middle of the footlights.

It was perhaps too much to expect of any company that they should keep the text of as many as ten plays in their heads at the same time. But to remember words was easier than to preserve distinctions of character: Some of the heavy fathers, elderly spinsters and young lovers soon appeared [22] rather in the manner of a stage procession, whose individual members had gone off and were coming on again with old familiar faces. It was the director's task to give variety and freshness to plays under these casting conditions.

The total repertory required two or three of these Regisseure beside the general director responsible for all productions; and there was always an evening director Abendregisseur who timed and scrutinized every act and scene, and had powers to call an extra rehearsal any morning. Directors of separate plays had a free hand, and some of them showed an individual imagination that went far beyond the most skilful of stage management. I began to know one director by his lighting, another by his variation of stage levels; and to see possibilities in the art of staging plays which our English theatre, in spite of Craig's writings, had not begun to realize.

With all this in mind, I sought to make back-stage contacts which would help me to understand the technical aspect of theatre. My first ambition was to write plays; but I wanted to work myself into theatre life, to attend rehearsals, and to learn how everything was done.

This was far from easy, for a German theatre playing repertory had no time to spare for a young English scientist with a dramatic hobby. As for other students, they laughed at me and advised making love to an actress; adding that after a week of her I should find a waitress more fun. There was something in this, for when I met stage folk I found them personally disappointing. I remember that one of the directors envied me the life of science, and said that whenever he entered a stage door he felt he should put on the white overalls of a specialist, because [23] the artist was a pathological case.

At about this time Shaw's Candida was announced by the Schauspielhaus, and on going to the first night I found that the director, misreading a stage direction which describes the poet Marchbanks as having apparently slept in the heather, had dressed him as a sportsman who only needed a rifle to be in perfect trim for deer-stalking.

Otherwise the play had been understood well enough. I wrote to Shaw to give an account of this production, and received by return mail one of those lively postcards which all who know him, and others too, have accumulated in the course of years.

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This message from the Dichter was a sufficient passport to the authorities of the theatre, I was invited to rehearsals of all foreign plays, and at the director's suggestion I was emboldened to write two articles on English and Irish drama for the Neueste Nachrichten, where they duly appeared. So it happened that my first earnings as a writer were for work in a language not my own. A student of philosophy had looked over the script for me; and sharing the fifty marks which arrived at my Munich address by money order, we had a convivial evening at a wine shop, for as he said philosophically, that is always better for men of letters than a beerhouse.

During the evening we had become sworn brothers in the student fashion. Physicists and mathematicians now began to ask me why I was no longer attending their lectures, but writing for the papers [24] instead. I snatched a fortnight's holiday in Vienna and Budapest, going third class by night train, to think about this question of science and art.

At the Burgtheater in Vienna I was able to see German classics played with gestures in proportion to the immensity of the stage. Those were the great days of the Burg, when even the ushers, dignified grey-haired men, wore gold braid on their uniforms and carried cocked hats which got in the way of their selling of programmes. The vast Imperial box faced the stage from the middle of the first balcony, and one evening I saw it occupied by Franz-Joseph.

This was before the time of the Theater in der Josefstadt, and I recall nothing on the stage that was half as exciting as the Breughels and the Danube. Maybe, at twenty-three, the poise of life was helping to balance the authority of science and the attraction of art. At Budapest, without understanding a word, I could follow the performance both of classics and some modern plays in the style since perfected by Molnar. A strong and colourful theatricality marked everything on the Hungarian stage, from the State Theatre to the gipsy cabarets; but in this capital too the drama of living for me was uppermost.

When I came back to Munich the city seemed more provincial than ever. I took a dislike, quite unreasonably, to the youths and maidens munching ham rolls in the long interval at the Schauspielhaus, and the endless procession of [25] their dull elders circulating in the corridor around the hat-and-cloak rooms, the compulsory financial pillar of the German stage. I knew how important an institution this theatre was to the young life of Germany, as it had been to me; but nothing less than the stage of Berlin, where plays had long runs and Reinhardt was in command at the Deutsches Theater, would have contented me.

I had to escape from science and Bavaria together. At the worst, I knew that an English honours graduation followed by a German post-graduate course could always earn me a living in a university college at home; and meanwhile the world was giving me a free chance as writer and theatre man. An opportunity arose of going to Zurich for a further stay in Europe, and I accepted it at once.

The change of university solved the scientific problem forthwith, and new surroundings promised greater freedom of every kind. Perhaps the Alps of Switzerland were higher too; it was certain that the Zugspitze was dwindling. This was the summer of ; and had I known it, I was saying farewell to Old Germany and everything it meant.

Leaning from the window as the train started, I exchanged the familiar Du with fellow-students, and then blew a kiss to a Munich girl I had never set eyes on before.

When we were safely moving out, she returned it gaily. An hour or two later we drew up on a pier by Lake Constance, and embarked on a steamboat which lost the German shore to view before sighting the Swiss lowlands with their jagged background. Yes, the Alps were higher; and the next great lake with the city at its outflow looked very much as the posters of Continental travel had always pictured it. Russians, Poles, Netherlanders, Scandinavians, Italians, Frenchmen and even a few English were represented in this cluster, and swarmed on terms of complete understanding with the angular black-coated German-Swiss.

Having common interests in learning or science, sport on the water or the mountains, the pursuit of health or the refuge from persecution, we went about our daily task in that freedom which small European communities in this last century or shall we say until the present one have been able to offer their guests.

The general tolerance was accompanied by a rigid system of police registration, which was accepted as a needful precaution in a country where all were welcome.

The social atmosphere was as congenial as the simplicity and cleanliness—the only dirt in Switzerland is to be found on its glaciers—but living there, I felt from the first the sense of being outside Europe looking in at her life, her [27] mind and heart, her strength and errors and confusions. As one had hitherto looked into a dramatist's mind through the proscenium of a theatre, observing his particular way of bringing order out of chaos, so one now looked out physically at the strange and gigantic spectacle of the Powers.

It was the time of the Edwardian Entente Cordiale linking up with the Franco-Russian alliance, and of the other grouping that professedly joined Germany with Italy through Austria-Hungary as relic of the Holy Roman Empire. But the view one had of it was not political, though all of us knew in those years that Europe might be pregnant with disaster.

The individual civilizations themselves were seen more clearly from this craggy international height. Their colours stood out more vividly, with their vast cultural creations; and the very narrowness of the Swiss horizon, mental as well as material, brought a consciousness of the fateful spaces that lay between the Atlantic seaboard and the steppes.

Twice, in those early autumn months in Switzerland, I had taken my student ticket for a journey to the highest point of the railroad before the entry into the tunnel, and walked over the passes into Italy, turning back each time from the first villages above the Lombard plain, and returning to Zurich.

Walking the passes is an old Alpine diversion, well repaid in the case of the Saint Gothard or Saint Bernard by the sudden change from mists to sunshine, often in the space of a few yards, and the prospect of the great country below. It was made doubly exciting by a scramble up some not too difficult peak at the head of the pass, from which one might see as far as Milan.

After a joyous winding descent [28] into an upper Italian valley with its vineyards ripening to harvest, to turn back from the gate of this promised land was more than tantalizing. Already I carried in my knapsack the books of those who knew it well—the travels of Arthur Young, the letters of Horace Walpole and Stendhal, the memoirs of Casanova.

And if these should appear in every sense a promiscuous bag, they yet reflected the moods of a young Englishman, truant from science, who was learning about Europe and art from men who had taken coach or horse over the same highway. The nearness of Italy, lying there in the sun beyond the snowy ranges seen from the Zurich foothills, made one sure of her in the end; and for the present she could wait as she had waited for centuries.

France, lying westward and unknown but for one week's visit to Paris when I was hardly out of school, seemed actually much closer because my approach to literature had been chiefly through the French. Stendhal De l'Amour, Le Rouge et le Noir, Vie de Henri Brulard was then my ruling passion, since I had discovered one of his books on a stall in Vienna; and if he remains a passion after thirty years, it is because his absorption in life, women, war, theatre and poetry falls into a sequence personal and familiar.

I could imagine him, as he somewhere describes himself, seated in the 's on a bench by an Italian lake looking back on it all: He had been among the most eager of Napoleon's soldiers, following him to the Danube and to Moscow; yet he stood unmoved by the Fall in because it had ceased to mark the overthrow of human aspiration. If he had forgotten the plots of a score of his unwritten comedies, he preserved the spirit of our civilized heritage.

Stendhalism is like Byronism, it has its manifest extravagances. But is there any man of a century ago who stands closer to our own time? Still more oddly, the first part of Goethe's Faust which I knew almost by heart was accompanied as chorus by the verse of Stefan Georg. Then, having begun to realize how far dramatic poetry differs from all other, I was in course of discovering the marvels of the dramatists before and after Shakespeare.

No wonder there was little place in this gallery for Thackeray or Dickens; or that George Meredith, a writer who had been in fashion with every young Englishman of the period, was as good as forgotten. Nothing could witness my abandonment of science better than this miscellaneous yielding to mental avidity, sensibility, defiance, eroticism and literary conceit. The drama of my own private stage ousted all actual theatre interest for a while; and it was certainly more exciting than anything I could hope to see in the town theatre of Zurich, whose notion of modernity was to play some Russian social drama by Tolstoy or Gorky four times a week.

The work of Chekhov was still unknown. I learnt nothing new about the stage or contemporary drama during many months spent in the German-Swiss city; but on the strength of my published articles the university allowed me to give short extension lectures to evening students on English life and letters. The subjects ranged from Elizabethan tragedy to the woman suffrage movement; the language was German but Socratic conversations followed in French and English; and since I learnt as much as my listeners the hours were far from wasted.

They helped me to gather up and formulate the results of much seeing, thinking and reading; and this was useful now that the time drew nearer for a return to England.

By the middle of a second summer I was back in London, wondering why the place had changed so little when I had changed so much, or thought so. Orage's weekly review The New Age, which I had read before and during my time abroad, was still appearing with shrewd notes of [31] the week, articles by Shaw, Belloc and Chesterton, a weekly book article by Arnold Bennett under a pseudonym, and commentaries on the arts. After a short spell in a teaching post I became its dramatic critic, with freedom to train the batteries of Continental criticism on Somerset Maugham, three of whose comedies were running at one time, Galsworthy who had just produced a capital-and-labour play called Strife, and Barrie who had established himself with What Every Woman Knows.

The Vedrenne-Barker management was no more, and no regular forward-looking theatre had yet taken its place. Acting, too, seemed to be undecided. Ellen Terry survived from the former great generation, and even appeared in Shaw's Captain Brassbound's Conversion.

Pat" was to be seen occasionally, and Marie Tempest and Irene Vanbrugh moulded their art sensitively to whatever slight changes English comedy might undergo with the passage of years. But there were no new Irvings or Hares or Wyndhams that the public could discover; and though nearly every actor of the Vedrenne-Barker school made a name for himself, it was generally in character work.

Gordon Craig's productions and especially his writings were much discussed, but Granville Barker remained the only practising director of distinction. It was as though the stage had halted, sensing the approaching rivalry of the screen; and in fact at this time Charles Chaplin was touring England with Fred Karno's Mumming Birds, which I recall seeing on "the halls", as we called the vaudeville houses.

To a young European the round of new plays was dull enough. For a while Rupert Brooke, who wanted to learn [32] about the stage, came with me to the openings; but the only luck we had together was with Don at the Haymarket, written by Rudolf Besier who was later to write The Barretts of Wimpole Street. Brooke then went abroad; and presently Orage, who was always a good editor, suggested that instead of gnashing my teeth weekly over plays that his readers would never go to see, I should write about the Continental stage and its dramatists.

This suited me perfectly, and the series began with the Scandinavians and went on with Germans, Austrians, Frenchmen, Russians, Dutchmen and Italians, with Shaw, Barker and Galsworthy as the three Court Theatre playwrights planted in the midst of them. These essays were later published in England and America under the title Modern Dramatists, which was far too important for their content, but conveyed a journalistic idea well enough.

My twenty-fifth birthday fell during the rehearsals, and the first performance took place under the shadow of public mourning for Edward VII. The plot concerned a land-owning baronet whose son had fallen in love with a daughter of an old international communist living in a colony near the baronet's estate. The drama of social and political oppositions was as simple-minded as this theme would suggest; but at twenty-five it is one thing to be critical and another to be genuinely creative.

Considering [33] how few first plays are ever performed, this one was lucky and perhaps pardonable. Thanks to the acting it had a respectable Press, and one or two repertory theatres revived it in the next two years, after which it died a natural and far from regrettable death. Charles Frohman, the shrewdest of theatre men, had been impressed by the success of Shaw and the other dramatists of the Court Theatre, and decided to give them a real chance under Granville Barker's direction.

The theatre chosen was in good standing with the public, but it had drawbacks for repertory which no one seemed to realize until after the opening. These might have been overcome if only one of the first three or four plays had drawn the town, and carried the rest of the bill by frequent performance. But neither Galsworthy's Justice nor Barker's The Madras House, still less Shaw's Misalliance, could do this; and Barrie's plays, which were more popular, formed a double bill.

The success problem confronted the repertory management as grimly as any other, and after a few weeks Pinero's old play Trelawney of the Wells was brought in to save the situation. By the time the venture closed, it had lost Frohman a small fortune and the newer English dramatists a good deal of credit.

The drama of intellectualism and argument had been routed, and on the whole deservedly. Shaw remained, as he had been in the Court Theatre days, the only one of these writers entitled to demand of the theatre that it should be his own mouthpiece; and this by right of being a wit and a dramatist born.

The rest, with their social indignation or carping, were [34] misusing the stage and frustrating the actor and boring the audience. I remember many things about the yearincluding my own retirement to a cottage to write comedies, a move that coincided with a heat wave, a railroad strike, and an international crisis which threatened to blow up the world just three years too soon.

My cellar-book also links this year with the framework of later life, for it was an excellent year for burgundy. In our theatre the interest of the year began early and well, for on January 30th the Reinhardt Company opened at the London Coliseum. I was there that day, and would not have been absent for the world from such an occasion.

Having seen the first performance in the afternoon I saw the second in the evening, and the third next afternoon, and so on while funds and opportunity lasted. The play, if one could call it such, was an Arabian Nights entertainment founded upon the story of Noureddin and the Fair Persian: There were several acting or miming performances in the first rank: Direction was evident in every movement in every scene; and this was the work of Reinhardt, whose theatrical flair, to put it at the lowest, had contrived to make a masterpiece of its kind out of an old highly-coloured tale and a good company of mimes and some near-Eastern music.

By what strange accident or providence Sumurun reached the stage of a London family vaudeville theatre, nobody could explain. This wordless play had taken full revenge upon the too-wordy dramatists of the Frohman season; but most of all upon their assumption that the stage must be their personal pulpit. This was kolossal where the Coliseum show had been merely superb.

Both productions, very likely, had been conceived with the idea of making as much money as possible out of the English public, so that it could be spent on further Reinhardt ventures in Berlin. In this they succeeded, and for years afterwards the Professor as he had now become had complete freedom to develop the work of his companies.

To The Miracle also he owed the castle of Leopoldskron, near Salzburg, built by a prince-archbishop of the seventeenth century who had banished all actors from the diocese. We shall come later to the Leopoldskron evenings which gave brilliance to the Festival in the 's. An audience of would-be intellectuals tittered at intervals all through the play, and had to be told by some members, including myself, to mend their manners.

Next day our leading critic, William Archer, admitted with his invariable honesty that he had found the dramatist completely incomprehensible.

Shaw, characteristically, [36] entered the discussion by explaining Chekhov in purely scientific and social terms; the man, he said, was merely showing how futile the life of the bourgeoisie could be.

He even threatened to write a Chekhov play himself, and later did so, to his own satisfaction, in Heartbreak House. These perplexities and obscurations were due to the simple fact that The Cherry Orchard was a work of art. It had nothing to do with the drama in which Shaw and Archer had been mainly interested, the social drama of Ibsen and his followers. Chekhov was employing naturalism as an art form in the theatre, just as Flaubert and George Moore in successive generations had employed it in their novels.

In the following year or two The Seagull and Uncle Vanya were seen, and they made clearer the dramatist's individual line and the beauty of composition that he had brought into the lifelike theatre.

Next in came the Imperial Russian Ballet, which had already triumphed in Paris. Its first appearance at Covent Garden on June 21st, the day of the summer solstice, with Nijinsky and Karsavina, was of course the event of the century so far. I shall inevitably have more to say about ballet, without pretending to any knowledge of its technique; but the importance of this coming of the Russians lay in its great widening of the theatre horizon. Here, in complete harmony, were direction, scene and [37] costume, music and the work of stage artists who in years of schooling and longer years of experience had perfected themselves.

Each one of them spent more hours in daily practice than our players of the legitimate stage spent in acting. It was possible to speak of the art of the theatre, not only as a unity which Gordon Craig had sought to make his readers comprehend, but as an accomplished fact. And here, at the end of a memorable year, is the place to pause again and look around.

I have much the same feeling in approaching the yearwhen actually I reached the age of twenty-seven. Up to now I have seen a little of the stage and the world, enough to make a prologue to my own comedy or tragedy or whatever it is destined to be; I can estimate the parts so far played by thought and action in the shaping of a mind.

Now must come the rise of the curtain and the "act of preparation", as the French call it, in which the drama really begins. I have started a career; but do I really want the things that success in a career brings with it, money and reputation, settlement and responsibility, all the many millstones that our century can hang about the neck of artists and writers? This may be begging the question: In this year I see older writers whom I know personally, men like Arnold [39] Bennett, struggling with them all the same.

I think again of the gaunt ill-dressed figure of Synge, standing in on the stage of the Great Queen Street Theatre on the London first night of The Playboy and facing the Irish hooligans with the unseeing eyes of a dreamer. In a life like that, pauses and silences count for most and bring their own reward. They count for most in every act of preparation, when the outward progress of the drama is so slow as to be imperceptible.

One thing I see now which I could never then have foreseen—that is how lucky we were, we men now in the fifties, to have known what the world was like before Seeing what has since befallen and was then in course of preparing, we need not talk of "that civilization" but simply "what the world was like". It had many worthwhile things to offer the grown man or woman; and by grown I mean mature, ready at some age in the twenties to face outward catastrophe if need be.

The unlucky ones are the men now in the thirties and forties, who were born into one cataclysm of our social life and now must face another without real experience of the first. They are the legion of the frustrated, and from no fault of their own. Beside them, though they are half a generation our juniors, we can be young and confident. And here let me be forgiven the egoism of standing, inwaiting to be born. The [40] earliest recollection of Stendhal's infancy was biting his nurse's cheek when she asked him too sentimentally for a kiss.

Mine is that of casting off socialism and the Fabians and the New Age, always with due gratitude for past favours, and beginning a new hedonist life on the editorial staff of Vanity Fair, which Frank Harris had made a man's paper thriving, as always, on its Spy cartoons of notabilities. Also I was writing dramatic criticisms for the Star and short essays called "turnovers" for the Globe.

Two or three unacted plays lying in my own desk did not seem to matter: Hulme, a writer on philosophy and translator of Bergson, came to share it with me. Our link at first was that we had been on the staff of The New Age together; but soon we found much more in common. Hulme made a strong impression on his time, though his writings actually were to be few he was killed in on the Belgian coast, quite near my own Company headquarters.

A book about him by Michael Roberts deals with his attitude to the world. Tall and rather Prussian-looking, with greying fair hair and blue eyes, he would sit for hours unwinding, as it were, general ideas, with expansive gestures which began [41] and ended in the region of his chest.

He seldom went to bed before three or got up before noon; but his reading was done in the morning hours. Once a week these conversations were carried on more fully in a house in Frith Street, where Middleton Murry and C.

Nevinson used to join us. We knew of the work of T. Eliot, though he never came himself to these gatherings. The atmosphere of this group was authoritarian, and no doubt Hulme, had he lived, would have embraced some form of fascism. The significance of all our argument lay in its anticipation, by about ten years, of any political movement embodying its ideas. There was nothing, actually, about which we were united: Hulme himself declared that he was a member of the Church of England and left it at that.

Again I cannot remember any anti-semitic feeling.

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Jacob Epstein, who was in the midst of his "abstract" period as sculptor, does not recall it either. Our general interest in "abstract" art led us especially to a revaluation of the images of poetry and a strong reaction [42] against romantic verse.

This movement would certainly have extended to drama, had any members of the group been able to take the theatre seriously, even the intellectual theatre. But Shaw, I regret to say, was not even discussed as a thinker. As a rationalist, he had shown his opposition to the "heroic values" forming the central nerve of our essential ethic.

I was living among new people in a new eager world, which, however, had few points of contact with the theatre and the writing for and about it which was my living.

The contacts which did exist were personal, and through them I drew closer to friends on the stage, most of them working for serious theatre through repertory or some such endeavour in London or the provinces.

James's, and especially a Midsummer Night's Dream at the Savoy, in which by the aid of an apron stage peopled with "bronze angels" the play was given moments of new and extraordinary loveliness. The leaven of creative direction was already working upon our theatres; and England, which [43] had seemed to me rather dull and reactionary when I came from abroad, was again the home and hearth of everything I cared for.

Visits to Paris in these years made me familiar with the boulevardian theatres, their witty playwrights and smooth players: In the Alps I walked more passes.

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This title sounded familiar, and taking down my Rabelais I found the whole tale in Pantagruel, where it is recorded as the subject of a medieval farce played at Montpellier. Anatole France's only embroidery of the plot was to make the husband a much-bribed judge; and probably he did not think it necessary to give the origin, except implicitly in a dedication to a French society for Rabelaisian research.

The comedy has a perfect peripety or dramatic reversal of action, for the dumb wife whose tongue is loosened by the surgeon talks too much, and since she cannot be made dumb again, the only remedy is to make her husband deaf. In two acts, it is a classical hour's entertainment if the players can keep up the sublime spirit of mock-solemnity.

At the dress rehearsal I found Granville Barker at the back of the circle enjoying the play, and he said at once that he would like to acquire it for Lillah McCarthy. The two performances went well, but the derivation from Rabelais [44] passed unnoticed by all the critics, including the Francophile and learned A.

Walkley of The Times. Had I known it, this was to be my last direct contact with the stage for at least six years: The fact that the comedy was played at the Haymarket completed the chain of association, for there my Man with a Load of Mischief was to be produced eleven years later for its first London run.

Whatever other parts are played in the theatre, luck admittedly plays the lead. It is so important that in Middle Europe the actual wishing of luck is thought unlucky, and an actor or playwright is wished Hals-und-Beinbruch instead. This means "broken neck and legs to you", and it serves just as well. It is contracted to H. And so we came to the summer ofwhich perhaps in recollection seems more charged with fate than it seemed at the time.

I went to the Derby with Hulme, who had never seen a racecourse before and was fascinated by the mathematical adroitness of the bookmakers in adjusting the changing odds.

We stood on the Hill opposite the grandstand, and it gave him equal satisfaction to see the King George this time and not Edward flanked by the entire peerage and many members of the House of Commons, all in the ceremonial attire of Epsom. But he reminded me that the Shah of Persia on a visit to this country a few years earlier had declined to see the Derby, saying "It is already known to me that one horse is swifter than another". The booths on the Downs were pulled up and the roundabouts [45] cleared away, and England was never quite the same again—but then England never is.

Hulme was to be wounded within a year and killed within three: I was to be a soldier nearly five years and go back with an army of occupation to the Germany where he and I had both studied. Our period of training brought us together again, with others including Rupert Brooke who had returned from the expedition to Antwerp.

The theatre had stopped at first and then reopened with spy plays and revues, the usual provender of war. In this first autumn, too, eight of Shakespeare's plays were performed at the Old Vic, where Matheson Lang inaugurated the season. Twenty-five of the plays in the First Folio were to be given in this theatre before the Armistice. Even Reinhardt in Berlin could not do so well as this. This was the first Restoration comedy to be revived for many years, and it led to the performance of plays by Congreve during the war, and afterwards to the formation of the Phoenix as a producing unit.

And now it is time to write a few words about war as an interlude in life and a pause on this journey. It is the simpler to do so because this chapter I am writing has been half a dozen times interrupted by air raid warnings, and one of them is in progress as I write this sentence in a room of my own theatre. As the sentence ends the all-clear is sounded, and the theatre cat comes to rub himself against my legs and tell me of his heroism. These thunderous echoes in [46] recall very clearly the sequence from onwards.

I held every rank, except that of sergeant, from private soldier to major and company commander. From early in until the Armistice, I took part as a combatant in every action of importance on the Western Front from St.

No injury ever took me further back than an advanced dressing station. As an officer I was mounted and grew very fond of my horse, a red roan who behind the lines would go for walks with me like a dog. I still carried Pascal, Stendhal, Casanova and the rest in my valise. At no time had I any impulse to write about the experiences of war, nor do I wish to do so now.

The descriptions I have read in the pages of novels appear to me to have as much value as a clinical account, say, of agonies on a deathbed; and certainly no more. Since Tolstoy's War and Peace there has been nothing essentially to be said on this subject. One illuminating experience of war is long association and comradeship with men one might never otherwise have known. I am critical of heroic values; [47] but in their grim precision these remain and I would not have missed them.

Nor is their memory weakened by any repetition of war's alarms. The loss of friends apart, the one personal event was my marriage in the spring of when it seemed the thing might last for ever I mean of course the war. In mid-November my division began the march to the Rhine, a journey of some miles which I made on foot, my horse being needed for laggards at the rear of the column.

The French villages in the freed zone were garlanded and festooned to greet us: Cows can get upstairs but not down and the engineers had to lift her through the window-opening with a crane. In Belgium we would invite the burgomaster to dine in the mess, toasting the kings Albert and George in whisky: I had a day's pike-fishing in the Meuse. As "Lieutenant Wales"—a name based on his father's title Prince of Wales—he followed his younger brother [39] into the Blues and Royals as a troop commander in an armoured reconnaissance unit, after which he spent four months training for the post at Bovington CampDorset.

Though Major-General Sir Sebastian RobertsGeneral Officer commanding the Household Divisionhad said William's deployment was possible, the Prince's position as second-in-line to the throne and the convention of ministers advising against placing that person into dangerous situations cast doubts on William's chances of seeing combat. These doubts increased after Prince Harry's deployment was cancelled in due to "specific threats". William, instead, went on to train in the Royal Navy and Royal Air Forceobtaining his commission as a sub-lieutenant in the former and flying officer in the latter—both broadly equivalent to the army rank of lieutenant.

After completing his training, William undertook an attachment with the Royal Air Force, undergoing an intensive, four-month training course at RAF Cranwell. William originally joined the military on a short-service commission lasting three years. It was announced in Septemberhowever, that he would be extending his forces career in by accepting another secondment that included working at the Ministry of Defence MOD and non-operational flying with the Army Air Corps.

William—who was excited to take part in an active mission—and the other three crew members, flew from their base at RAF Valley to an offshore gas rig in Morecambe Bayfrom where a man who had suffered a suspected heart attack was airlifted to hospital. Despite his qualifications as a military helicopter pilot, William needed a civil pilot's licence and further training before being permitted to take command of the Air Ambulance. List of official overseas trips made by Prince William, Duke of Cambridge Upon graduation from university, William began to undertake his own public duties and privately obtained work experience by interning in land management at Chatsworth House and in banking at HSBC.

For his 21st birthday, William accompanied his father on a tour of Wales, visiting the Anglesey Food Fair and opening a centre for the homeless in Newport. From 20—21 September, William took his wife's place on a tour of Malta to mark the 50th anniversary of the island's independence from the United Kingdom.

Chinese President Xi Jinping welcomed him as he began the first visit to mainland China by a member of the British royal family in almost three decades. In JanuaryWilliam and his brother volunteered at a British Red Cross aid distribution centre to pack emergency supplies for countries affected by the Boxing Day tsunami.

These causes are close to their hearts and reflect the experiences, passions and values of their lives so far.

The English delegation reported the suggestion to FIFA's ethics investigator because they considered vote-swapping to be a violation of anti-collusion rules. Middleton attended William's passing-out parade at Sandhurst, which was the first high-profile event that she attended as his guest. Their relationship was followed so closely that bookmakers took bets on the possibility of marriage and the retail chain Woolworths produced memorabilia bearing the likenesses of the couple.