1905: At Alban’s House: A Night of Manly Grace
From “A Gentleman’s Gentlemen” By an appreciative guest correspondent
There are evenings which linger in the mind like a half-remembered melody; they enchant, bewilder, and intoxicate long after the lamps have been extinguished. Such an evening was last Saturday’s private performance of Manly Grace at the illustrious Alban’s house in Belgravia—a soirée so radiant in wit, splendour, and exquisitely masculine beauty that I find myself quite unequal to describe it save in raptures.
Alban himself—the author, actor, and bon vivant of our present fascination—commanded the room from the moment he strode upon the stage. What rare gifts Providence has placed in this man! His handsomeness is of that sculptural Greek order one sees in marble galleries or dreams in myth; his manner is both princely and disarmingly boyish. But it is his intelligence—keen as champagne—that dazzles most. Manly Grace, his newest composition, is part pastoral, part reverie, wholly a hymn to friendship and charm among men. That it was written, directed, and embodied by its star author only heightens one’s wonder.
The play itself floats somewhere between waking and dream. Its music—composed, I am told, by the gifted young Mr. d’Estrée—circles the action like the flutter of swan-wings. And what swans! Alban’s fellow performers, an ensemble of fit and fair youths, shimmered forth as swan-maidens (or perhaps swan-gentlemen), their pale robes caught by silvery moonlight. The effect was enchanting—those masculine shoulders sheathed in gossamer, those strong arms moving with balletic delicacy. It was a vision of harmony that dared to blur the limbs of strength and grace, and in doing so revealed something profoundly beautiful about both.
When Alban delivered his concluding monologue—half laughter, half prayer—the audience, comprised of perhaps thirty of London’s most cultivated men, sat in perfect stillness. I have seldom witnessed silence so eloquent. One felt that to breathe would disturb the poetry of that fragile moment. Then came applause, thunderous, unabashed, and with it, the spell gently broke, leaving each of us warmed by what we had seen and secretly longing to see more.
From theatre to festivity—no transition was ever more splendidly contrived. Across St. James Street rose Anatis House, where the post-performance fête unfolded in such riotous magnificence as to shame the fabled gatherings of the Ancien Régime. The drawing rooms were draped in gold gauze and peacock feathers; mirrors multiplied the glow of candlelight until all shimmered like a celestial ballroom. The guest list glittered no less: Lord Darnleigh, with his infamous laugh; Lionel Harcourt, the poet of ambivalent muses; young Mr. Percy Vandelion in sapphire velvet; Sir Montague Withers, our most paradoxical moralist; and a host of charming scapegraces whose names discretion prevents me from printing.
Yet even amid such grand company, Alban stood apart—no longer merely performer, but sovereign of the revel. Through the course of the night he appeared in half a dozen costumes: now a sea-captain, then a Spanish matador, then some mythic shepherd in silver sandals. Each metamorphosis left his admirers gasping anew. To observe him in conversation—his laughter like sunlight on cut crystal, his glances too quick and tender to bear scrutiny—was to understand the perilous magnetism of genius unguarded.
The champagne never ceased to flow, nor did the witty riposte. One felt caught in an electric storm of brightness—too much brilliance, too much beauty, too much joy. I, a humble devotee of grace and gallantry, confess myself quite overpowered. That such men live, and dare, and perform such exquisite follies for the delight of their friends gives one hope that England’s art yet lives in its most daring hearts.
As dawn slipped shyly into the vast windows and the music dwindled to a drowse, I glimpsed Alban once more—unmasked now, softly laughing with two companions beside the garden terrace. The first light touched his features with that same poetic gentleness he had brought to his stage. Perhaps he saw me watching; perhaps he smiled. I cannot say. But I like to fancy that, when next he retires from the public gaze, a quiet conversation might yet be possible—an exchange of thoughts on art, courage, and that delicate virtue he calls, so perfectly, manly grace.
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