A London Tribute

BY LAURENCE SENELICK, PROFESSOR, SCHOLAR, DIRECTOR. DEPARTMENT OF DRAMA AND DANCE, TUFTS UNIVERSITY
Although I first met Tony and Linda in Cambridge in late 1960s, when we were introduced by our mutual friend, the English designer Franco Colavecchia who was then teaching at Harvard. However, my fondest memories of him come from the mid-1970s, when he was the director of Tufts-in-London and I was the Drama Dept's "man in London" for a year. T-i-L brought out the best in Tony. Dapper, courtly, congenial, he knew everyone from theatrical knights to avant-garde poets to trendy chefs, and was the ultimate resource on any question from voice production for the stage to treks in the Lake District. His knowledge of London was, like Sam Weller's in The Pickwick Papers, "extensive and peculiar." Like a consummate matchmaker, he loved to bring talented people together, affording students and faculty alike an unequalled chance to become part of the cultural life of Britain. Anyone who came in contact with Tony went away enriched.

Our close friendship continued over the years, when he was in the States or I was in England, but was cemented more firmly when he arrived in Medford as Artist in Residence. He became a regular at my Thanksgiving banquets, where he kept the table on a roar with anecdotes: whatever the topic of conversation, Tony had an apposite and witty remark to make. Our frequent meals and theatre get-togethers were always a highlight of my week.

Now for an uncanny coincidence (if one believes in coincidences). Three weeks ago I was in London, and immediately phoned Linda to set a date for tea; of course, I inquired after Tony, to hear that he was much as before. Two days later, I left my hotel, to find that the underground was shut, allegedly because of a "power surge" on the line. No taxis were to had and buses seemed few, so I began to walk the sun-baked two miles to my appointment near Charing Cross Road. For some reason, I turned down a sidestreet I had never been on before, and had proceeded no more than two blocks, when I heard my name called. I looked round and it was Simon Cornish! How nice to see a familiar face on such a troublesome day. "I was speaking with your mother the other day. How's your father?" "Haven't you heard? He died on Tuesday." I was, as the Brits say, gobsmacked. Then Simon pulled me into the pub, and while he related the details, we watched intermittently on a color TV the news of the underground bombings.

The news of Tony's demise coming upon tidings of terrorism stirred in me the banal thought that an "era had ended." The London he had known so well was vanishing.

But then I recalled, back in the mid-70s, the IRA was bombing bloody murder all over London, sandbags were shored up against the Westminster fish restaurant Prunier's, and our bags were regularly inspected in theatre lobbies. That had never dampened his spirits or curtailed his indomitable excursions, whether to Petticoat Lane or a panto in Richmond, all by tube. It also occurred to me that my final question about him would have raised a laugh, since "a bit of how's your father?" is an old Cockney euphemism for "piece of ass." It heartens me to think that Tony's cocky, bawdy, observant ghost may now be hovering as a protective spirit over the city he loved so much.