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Arindama Singh

Introduction to
Matrix Theory
Introduction to Matrix Theory
Arindama Singh

Introduction to Matrix
Theory
Arindama Singh
Department of Mathematics
Indian Institute of Technology Madras
Chennai, India

ISBN 978-3-030-80480-0 ISBN 978-3-030-80481-7 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-80481-7

Jointly published with Ane Books Pvt. Ltd.

In addition to this printed edition, there is a local printed edition of this work available via Ane Books in
South Asia (India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Nepal and Bhutan) and Africa (all countries in the
African subcontinent).
ISBN of the Co-Publisher’s edition: 978-93-86761-20-0

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature
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Preface

Practising scientists and engineers feel that calculus and matrix theory form the
minimum mathematical requirement for their future work. Though it is recommended
to spread matrix theory or linear algebra over two semesters in an early stage, the
typical engineering curriculum allocates only one semester for it. In addition, I found
that science and engineering students are at a loss in appreciating the abstract methods
of linear algebra in the first year of their undergraduate programme. This resulted
in a curriculum that includes a thorough study of system of linear equations via
Gaussian and/or Gauss–Jordan elimination comprising roughly one month in the
first or second semester. It needs a follow-up of one-semester work in matrix theory
ending in canonical forms, factorizations of matrices, and matrix norms.
Initially, we followed the books such as Leon [10], Lewis [11], and Strang [14]
as possible texts, referring occasionally to papers and other books. None of these
could be used as a textbook on its own for our purpose. The requirement was a
single text containing development of notions, one leading to the next, and without
any distraction towards applications. It resulted in creation of our own material. The
students wished to see the material in a book form so that they might keep it on their
lap instead of reading it off the laptop screens. Of course, I had to put some extra
effort in bringing it to this form; the effort is not much compared to the enjoyment
in learning.
The approach is straightforward. Starting from the simple but intricate problems
that a system of linear equations presents, it introduces matrices and operations
on them. The elementary row operations comprise the basic tools in working with
most of the concepts. Though the vector space terminology is not required to study
matrices, an exposure to the notions is certainly helpful for an engineer’s future
research. Keeping this in view, the vector space terminology is introduced in a
restricted environment of subspaces of finite-dimensional real or complex spaces.
It is felt that this direct approach will meet the needs of scientists and engineers.
Also, it will form a basis for abstract function spaces, which one may study or use
later.
Starting from simple operations on matrices, this elementary treatment of matrix
theory characterizes equivalence and similarity of matrices. The other tool of Gram–
Schmidt orthogonalization has been discussed leading to best approximations and
v
vi Preface

least squares solution of linear systems. On the go, we discuss matrix factorizations
such as rank factorization, QR-factorization, Schur triangularization, diagonaliza-
tion, Jordan form, singular value decomposition, and polar decomposition. It includes
norms on matrices as a means to deal with iterative solutions of linear systems and
exponential of a matrix. Keeping the modest goal of an introductory textbook on
matrix theory, which may be covered in a semester, these topics are dealt with in a
lively manner.
Though the earlier drafts were intended for use by science and engineering
students, many mathematics students used those as supplementary text for learning
linear algebra. This book will certainly fulfil that need.
Each section of the book has exercises to reinforce the concepts; problems have
been added at the end of each chapter for the curious student. Most of these problems
are theoretical in nature, and they do not fit into the running text linearly. Exercises
and problems form an integral part of the book. Working them out may require some
help from the teacher. It is hoped that the teachers and the students of matrix theory
will enjoy the text the same way I and my students did.
Most engineering colleges in India allocate only one semester for linear algebra
or matrix theory. In such a case, the first two chapters of the book can be covered
in a rapid pace with proper attention to elementary row operations. If time does not
permit, the last chapter on matrix norms may be omitted or covered in numerical
analysis under the veil of iterative solutions of linear systems.
I acknowledge the pains taken by my students in pointing out typographical errors.
Their difficulties in grasping the notions have contributed a lot towards the contents
and this particular sequencing of topics. I cheerfully thank my colleagues A. V.
Jayanthan and R. Balaji for using the earlier drafts for teaching linear algebra to
undergraduate engineering and science students at IIT Madras. They pointed out
many improvements, which I cannot pinpoint now. Though the idea of completing
this work originated five years back, time did not permit it. IIT Madras granted me
sabbatical to write the second edition of may earlier book on Logics for Computer
Science. After sending a draft of that to the publisher, I could devote the stop-gap for
completing this work. I hereby record my thanks to the administrative authorities of
IIT Madras.
It will be foolish on my part to claim perfection. If you are using the book, then
you should be able to point out improvements. I welcome you to write to me at
[email protected].

Chennai, India Arindama Singh

Contents

1 Matrix Operations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
1.1 Examples of Linear Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
1.2 Basic Matrix Operations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
1.3 Transpose and Adjoint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
1.4 Elementary Row Operations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
1.5 Row Reduced Echelon Form . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
1.6 Determinant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
1.7 Computing Inverse of a Matrix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
1.8 Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
2 Systems of Linear Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
2.1 Linear Independence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
2.2 Determining Linear Independence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
2.3 Rank of a Matrix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
2.4 Solvability of Linear Equations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
2.5 Gauss–Jordan Elimination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
2.6 Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
3 Matrix as a Linear Map . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
3.1 Subspace and Span . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
3.2 Basis and Dimension . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
3.3 Linear Transformations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
3.4 Coordinate Vectors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
3.5 Coordinate Matrices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
3.6 Change of Basis Matrix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
3.7 Equivalence and Similarity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
3.8 Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
4 Orthogonality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
4.1 Inner Products . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
4.2 Gram–Schmidt Orthogonalization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
4.3 QR-Factorization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
4.4 Orthogonal Projection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

vii
viii Contents

4.5 Best Approximation and Least Squares Solution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94

4.6 Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
5 Eigenvalues and Eigenvectors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
5.1 Invariant Line . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
5.2 The Characteristic Polynomial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
5.3 The Spectrum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
5.4 Special Types of Matrices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
5.5 Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
6 Canonical Forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
6.1 Schur Triangularization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
6.2 Annihilating Polynomials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
6.3 Diagonalizability . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
6.4 Jordan Form . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
6.5 Singular Value Decomposition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
6.6 Polar Decomposition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
6.7 Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
7 Norms of Matrices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
7.1 Norms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
7.2 Matrix Norms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
7.3 Contraction Mapping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166
7.4 Iterative Solution of Linear Systems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
7.5 Condition Number . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
7.6 Matrix Exponential . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179
7.7 Estimating Eigenvalues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184
7.8 Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186

References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191
About the Author

Dr. Arindama Singh is a professor in the Department of Mathematics, Indian Insti-

tute of Technology (IIT) Madras, India. He received his Ph.D. degree from the
IIT Kanpur, India, in 1990. His research interests include knowledge compilation,
singular perturbation, mathematical learning theory, image processing, and numer-
ical linear algebra. He has published six books, over 60 papers in journals and confer-
ences of international repute. He has guided five Ph.D. students and is a life member of
many academic bodies, including the Indian Society for Industrial and Applied Math-
ematics, Indian Society of Technical Education, Ramanujan Mathematical Society,
Indian Mathematical Society, and The Association of Mathematics Teachers of India.

ix
Chapter 1
Matrix Operations

1.1 Examples of Linear Equations

Linear equations are everywhere, starting from mental arithmetic problems to

advanced defence applications. We start with an example. Consider the system of
linear equations

x1 + x2 = 3
x1 − x2 = 1

Subtracting the first from the second, we get −2x2 = −2. It implies x2 = 1. That
is, the original system is replaced with the following:

x1 + x2 = 3
x2 = 1

Substituting x2 = 1 in the first equation of the new system, we get x1 = 2. We

verify that x1 = 2, x2 = 1 satisfy the equations. Hence, the system of equations has
this unique solution.
To see it geometrically, let x1 represent points on x-axis, and let x2 represent
points on the y-axis. Then, the first equation represents a straight line that passes
through the point (3, 0) and has slope −1. Similarly, the second equation represents
a straight line passing through the point (1, 0) and having slope 1. They intersect at
the point (2, 1).
What about the following linear system?

x1 + x2 = 3
x1 − x2 = 1
2x1 − x2 = 3

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 1

A. Singh, Introduction to Matrix Theory,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-80481-7_1
2 1 Matrix Operations

The first two equations have a unique solution, and that satisfies the third. Hence,
this system also has a unique solution x1 = 2, x2 = 1. Geometrically, the third equa-
tion represents the straight line that passes through (0, −3) and has slope 2. The
intersection of all the three lines is the same point (2, 1). So, the extra equation does
not put any constraint on the solutions that we obtained earlier.
But what about our systematic solution method? We aim at eliminating the first
unknown from all but the first equation. We replace the second equation with the one
obtained by second minus the first. We also replace the third by third minus twice
the first. It results in

x1 + x2 = 3
−x2 = −1
−3x2 = 3

Notice that the second and the third equations coincide, hence the conclusion. We
give another twist. Consider the system

x1 + x2 = 3
x1 − x2 = 1
2x1 + x2 = 3

The first two equations again have the solution x1 = 2, x2 = 1. But this time, the
third is not satisfied by these values of the unknowns. So, the system has no solution.
Geometrically, the first two lines have a point of intersection (2, 1); the second
and the third have the intersection point as (4/3, 1/3); and the third and the first have
the intersection point as (0, 3). They form a triangle. There is no point common to
all the three lines. Also, by using our elimination method, we obtain the equations
as:

x1 + x2 = 3
−x2 = −1
−x2 = −3

The last two equations are not consistent. So, the original system has no solution.
Finally, instead of adding another equation, we drop one. Consider the linear
equation
x1 + x2 = 3

The old solution x1 = 2, x2 = 1 is still a solution of this system. But there are other
solutions. For instance, x1 = 1, x2 = 2 is a solution. Moreover, since x1 = 3 − x2 ,
by assigning x2 any real number, we get a corresponding value for x1 , which together
give a solution. Thus, it has infinitely many solutions.
1.1 Examples of Linear Equations 3

Geometrically, any point on the straight line represented by the equation is a solu-
tion of the system. Notice that the same conclusion holds if we have more equations,
which are multiples of the only given equation. For example,

x1 + x2 = 3
2x1 + 2x2 = 6
3x1 + 3x2 = 9

We see that the number of equations really does not matter, but the number of
independent equations does matter. Of course, the notion of independent equations
is not yet precise; we have some working ideas only.
It is not also very clear when does a system of equations have a solution, a unique
solution, infinitely many solutions, or even no solutions. And why not a system
of equations has more than one but finitely many solutions? How do we use our
elimination method for obtaining infinite number of solutions?
To answer these questions, we will introduce matrices. Matrices will help us in
representing the problem in a compact way and will lead to a definitive answer.
We will also study the eigenvalue problem for matrices which come up often in
applications. These concerns will allow us to represent matrices in elegant forms.
Exercises for Sect. 1.1
1. For each of the following system of linear equations, find the number of solutions
geometrically:
(a) x1 + 2x2 = 4, −2x1 − 4x2 = 4
(b) −x1 + 2x2 = 3, 2x1 − 4x2 = −6
(c) x1 + 2x2 = 1, x1 − 2x2 = 1, −x1 + 6x2 = 3
2. Show that the system of linear equations a1 x1 + x2 = b1 , a2 x1 + x2 = b2 has a
unique solution if a1 = a2 . Is the converse true?

1.2 Basic Matrix Operations

In the last section, we have solved a linear system by transforming it to equivalent

systems. Our method of solution may be seen schematically as follows:

x1 + x2 = 3 x1 + x2 = 3 x1 = 2
x1 − x2 = 1 ⇒ x2 = 1 ⇒ x2 = 1
We can minimize writing by ignoring the unknowns and transform only the num-
bers in the following way:
4 1 Matrix Operations

1 1 3 1 1 3 1 0 2
1 −1 1 ⇒ 0 1 1 ⇒ 0 1 1
To be able to operate with such array of numbers and talk about them, we require
some terminology. First, some notation:

Notation 1.1 N denotes the set of all natural numbers 1, 2, 3, . . .

R denotes the set of all real numbers.
C denotes the set of all complex numbers.

We will write F for either R or C. The numbers in F will also be referred to as

scalars. A rectangular array of scalars is called a matrix. We write a matrix with a
pair of surrounding square brackets as in the following.
⎡ ⎤
a11 · · · a1n
⎢ .. .. ⎥
⎣ . . ⎦
am1 · · · amn

Here, ai j are scalars.

We give names to matrices. If A is (equal to) the above matrix, then we say that
A has m number of rows and n number of columns; and we say that A is an m × n
matrix. The scalar that is common to the ith row and jth column of A is ai j . With
respect to the matrix A, we say that ai j is its (i, j)th entry. The entries of a matrix
are scalars. We also write the above matrix as

A = [ai j ], ai j ∈ F for i = 1, . . . , m, j = 1, . . . , n.

Thus, the scalar ai j is the (i, j)th entry of the matrix [ai j ]. Here, i is called the row
index and j is called the column index of the entry ai j .
The set of all m × n matrices with entries from F will be denoted by Fm×n .
A row vector of size n is a matrix in F1×n . Similarly, a column vector of size
n is a matrix in Fn×1 . The vectors in F1×n (row vectors) will be written as (with or
without commas)
[a1 , . . . , an ] or as [a1 · · · an ]

for scalars a1 , . . . , an . The vectors in Fn×1 are written as

⎡ ⎤
b1
⎢ .. ⎥
⎣ . ⎦ or as [b1 , . . . , bn ] or as [b1 · · · bn ]
t t

bn

for scalars b1 , . . . , bn . The second way of writing is the transpose notation; it saves
vertical space. Also, if a column vector v is equal to u t for a row vector u, then we
1.2 Basic Matrix Operations 5

write the row vector u as vt . Thus, we accept (u t )t = u and (vt )t = v as a way of

writing.
We will write both F1×n and Fn×1 as Fn . Especially when a result is applicable
to both row vectors and column vectors, this notation will become handy. Also, we
may write a typical vector in Fn as

(a1 , . . . , an ).

When Fn is F1×n , you should read (a1 , . . . , an ) as [a1 , . . . , an ], a row vector, and
when Fn is Fn×1 , you should read (a1 , . . . , an ) as [a1 , . . . , an ]t , a column vector.
The ith row of a matrix A = [ai j ] ∈ Fm×n is the row vector

[ai1 , . . . ain ].

We also say that the row index of this row is i. Similarly, the jth column of A is
the column vector
[a1 j , . . . am j ]t .

And, its column index is j.

Any matrix in Fm×n is said to have its size as m × n. If m = n, the rectangular
array becomes a square array with n rows and n columns; and the matrix is called a
square matrix of order n.
Two matrices of the same size are considered equal when their corresponding
entries coincide; i.e. if A = [ai j ] and B = [bi j ] are in Fm×n , then

A = B iff ai j = bi j for 1 ≤ i ≤ m, 1 ≤ j ≤ n.

Matrices of different sizes are unequal.

The zero matrix is a matrix, each entry of which is 0. We write 0 for all zero
matrices of all sizes. The size is to be understood from the context.
Let A = [ai j ] ∈ Fn×n be a square matrix of order n. The entries aii are called the
diagonal entries of A. The diagonal of A consists of all diagonal entries; the first
entry on the diagonal is a11 , and the last diagonal entry is ann . The entries of A,
which are not on the diagonal, are called the off-diagonal entries of A; they are ai j
for i = j. In the following matrix, the diagonal is shown in bold:
⎡ ⎤
1 2 3
⎣2 3 4⎦ .
3 4 0

Here, 1 is the first diagonal entry, 3 is the second diagonal entry, and 5 is the third
and the last diagonal entry.
The super-diagonal of a matrix consists of entries above the diagonal. That is, the
entries ai,i+1 comprise the super-diagonal of an n × n matrix A = [ai j ]. Of course,
i varies from 1 to n − 1 here. In the following matrix, the super-diagonal is shown
6 1 Matrix Operations

in bold: ⎡ ⎤
1 2 3
⎣2 3 4⎦ .
3 4 0

If all off-diagonal entries of A are 0, then A is said to be a diagonal matrix. Only

a square matrix can be a diagonal matrix. There is a way to generalize this notion
to any matrix, but we do not require it. Notice that all diagonal entries in a diagonal
matrix need not be nonzero. For example, the zero matrix of order n is a diagonal
matrix. We also write a diagonal matrix with diagonal entries d1 , . . . , dn as

diag(d1 , . . . , dn ).

The following is a diagonal matrix. We follow the convention of not showing the
non-diagonal entries in a diagonal matrix, which are 0.
⎡ ⎤ ⎤ ⎡
1 1 0 0
diag(1, 3, 0) = ⎣ 3 ⎦ = ⎣0 3 0⎦ .
0 0 0 0

The identity matrix is a diagonal matrix with each diagonal entry as 1. We write
an identity matrix of order m as Im . Sometimes, we omit the subscript m if it is
understood from the context.

I = Im = diag(1, . . . , 1).

We write ei for a column vector whose ith component is 1 and all other compo-
nents 0. The jth component of ei is δi j . Here,

1 if i = j
δi j =
0 if i = j

is Kronecker’s delta. The size of a column vector ei is to be understood from the

context. Notice that the identity matrix I = [δi j ].
There are then n distinct column vectors e1 , . . . , en in Fn×1 . These are referred to
as the standard basis vectors for reasons you will see later. We also say that ei is
the ith standard basis vector. These are the columns of the identity matrix of order
n, in that order; that is, ei is the ith column of I. Then, eit is the ith row of I. Thus,
⎡ t⎤
e1
⎢ .. ⎥
I = [δi j ] = diag(1, . . . , 1) = [e1 · · · en ] = ⎣ . ⎦ .
ent
1.2 Basic Matrix Operations 7

A scalar matrix is a diagonal matrix with equal diagonal entries. For instance,
the following is a scalar matrix: ⎡ ⎤
3
⎢ 3 ⎥
⎢ ⎥.
⎣ 3 ⎦
3

It is also written as diag(3, 3, 3, 3).

A matrix A ∈ Fm×n is said to be upper triangular iff all entries below the diagonal
are zero. That is, A = [ai j ] is upper triangular when ai j = 0 for i > j. In writing
such a matrix, we simply do not show the zero entries below the diagonal.
Similarly, a matrix is called lower triangular iff all its entries above the diagonal
are zero.
Both upper triangular and lower triangular matrices are referred to as triangular
matrices. In the following, L is a lower triangular matrix, and U is an upper triangular
matrix, each of order 3 :
⎡ ⎤ ⎡ ⎤
1 123
L = ⎣2 3 ⎦ , U = ⎣ 3 4⎦ .
345 5

A diagonal matrix is both upper triangular and lower triangular.

Sum of two matrices of the same size is a matrix whose entries are obtained by
adding the corresponding entries in the given two matrices. If A = [ai j ] ∈ Fm×n and
B = [bi j ] ∈ Fm×n , then A + B = [ci j ] ∈ Fm×n with

ci j = ai j + bi j for 1 ≤ i ≤ m, 1 ≤ j ≤ n.

We write the same thing as [ai j ] + [bi j ] = [ai j + bi j ]. For example,

123 312 435

+ = .
231 213 444

Thus, we informally say that matrices are added entry-wise. Matrices of different
sizes can never be added. It is easy to see that

A + B = B + A, A+0=0+ A = A

for all matrices A, B ∈ Fm×n , with an implicit understanding that 0 ∈ Fm×n .

Similarly, matrices can be multiplied by a scalar entry-wise. If α ∈ F and
A = [ai j ] ∈ Fm×n , then
α A = [αai j ] ∈ Fm×n .

Therefore, a scalar matrix with α on the diagonal is written as α I.

8 1 Matrix Operations

For A = [ai j ], the matrix −A ∈ Fm×n is taken as one whose (i, j)th entry is −ai j .
Thus,
−A = (−1)A, (−A) + A = A + (−A) = 0.

We also abbreviate A + (−B) to A − B, as usual. For example,

123 312 057

3 − = .
231 213 480

Addition and scalar multiplication of matrices satisfy the following properties:

Let A, B, C ∈ Fm×n , and let α, β ∈ F. Then,
1. A + B = B + A.
2. (A + B) + C = A + (B + C).
3. A + 0 = 0 + A = A.
4. A + (−A) = (−A) + A = 0.
5. α(β A) = (αβ)A.
6. α(A + B) = α A + α B.
7. (α + β)A = α A + β A.
8. 1 A = A.
9. (−1) A = −A.
Notice that whatever we discuss here for matrices apply to row vectors and column
vectors, in particular. But remember that a row vector cannot be added to a column
vector unless both are of size 1 × 1.
We also define multiplication or product of matrices. Let A = [aik ] ∈ Fm×n , and
let B = [bk j ] ∈ Fn×r . Then, their product AB is a matrix [ci j ] ∈ Fm×r , where the
(i, j)th entry is given by
n
ci j = ai1 b1 j + · · · + ain bn j = aik bk j .
k=1

Mark the sizes of A and B. The matrix product AB is defined only when the number
of columns in A is equal to the number of rows in B. The result AB has number of
rows as that of A and the number of columns as that of B.
A particular case might be helpful. Suppose u is a row vector in F1×n and v is a
column vector in Fn×1 . Then, their product uv ∈ F1×1 . It is a 1 × 1 matrix. Often,
we identify such matrices with scalars. The product now looks like:
⎡ ⎤
b1
⎢ .. ⎥
a1 · · · an ⎣ . ⎦ = [a1 b1 + · · · + an bn ].
bn

This is helpful in visualizing the general case, which looks like

1.2 Basic Matrix Operations 9
⎡ ⎤
⎡ ⎤ b11 b1j b1r ⎡ ⎤
a11 a1k a1n ⎢ .. ⎥ c11 c1 j c1r
⎢ ⎥ ⎢ . ⎥ ⎢ ⎥
⎢ ⎥ ⎢ ⎥ ⎢ ⎥
⎢ ai1 · · · aik · · · ain ⎥ ⎢b1 bj br ⎥ = ⎢ ci1 cij cir ⎥ .
⎢ ⎥ ⎢ ⎥ ⎢ ⎥
⎣ ⎦ ⎢ .. ⎥ ⎣ ⎦
⎣ . ⎦
am1 amk amn cm1 cm j cmr
bn1 bnj bnr

The ith row of A multiplied with the jth column of B gives the (i, j)th entry in AB.
Thus to get AB, you have to multiply all m rows of A with all r columns of B, taking
one from each in turn. For example,
⎡ ⎤⎡ ⎤ ⎡ ⎤
3 5 −1 2 −2 3 1 22 −2 43 42
⎣ 4 0 2⎦ ⎣5 0 7 8⎦ = ⎣ 26 −16 14 6 ⎦ .
−6 −3 2 9 −4 1 1 −9 4 −37 −28

If u ∈ F1×n and v ∈ Fn×1 , then uv ∈ F1×1 ; but vu ∈ Fn×n . For instance,

⎡ ⎤ ⎡ ⎤ ⎡ ⎤
1 1 3 6 1
3 6 1 ⎣2⎦ = 19 , ⎣2⎦ 3 6 1 = ⎣ 6 12 2⎦ .
4 4 12 24 4

It shows clearly that matrix multiplication is not commutative. Commutativity

can break down due to various reasons. First of all when AB is defined, B A may not
be defined. Secondly, even when both AB and B A are defined, they may not be of
the same size; thirdly, even when they are of the same size, they need not be equal.
For example,

1 2 0 1 4 7 0 1 1 2 2 3
= but = .
2 3 2 3 6 11 2 3 2 3 8 13

It does not mean that AB is never equal to B A. If A, B ∈ Fm×m and A is a scalar

matrix, then AB = B A. Conversely, if A ∈ Fm×m is such that AB = B A for all
B ∈ Fm×m , then A must be a scalar matrix. This fact is not obvious, and its proof is
involved. Moreover, there can be some particular non-scalar matrices A and B both
in Fn×n such that AB = B A.
Observe that if A ∈ Fm×n , then AIn = A and Im A = A. Look at the columns of
In in this product. They say that

Ae j = the jth column of A for j = 1, . . . , n.

Here, e j is the standard jth basis vector, the jth column of the identity matrix of
order n; its jth component is 1, and all other components are 0. The above identity
can also be seen by directly multiplying A with e j , as in the following:
10 1 Matrix Operations
⎡ ⎤⎡ ⎤ ⎡ ⎤
a11 · · · a1 j · · · a1n 0 a1 j
⎢ .. ⎥ ⎢ .. ⎥ ⎢ .. ⎥
⎢ . ⎥ ⎢.⎥ ⎢ . ⎥
⎢ ⎥⎢ ⎥ ⎢ ⎥
Ae j = ⎢ a
⎢ i1 · · · a ij · · · a ⎥⎢ ⎥ ⎢ ⎥
in ⎥ ⎢1⎥ = ⎢ ai j ⎥ = jth column of A.
⎢ .. ⎥ ⎢.⎥ ⎢ . ⎥
⎣ . ⎦ ⎣ .. ⎦ ⎣ .. ⎦
am1 · · · am j · · · amn 0 am j

Thus, A can be written in block form as

A = Ae1 · · · Ae j ··· Aen .

Unlike numbers, product of two nonzero matrices can be a zero matrix. For
instance,
1 0 0 0 0 0
= .
0 0 0 1 0 0

Let A ∈ Fm×n . We write its ith row as Ai and its kth column as Ak .
We can now write A as a row of columns and also as a column of rows in the
following manner:
⎡ ⎤
A1
⎢ ⎥
A = [aik ] = A1 · · · An = ⎣ ... ⎦ .
Am

Write B ∈ Fn×r similarly as

⎡ ⎤
B1
⎢ ⎥
B = [bk j ] = B1 · · · Br = ⎣ ... ⎦ .
Bn

Then, their product AB can now be written in block form as (ignoring extra brackets):
⎡ ⎤
A1 B
⎢ ⎥
AB = AB1 · · · ABr = ⎣ ... ⎦ .
Am B

It is easy to verify the following properties of matrix multiplication:

1. If A ∈ Fm×n , B ∈ Fn×r and C ∈ Fr × p , then (AB)C = A(BC).
2. If A, B ∈ Fm×n and C ∈ Fn×r , then (A + B)C = AB + AC.
3. If A ∈ Fm×n and B, C ∈ Fn×r , then A(B + C) = AB + AC.
4. If α ∈ F, A ∈ Fm×n and B ∈ Fn×r , then α(AB) = (α A)B = A(α B).
Powers of square matrices can be defined inductively by taking
1.2 Basic Matrix Operations 11

A0 = I and An = A An−1 for n ∈ N.

⎡ ⎤ ⎡ ⎤
1 1 0 1 n n(n − 1)
Example 1.1 Let A= ⎣0 1 2⎦ . We show that An = ⎣0 1 2n ⎦ for n∈N.
0 0 1 0 0 1
We use induction on n. The basis case n = 1 is obvious. Suppose An is as given.
Now,
⎡ ⎤⎡ ⎤ ⎡ ⎤
1 1 0 1 n n(n − 1) 1 n + 1 (n + 1)n
An+1 = A An = ⎣0 1 2⎦ ⎣0 1 2n ⎦ = ⎣0 1 2(n + 1)⎦ .
0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 1

By convention, A0 = I. Incidentally, taking n = 0 in An , we have A0 = I.

A square matrix A of order m is called invertible iff there exists a matrix B of

order m such that
AB = I = B A.

If B and C are matrices that satisfy the above equations, then

C = C I = C(AB) = (C A)B = I B = B.

Therefore, there exists a unique matrix B corresponding to any given invertible

matrix A such that AB = I = B A. We write such a matrix B as A−1 and call it the
inverse of the matrix A. That is, A−1 is that matrix which satisfies

A A−1 = I = A−1 A.

We talk of invertibility of square matrices only; all square matrices are not invert-
ible. For example, I is invertible but 0 is not. If AB = 0 for nonzero square matrices
A and B, then neither A nor B is invertible. Why?
If both A, B ∈ Fn×n are invertible, then (AB)−1 = B −1 A−1 . Reason:

B −1 A−1 AB = B −1 I B = I = AI A−1 = AB B −1 A−1 .

Invertible matrices play a crucial role in solving linear systems uniquely. We will
come back to the issue later.
Exercises for Sect. 1.2
1. Compute AB, C A, DC, DC AB, A2 , D⎡2 and A3⎤
B 2 , where⎡ ⎤
−1 2 3 2 1
2 3 4 −1
A= , B= , C = ⎣ 2 −1⎦ , D = ⎣4 −6 0 ⎦.
1 2 4 0
1 3 1 −2 − 2
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long before any of us were thought of. Ah, there was a man; an
Englishman without guile, and of a type well nigh extinct!
Lord Palmerston never attained pre-eminence on the Turf, and when
Mainstone—as was suspected—was tampered with before the big
race, and when, on a later occasion, Baldwin broke down in his
training, he decided to abandon the sport; what more noble than the
letter he wrote to Lord Naas giving him his favourite to place at the
stud? No auctioneering, no huckstering—but a free gift such as only
a great Englishman would have conceived.
And who that frequented the Curragh meetings in the long-ago
sixties has not admired the noble form of this same Lord Naas
(assassinated in ’72 in the Andaman Islands), accompanied by those
stalwart Irishmen, the late Marquises of Conyngham and Drogheda?
England must indeed “wake up”—to quote a phrase as old as the
hills—if such records are to be maintained, and seek—perhaps in
vain—for other giants such as these mighty dead, if we are to be
what we were in sport and politics amongst the nations of the earth.
For like the ripples on a placid lake before some great convulsion of
nature, a Cromwell is succeeded by a Charles, and the Palmerstons
make way for less sturdy clay, and then the great upheaval comes,
which ends in chaos, or the prosperity that is associated with “a
great calm.”
Whether these momentous events will occur, simultaneously with the
establishment of a Duma, and a great penny daily in Jerusalem, and
the abandonment of historical English and Scottish seats for castles
on the Rhine, it would require a modern Jeremiah to foretell, but the
pendulum is oscillating ominously, with a throb that is not to be
mistaken.
Lord Falmouth, whom no earwig ever ventured to associate with a
fishy act, holds the proud distinction of never having backed his
opinion in his life, if we except the threadbare tale that every
biographer sets out as if it were not known to everybody, of how he
once bet sixpence, and paid it in a coin surrounded by diamonds.
With this attribute universally known, it is perhaps not difficult to
explain the immunity he obtained from innuendo when his horse
Kingcraft won the Derby in the memorable year that the Ring
“approached” James Merry, despite the fact that he only ran third to
MacGregor in the Two Thousand.
That Lord Falmouth was a successful horse-owner may be accepted
by the £300,000 he undoubtedly won in stakes during the twenty
years of his career; that no one begrudged it him is shown by the
unanimous regret of the racing public when he practically retired
from the Turf, and that even so “close” a man as Fred Archer, the
jockey, should have subscribed towards a presentation silver shield
speaks volumes for his popularity.
Lord Falmouth, like his grand old naval ancestor, is now a matter of
history, and nothing remains but the two guns outside the family
town house in St. James’s Square to remind the passer-by of two
great men, who in their respective spheres were sans peur et sans
reproche.
To Fred Archer, as a phenomenon of a later period, who was latterly
Lord Falmouth’s jockey, it is out of the sphere of these annals of the
sixties to refer, but seeing him as I often have over his usual
breakfast of hot castor-oil, black coffee, and a slice of toast, it seems
incredible that he should have lived even to his thirtieth year.
Constantly “wasting” to try and attain 8st. 7lb. his mind and body
soon became a wreck, and then the sad end came by his own hand
with which we are all familiar.
Bob Hope-Johnstone and his brother David (“Wee Davy”) were two
as fine specimens of the genus man as can well be conceived; but
like Napoleon—who, according to experts, ought to have died at
Waterloo—Bob outlived the glory of his youth, and became a
morose, cantankerous wretch, who spent half his time at the
hostelry now known as Challis’s, which in the sixties was the resort
of every jockey—straight or crooked—that held a licence from the
Jockey Club.
Another shining light about this period was Prince Soltykoff, whose
wife was one of the handsomest women in England.
It was after her death that he came into prominence as an admirer
of beautiful women in general, and of little Graham of the Opera
Comique in particular, and—later on—of goodness knows how many
more. Many a time have I seen him at Mutton’s at Brighton, loaded
with paper bags full of every indigestible delight, which the
imperious little woman beside him continued unmercifully to add to.
Lord Glasgow, who was distinguished in the sixties as possessing the
longest string of useless yearlings, was, in addition to other
peculiarities, the most hot-tempered explosive that epoch produced.
Kind of heart in the bluffest of ways, and throwing money about with
a lavish hand, I remember on one occasion finding myself on the
railway station at Edinburgh as his plethoric lordship was purchasing
his ticket. Tendering a £5 note, the clerk requested him to endorse
it, which, having been done with a churlish air, his temper rose to
fever pitch when the clerk, returning it, said, “I didn’t ask you where
you were going; I want your name, man!” A volley of abuse, in
which he was a past-master, then followed, and the abashed official
realised that what he had mistaken for a grazier was the redoubtable
Earl of Glasgow.
The sporting critic of the Morning Post, who wrote under the name
of “Parvo,” once felt the weight of his indignation for what, after all,
was a fair criticism of the great man’s stud, and when, in ’69, an
obituary article appeared in the Post, the incident and the exact wish
his lordship had given expression to were conveyed in flowery
symbolism as a hope “that he might live to water his grave, but not
with tears.”
The Earl of Aylesford in the sixties was the owner of Packington Hall,
and a princely income, and it was whilst I was staying with George
Graham (owner of the famous Yardley stud where the great Stirling
“stood”) that a jovial party drove over from Packington. Luncheon
as served in those days was an important item in the programme,
and long before the Packington party began to think of returning
more than one had succumbed to the rivers of champagne that
flowed. Bob Villiers (a brother of the then Earl of Jersey) was one of
the first to collapse, and as he disappeared under the table the
kindly host’s anxiety was curbed by a shout from Joe Aylesford,
“Never mind, George, he’s only tried himself a bit too high.”
A few years later Joe was one of the party, selected in company with
Beetroot (as Lord Alfred Paget was affectionately called) and others,
to accompany the Prince of Wales to India, and it was during his
absence that the troubles that culminated in disaster overtook the
popular Earl. “Don’t go to India, Joe, if you value your domestic
happiness,” was the advice of an old friend, but go he did, and then
began the intrigues of a titled libertine, which ended in strong drinks
and the mortgaging of the ancestral acres.
Amid this genial phalanx no better host was to be found than old
Fred Gretton, and it was apropos of the Cambridgeshire that the
following incident occurred.
Seated round the festive board were some dozen sportsmen, young
men from town and old men from the shires; dear old George
Graham (the breeder of Stirling) and his brother; Duffer Bruce
(father of the late Marquis of Aylesbury), deafer than usual, but
shouting the house down; myself, Peter Wilkinson, and three or four
worthies of the farmer class who had come in the wake of Fred
Gretton.
“I should like you to win a large stake,” whispered to me a jolly old
squire who had been my neighbour at dinner.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” I replied; “the more so as
this is positively the last meeting I am ever likely to be at before
going to Gibraltar.”
“Eh, lad, and why so?” persisted my well-wisher. “I should like you
to win a large stake,” and realising that it was now or never, I boldly
replied: “Look here, Mr. Bowden, if you can put me on to a good
thing I shall be eternally grateful.”
“I suppose you’ve never heard of Playfair?” inquired Mr. Bowden.
“He’s Fred’s horse, and he’s certain to win the Cambridgeshire; he’s
only got 6st. 3lb., the acceptances are just out, but, for God’s sake,
don’t let Fred know. Now, lad, do as I tell you; I’ve taken a liking to
you.”
It must be admitted I had never heard of Playfair—very few had—
but acting up to the tenets I had learnt during my two years’
intimacy with the late Hastings, I boldly took 1,000 to 15 within the
hour with the leviathan Steele.
“What are you backing?” inquired Mr. Gretton, who that moment
came hurriedly up, and on being informed by the bookie, he turned
to me and whispered into my ear, “There’s only one man could have
told you, and that’s that d— drunken old blackguard Bowden; but
not a word, mind you, you keep to that 1,000.” And so the kind old
man toddled off. Shortly before the race, at the Bath Hotel,
Piccadilly, where he always stayed in Town, he inquired of the two
barmaids if they would like a sovereign each on his horse; and whilst
the foolish virgin expressed a preference for the coin, the wise virgin
elected to be “on,” and after the race received from the genial
punter £35—a sum considerably in excess of the price.
Suffice to say, Playfair won the Cambridgeshire for Mr. Gretton in ’72,
and it is no exaggeration to add that his taking to racing to the
extent he then did suggested the idea—afterwards elaborated—of
turning Bass and Co. into a limited liability company.
CHAPTER X.
THE EPIDEMIC OF CARDS.

The Commander-in-Chief in Ireland, at the time of which I am

writing, was as crotchety a specimen of the old school as the
Peninsular had ever turned out. Clean shaved, with a Waterloo
expression of countenance, Sir George Browne was about the last of
Wellington’s veterans who held a high command. Despotic and
vindictive if thwarted, he had a squabble with the railway companies,
and retaliated by vetoing henceforth the transit of troops by rail, and
a regiment ordered from Londonderry to Cork did the entire distance
by route march. Not that the ordeal was without its advantages, for
it enabled British regiments to form their own opinions of Irish
hospitality and the numerous good qualities of that much-
misunderstood race. Proceeding in detachments of two and three
companies, every night found them billeted in the towns or villages
through which they passed, and it was no rare occurrence for the
landed proprietors to ride out and insist that every officer should
stay at the Manor House, and to send supplies of comforts
wherewith to regale the men.
Mr. Kavanagh, M.P. for Kilkenny, was a brilliant specimen of a real old
Irish gentleman, and though deformed from his birth, could hold his
own amongst the best. Without arms, this grand sportsman could
ride, drive four horses, and shoot to perfection, and his prowess in
Corfu and other distant sporting haunts is remembered to this day.
Riding out to welcome the regiment, no refusal was listened to, and
within an hour every officer was comfortably settled at Borris Castle,
and the men fared proportionately as well.
But the monotony of these tedious pilgrimages will not bear
narration. Suffice it that having landed at Cork we received orders,
much to our delight, to proceed direct to Dublin instead of to dismal
Templemore.
The craze for punting that we had experienced in London seemed,
indeed, to have crossed the Channel, and when the officers had
severally been elected honorary members, it was found that the
Hibernian United Service Club was the hotbed of about the highest
play they had yet encountered. Nightly, with the precision of a
chronometer, ten o’clock found the spacious card room crammed to
its uttermost limits, and Irish banknotes, varying from one to ten
sovereigns in value, were literally stacked a foot high on either side
of the table. All through the night these terrible duels continued,
and it was no uncommon thing to leave the room and drive like
blazes for morning parade at ten. The garrison in this memorable
year was an exceptionally “high-play” one, consisting, amongst
others, of the 4th and 11th Hussars, 9th Lancers, the Royal
Dragoons, Highlanders, and Rifle Brigade, and during that winter
fabulous sums were lost by men incapable of meeting their
obligations.
The Committee, meanwhile, were roused to action, and peremptory
orders were given that the gas was to be turned off punctually at 2
a.m.; but the extinction of the gas was the signal for the appearance
of substitutes, and out of some two hundred pockets wax candles
were brought forth, and the game proceeded as vigorously as ever.
Further pressure was now applied, and under pain of expulsion
members were ordered to quit the card room at the prescribed hour;
but even this did not meet the case, and the punters ascended en
bloc to the largest bedroom above.
It may be explained that this really delightful club possessed a dozen
bedrooms, and on the particular occasion of which we are writing,
one was in the occupation of Sir James Jackson, G.C.B., as irritable
an old Peninsular veteran as a merciful Providence had spared to the
sixties. A cavalry man of the old school, he invariably wore spurs,
and no human eye had ever seen him without these useful
appendages—a small blue moustache carefully waxed, and a bald
head with blue tufts on either side completed the picture of this
irritable old warrior who ate his dinner every day in the club, and
never spoke to a soul.
Play, meanwhile, was proceeding apace, with calls of “King,” “Fifty
more wanted this side,” “D— it, blaze away,” “The pool’s made,”
gracefully interspersed, when the door suddenly opened, and an
apparition in flowing dressing-gown, nightcap, slippers, and spurs
demanded peremptorily that the game should cease. To refuse the
colonel-in-chief of the Carabineers would, of course, have been
impossible, and as the old warrior retired to his couch the punters
left the club.
Ruin, meanwhile, had overtaken many an irreproachable man, and L
—, of the Royals, K— of the Rifle Brigade, and a score of others, had
no alternative but to send in their papers, and then the Commander-
in-Chief came upon the scene, and swore, as only a Waterloo
veteran could, that if any officer again transgressed he would send
the regiment to the worst station between Hell and Halifax.
But the wave of punting that appeared to have engulfed the land
was by no means confined to the Arlington, Raleigh, and Hibernian
Clubs, and the “Rag,” and later on the Whist Club—known as the
“Shirt Shop”—caught the infection, and fabulous sums were wagered
on the turn of a card night after night without intermission.
Two-pound points to £10 on the rubber were the staple stakes of
even the sober old Whist, and then one was looked upon as
depriving a better man of the seat unless prepared to bet an extra
hundred. Old fogies, who had never previously risked a shilling,
would cautiously creep to the table, and nervously tender half-
crowns, till frightened out of their lives by Tony Fawcett, of the 9th
Lancers, shouting, “D— it, sir, this isn’t a silver hell!” and then, not to
be beaten, they would club together and make up the requisite
sovereign.
Gus Anson, V.C., M.P., the most popular man of the day, was so
impregnated with the epidemic that although at the time piloting an
important Bill through Parliament, he had given me a standing order
that as soon as a sufficient number were assembled for loo or
baccarat, a telegram was to be despatched to him forthwith, and
numerous were the messages that found their way to the sacred
precincts of the House between ten and twelve at night, addressed
to Colonel the Honourable Augustus Anson, V.C., M.P., presumedly
from constituents.
Brighton, too, suffered from the epidemic, and during the Sussex
fortnight the fever spread to an alarming extent. The London
detachments came down en bloc, and all the best houses and
leading hotels were filled with roysterers, and high play was the rule
from night till morning.
Progress along the King’s Road after dusk was a matter of difficulty,
and at every lamp-post one was importuned by eager touters, and
invitation cards thrust into one’s hand to visit this house or that.
Every roof sheltered punters of a lower strata anxious to emulate
their betters, and the family knick-knacks and the family Bible, left
exposed by their worthy owner in his desire to participate in the
golden harvest, might have been seen huddled together in a corner,
or intermingled with cards, whisky bottles, and tumblers.
In preparation for the nightly orgies that commenced about ten, the
bloods inaugurated a delightful system whereby the maximum of
fresh air with the minimum of exertion might be obtained prior to
the inhaling of the foul currents amid which they proposed to revel
for the rest of the night.
To meet the requirements of the case, every wheelchair was
bespoken or engaged for the entire week at a considerable advance
in price, and a procession, usually headed by George Chetwynd, Billy
Milner and Billy Call—to whom the honour of the inception is
credited—might nightly be seen wending its way to the end of the
pier, selecting the most suitable parts, and generally inconveniencing
everybody not of the “inner circle.”
The costume de rigueur on these progresses was white tie, evening
trousers and vest, and silk hat, with the oldest shooting coat in one’s
wardrobe.
Later in the season some Hebrews of imitative dispositions aspired
to emulate the bloods, but although their get-ups were
irreproachable, the fraud was detected, and the jackdaws ruthlessly
suppressed.
It is painful to remember the numerous edifices that toppled, and
the many good men that “went under” in the inevitable crash that
ensued, and picturing in one’s mind the huge table and the fifteen or
twenty players that congregated nightly around the board in the
various clubs—winners and losers and lookers-on—a lump rises in
one’s throat as one remembers how few are left! Carlyon and
Augustus Webster, Jauncey, Cootie Hutchinson, Sam Bachelor, Lord
Milltown, Crock Vansittart, La Touche, Hastings, De Hoghton, Tom
Naghten, Sir George O’Donnel, Dick Clayton, Gus Anson, Freddy
Granville, George Lawrence, Jimmy Jop, Jim Coleman, and a host of
others, all good men and true, and all long since swept away into
the inevitable dust-bin.
Not to have known Jinks was not in itself a reproach, but not to have
known Jonas Hunt in the long-ago sixties was to have admitted that
one was without the pale of Society, or certainly that section of it
which gambled, raced, and drank all day and all night, if
circumstances permitted. A fine horseman of iron nerve and
unbounded assurance, he had ridden in the Balaclava charge before
he was out of his teens, and on retiring from the service a few years
later, developed into one of the best gentleman riders ever seen in
England or France.
In a chronic state of impecuniosity—as he insisted on asserting—he
never omitted to add that a good knife and fork was always ready at
home. Jonas had certainly run through pretty well all he had had,
but still he always possessed an income.
Always ready to gamble, and always cheery, Jonas, as may be
supposed, was popular with a certain set, and if he had a fault it was
a forgetfulness in regard to the settlement of small scores, which by
some was attributed to the excitement when he rode in the “six
hundred,” and by others to various causes not sufficiently interesting
to enumerate. Brave as a lion, he had actually been recommended
for the Victoria Cross—in those days less lavishly awarded than now
—and as he was quite ready to “go out” on the slightest provocation,
timid natures preferred to put up with eccentricities arising out of his
forgetfulness rather than risk a daylight meeting at twelve yards rise.
Whilst riding in France his performances were a revelation to his
foreign critics, and when on one occasion his bridle broke and he
steered his mount to victory with his whip, he received such an
ovation at Chantilly as seldom falls to the lot of a perfidious Briton.
On one occasion, Jonas, who had allowed a comparative stranger to
leave the table without settling, was met by the indignant creditor a
few days later and reminded of his obligation; but Jonas, in no way
disconcerted, let the amazed punter understand that such a demand
was highly ungentlemanly and insulting, offering as an alternative to
retire with him forthwith and fight it out with either pistols or fists.
In the duel between Dillon, a gentleman rider, and the Duc de
Grammont-Caderousse, which created such an unjust scandal in the
sixties, Jonas, as might have been expected, was the former’s
second. Neither man had ever had a rapier in his hand before, and
when on the following morning both began slashing and thrusting,
and Dillon was run through the heart, a clamour arose as to the
butchery of an Englishman by an expert swordsman; all which was
bosh. Had de Grammont been anything but the veriest tyro, the
regrettable incident could not have occurred.
It was subsequent to the various thrilling incidents we have narrated
that Jonas selected Brighton as his headquarters.
Jinks’ Club was not located in a palatial mansion, nor did it even
present the modest exterior of the local Union Club; as a fact, it was
limited in its dimensions, and consisted of two rooms in an
unpretentious house in Ship Street.
In the front room was a long table and some two dozen chairs, an
iron safe, and a side table, convenient for the support of such light
refreshments as sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, and beverages of a
popular kind.
The back room was more or less a sealed subject, and supposed to
contain club memoranda, Jinks’ books, and to be the spot where the
“proprietor” carried on the business.
Membership of the club was within the reach of all, and a “quorum”
of Jinks and Jonas could on emergency elect a member without
general meeting or ballot; but those specially introduced by Jonas
were received with marked favour. Nor were there apparently any
fixed rules as to meetings, which were left to circumstances, and an
urgent three-lined whip on emergency.
The procedure in the latter case may briefly be described as follows:
—
If Jonas met a “likely” man—from town—he would tell him that his
appearance was the luckiest thing in the world, as that very night a
rare round game was “coming off,” that baccarat would begin at
nine, and that the rendezvous was Jinks’ Club. This point being
settled, an urgent whip was sent round by the indefatigable Jonas,
and by 8.45 a representative company awaited the desirable plunger
from town.
Prior to the commencement of the game, Jonas, it must be
conceded, was a mass of energy. Attired in evening clothes he
would first unlock the mysterious safe, and after the local members
had come one by one, presumably to deposit money, and returned
with counters conspicuously displayed, he would turn with his most
winning smile to the visitor with: “Now, old man, how much do you
want to buy; it saves a lot of bother by having counters? You’ve
only to plank your counters after it’s over, and get their value; good
rule, don’t you think? It’s what they do at ‘le Cercle’ at Nice; saves a
lot of bother.”
Occasionally, during the excitement of the game, strangers had been
known to put into the pool brand new crisp notes to save the bother
of buying counters; but these were always exchanged for counters
by the ever-obliging Jonas. “It’s much better to have one sort of
settlement, don’t you think, old man?” he would add, as stuffing the
notes into his pockets he eagerly rushed into the fray.
“By Jove! it’s later than I thought,” was often a familiar exclamation
as daylight appeared over the pier. “How many counters have you
got, Jack? Count them, old man, or keep them till morning. You
and I are old pals; you know where to come in the morning. Name
your own hour; good-night.” And the genius was round the corner
like a hurricane.
An amusing incident once occurred where Jonas was a big winner,
and his debtor Master Fred Granville; Jonas on this occasion was
immeasurably chaffed. “You’ll never get a bob,” he was told right
and left.
“Oh, yes I will, he’s all right,” was the half-hearted reply.
“But he’s going away in the morning,” added another; “you must
look sharp, Jonas.” And Jonas intimated he had been promised that
a cheque should be sent him in the morning.
Next morning a cab drove rapidly to the Norfolk, and Jonas, jumping
out excitedly, said: “Look here, you chaps,” and he waved a cheque
excitedly.
“Let’s have a look at it,” asked Ernest Neville. “Why, man, it isn’t
signed.” And Jonas’s face lengthened inordinately as he realised the
terrible omission.
Shouting for a cab after a hurried glance at a railway guide, he in
due time reached the station, and had the satisfaction of seeing the
last carriage slowly receding from view.
It was the winter that Garcia—a Spanish miscreant—who had won
colossal sums at every hell in Europe, had just been detected in a
trick that had long baffled the ingenuity of the world.
The scheme was nothing less than procuring the contract for the
supply of cards at the principal gambling resorts of Nice, Monaco, St.
Petersburg, Homburg, Paris, and Ostend.
Shiploads of his ware thus found their way into every quarter, and
wherever he played he was confronted by his own cards. Knowing
their backs as well as their faces, the result was obvious, and it was
only after innumerable golden harvests that a clumsy accident
brought the fraud to light in a salon in the Champs-Elysées.
The scare thus created had not been lost upon the Riviera, and
every precaution that ingenuity could devise was taken to make foul
play impossible.
It was during this winter, too, that the culprit, detected cheating at
the Raleigh, put an end to his career.
Le Cercle de la Méditerranée is one of those majestic buildings that
meets the enormous revenue required for its support by making the
pastime of cards an absolute luxury. On the first floor is a spacious
saloon, with no better light than that afforded by plate-glass panels
communicating with the card room and other chambers; liberally
provided with lounges, weary punters resorted to it for repose, and
waiters, when not otherwise occupied, hovered near it as within
easy call of everywhere. In the adjoining room cards were usually
set for possible whist and ecarté, or until every available spot was
required for the more exciting claims of chemin de fer.
Biscoe had on more than one occasion rambled through the empty
room, and oblivious of the proximity of the servants, had been seen
pocketing a pack of cards. This having been duly reported, he was
made an especial object of interest to the committee; though, until
he essayed to play, it was looked upon as the act of a kleptomaniac.
All this, however, was unknown to the culprit, who, with but one
object, one aim in life, laughed at every reverse, and raked in his
winnings when Fortune smiled on him. His luck as a whole had
been fairly good, and thinking the moment a favourable one, he
decided to increase his stakes.
It was now his deal, the “chemin de fer” was with him. “Come,
gentlemen, let us plunge,” he jokingly remarked, as, producing a
pocket-book, he placed it upon the pack. “I call twenty-five
thousand francs.” (£1,000).
A keen observer might have detected certain ominous glances that
passed between the polite Count and the bland Professor, but
nothing was said, and amid the silence of the Catacombs, the game
proceeded.
Five minutes later Biscoe was raking in £1,000 (in counters).
“Again, gentlemen!” he shouted, as flushed and excited, he had not
observed that two or three players had risen, and the remainder,
bewildered at so unusual a proceeding, stared at one another in
blank astonishment.
“What’s up?” inquired Biscoe.
“D—d if I know,” was the laconic reply, as an Englishman left the
table.
“The Committee, sir,” replied the Count, “have decided to count the
cards, and on their authority I take possession of those before you.”
Meanwhile groups discussed the position and ominous expressions,
such as “Il nous faut un agent de police,” and “C’est clair que nous
avons été volés” were bandied about. A procès verbal also took
place, presided over by the Duc de Richelieu, and within an hour it
was known to every gamin in Nice that an English “milor” had
descended to the level of a thimble-rigger, that his spurs had been
hacked off by the fiat of public opinion, and that henceforth his place
would know him no more.
The rest is briefly told. A dozen extra cards were found in the packs
that had been correct before play commenced; the counters in
Biscoe’s possession were not redeemed by the club, and the
“acceptance” was as far from redemption as ever.
Next morning, as the gardeners were sweeping the grounds, a dead
body with a gun-shot wound in the head was found in a shrubbery.
Within a few yards lay the tideless Mediterranean, calm and
sparkling as the morning sun played upon its waters; whilst here lay
an upturned face, cold and rigid and ghastly white save for a clotted
disfigurement on the brow, and the same sun, in all the irony of its
grandeur, was lighting up all that was left of blighted hopes, fallen
greatness, and a tragedy never to be forgotten. Later on, the
mangled remains were buried at the expense of the Municipality.
A week or two later a paragraph appeared in a Dublin paper, and
there the matter ended.
This is the usual procedure in these fashionable resorts. If you’ve
lost your last penny you are provided with railway fare and seen off
the premises; if you blow out your brains, you’re buried out of sight.
Decency must be maintained! Faites vos jeux, messieurs!
A convenient custom obtained at Le Cercle de la Méditerranée
whereby a player temporarily cleaned out was permitted to deposit a
pencil on the table to represent a stake, it being understood that he
immediately proceeded to the bureau to purchase counters to
redeem his symbolical investment. This was known as “au crayon.”
It was on one occasion that Bob Villiers, who was usually limited as
regards capital, was seen to place his pencil on the table and
address the courteous dealer with, “Cent louis au crayon.”
“By Gad,” whispered George Payne, who stood near me, “Bob Villiers
has put up a hundred louis ‘au crayon,’” and it was in breathless
anxiety, and with an eventual sigh of relief, that we saw him rake up
his winnings.
It was some years later, whilst once standing on the steps of the
Hôtel des Anglais at Nice, at a time when the one topic of
conversation was the terrible scandal that had lately taken place in
Le Cercle de la Méditerranée, that George Payne expounded the
irrefutable axiom that there were only two offences that might not
be indulged in with impunity, and yet how extraordinary it was that
men of wealth with every enjoyment capable of gratification should
yet founder on one or other of these two unspeakable rocks, and
instanced the recent H— affair, where the brother of a peer and
major of a crack regiment had resorted to one of the unpardonable
offences. And then he quoted George Russell, who had married a
duke’s daughter, and Lord de Ros and Lord Arthur Pelham-Clinton,
another ducal branch, all of whom, in a species of insanity, had
fallen from their high estates.
Many will recall the weird rumours that floated around the Clinton
case; how the culprit had died and been duly buried; how weeks
later an old gun-room companion had recognised his former ship-
mate in a railway compartment, and how subsequent inquiry
revealed the fact of a coffin filled with lumber.
And in the H— affair the surroundings were, if possible, more
dramatic; how a youngster of the 7th, at Nice at the time, at once
wrote the story to a brother officer in order that “the first intimation
to ‘the Regiment’ might not come from the papers;” how the
recipient intercepted the commanding officer (Colonel Hale) in the
barrack square, and handed him the letter with: “This, sir, I have
just received, and I feel it’s my duty to show it to you”; how within a
week the pen was ruthlessly run through the culprit’s name, and the
nine days’ wonder was forgotten.
That the publicity had been far-reaching, the following from the Paris
Figaro will show:—
“One had hoped that chevaliers of industry were things of the past,
but it is not so; the game goes on as ever, to judge of what occurred
last Monday at le Cercle de la Méditerranée—a place where one
always imagined one only met persons with whom one’s purse
would be safe.
“It was last Monday that an amiable personage—whose assumed
manners suggested imbecility—carried on a system with cards which
has no connection with honesty.
“Ever since yesterday Major H— has been the object of a stringent
surveillance, called into existence by the extraordinary fortune of
having ‘passed’ only seventeen times on Sunday last during a game
of chemin de fer.
“Suspicion was all the stronger from the cards when counted being
found to exceed the proper number by twenty-seven.
“It was under these circumstances that the Major bought the bank
at auction last Monday, and lost the first two coups.
“It was evidently sowing to reap, for after the second coup, not
having sufficient on the table to pay the winners, and while still
holding the cards in his left hand, he drew with his right hand a note
case from his pocket under which were a certain number of packed
cards.
“He then placed the case and the packed cards on the pack he had
already in his left hand, and putting the entire packet before him,
deliberately opened his note case, whence protruded several notes
that had evidently been exposed with intention.
“At this moment a member who had not lost a single detail of this
scene of ‘prestidigitation,’ stood up and said: ‘Gentlemen, I play no
longer, and if you take my advice you will do the same!’
“The warning was not in vain.
“It was accepted by all but one player, who placed on the table
about sixty Louis.
“The Major H—, in no way disconcerted, again dealt, and turned up
nine—a nine of diamonds.
“There was no further room for doubt, and all the players left their
seats.
“The game was suspended, the cards were counted; there were
twenty-seven too many; and contained five nines of diamonds
instead of four.
“Immediately the committee was called together, and the expulsion
of Major H— was unanimously decided upon. It was also decided
that the Major should be turned out of the room he had occupied in
the club for two days.” I approve entirely the decision of the
committee, but regret that these Major H—s get off with expulsion,
when the proper place would be the correctionnelle.
No more liberal player ever existed than George Hay.
On one occasion at a humdrum station in India, where he had
started an unpretentious club, a sporting tailor who had lost
considerably begged him to continue. “Give me my revenge,” he
implored, and for three days and three nights, with periodical
adjournments for a tub, this amiable punter continued giving the
revenge. But Fate, alas! was against the little Snipper, and on the
third day the score showed a colossal sum against him.
“This can’t go on,” pleaded George. “Why, man, I shall be placed
under arrest for absence without leave; besides which, I can’t keep
my eyes open.”
“Only one more chance,” whined the tailor.
“Very well,” replied George, “you owe me” (and he named a
considerable sum). “I’ll play you one game double or quits.”
The tailor pondered for some moments, and then replied:
“Look here, Captain Hay, I have a wife and four children, and I can’t
afford to go ‘sudden death,’ but I’ll play you the best out of three,
double or quits.”
Failing to catch the subtlety of this logic, George consented, and the
result was again against the tailor.
“Now,” said this noble punter, “I’ve complied with all your requests.
Nature won’t permit me to continue, but I’ll tell you what I will do,”
and ringing the bell, he ordered the waiter to bring in the list of
members.
Scanning the names and counting the number, he again addressed
the tailor:
“Look here. We have, I see, fifty-four members; but old Crutchley
and the Chaplain needn’t count. You shall make every member of
the club a black velvet knickerbocker suit with scarlet hose, and a
cap, and henceforth we are quits.”
Prudes and strict sticklers for propriety may argue that the man was
a gambler, and consequently heartless and good for nothing; but
after events proved that although dire calamity overtook him, he
was of a noble, generous nature.
Despite the above incident, the Pindee Club played a very strict
game, and every member before sitting down carefully adjusted a
pair of green spectacles.
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