what I have not done, and if it be true that the infernal
regions are paved with good intentions, I shall be received
on my arrival by a deputation of souls to thank me for my
contribution to the pavement."
[Illustration: RAG.]
[Illustration: BOBTAIL.]
There are sketches in which Tag's eloquence is confined to one
exclamation, "Matilda!" But whether that name was coupled with present
felicity or future hopes I do not recollect. But du Maurier's lines
describe him and our chumship much better than any words of mine could
do. He says:--
"To BOBTAIL.
Oh, fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint
All lazy beggars like me--"
"In the sunshine of April, the April of life,
You and I and our Tag make three;
And few will deny that for such close chums
A queer set of fellows are we.
For I walk slowly, and you walk fast,
And Tag lies down (not to fall);
_You_ think of the Present, _I_ think of the Past,
And Tag thinks of nothing at all.
Yet who shall be lucky, and who shall be rich?
Whether both, neither, one, or all three;
Is a mystery which, Dame Fortune, the witch,
Tells neither Tag, Bobtail, or me!
(RAG)."
The portraits of Rag and Bobtail head the page. A space was left for
Tag's, but never filled.
_Apropos_ of plans and prospects on Tag's distant horizon, I find a
passage in one of his letters, dated November, 1857, which is well
worth recording. I quote it to give myself and my fellow Europeans an
opportunity of rejoicing that Tag's scheme belonged to those that were
not to be realised. It runs thus:--
"As du Maurier's eye, though better, will, most probably,
not allow him to resume his profession as a painter, we have
determined to try our fortune together in Australia, and
mean to start from here early in February. He hopes to obtain
employment by drawing sketches, caricatures, &c., for the
Melbourne _Punch_, and other illustrated papers. You know how
eminently suited he is for that kind of work, and we hear that
an artist of talent of that description is much wanted out
there, and would be sure to do exceedingly well. I, of course,
do not intend to start in that line, but hope to be able to
support myself for the first few years, after which I shall
establish myself in business on my own account, and I trust,
with luck, I may return home in the course of from ten to
fifteen years, if not with immense riches, at all events with
enough to enable me to pass the remainder of my 'old age' in
peace and comfort."
[Illustration: "WHAT THE DEUCE AM I TO DO WITH THIS CONFOUNDED ROPE?
HANG MYSELF, I WONDER."]
Did Tag ever go, I wonder? Did he come back, and has he perhaps
been enjoying his "old age" somewhere over here for the last thirty
years?--I wish you would say what _has_ become of you, my dear Tag.
I'm sure we should be chums again, if you're anything like the dear
old stick-in-the-mud of former days! Don't you recollect that sketch
of Rag's? I had nearly forgotten to mention it, the one with the three
ropes of life. I am climbing ahead with fiendish energy. Rag follows,
steadily ascending, weighted as he is with a treasure, a box marked
"Mrs. Rag, with care," and your noble form is squatting on the floor,
a glass of the best blend at your feet, and a cigar you are enjoying
from which rises the legend that makes you say, "What the deuce am I
to do with this confounded rope? Hang myself, I wonder?" Nonsense, to
be sure; but do come and tell me what you _have_ done with the rope,
or say where I can find you still squatting.
That music of a certain spontaneous kind, the music within us which we
were ever longing to bring to the surface, was a bond of union between
du Maurier and myself, I have already mentioned; but that bond was to
be greatly strengthened by the music that great musicians on more than
one occasion lavished on us. First came Louis Brassin, the pianist. He
had studied under Moscheles at the Conservatorio of Leipsic, the city
of Bach and Mendelssohn fame; and there, from the days of his boyhood,
he had belonged to the little circle of intimates who frequently
gathered around the master at his house.
When, a few years later, he came to Belgium on a concert tour, he and
I found no difficulty in taking up the old friendship contracted in my
father's house, just where we had left it. The boy had become the man,
the student had developed into the artist and thorough musician. He
was the boonest of boon companions, and his jokes were so broad that
they often reminded one, in their crudeness and their rudeness, of
certain passages in Mozart's early letters. To say that he spoke
French with a German accent à la Svengali would be putting it very
mildly; Teutonic gutturals would most unceremoniously invade the
sister language; d's and t's, b's and p's would ever change places, as
they are made to do in some parts of the Fatherland. With all that,
he rejoiced in a delightful fluency of speech, conveying quaint and
original thought. There was something decidedly interesting about
Brassin's looks, but his figure gave one the impression of having been
very carelessly put together; when he walked his head went back on his
shoulders, and his hat went back on his head; his long arms dangled,
pendulum-like, by his sides, while his lanky legs, dragging along
anyhow, were ever lagging behind one another. But when he opened the
piano and put hands and feet to keys and pedal, he was not the same
individual. He would turn on nerve and muscle-power, and would hurl
avalanches of music and torrents of notes at his audience till he, in
his turn, was overwhelmed with thunders of applause. And those were
the days, we must remember, when but few men could play at a greater
rate than twenty to twenty-five miles an hour; when grand pianos were
not yet ironclad and armour-plated, or had learnt proudly to display
the maker's name on their broadside when they went forth to do battle
on the concert field.
[Illustration: COFFEE AND BRASSIN IN BOBTAIL'S ROOMS.]
Brassin used to draw inane caricatures of himself, which he would
present to us with a triumphant laugh of immoderate calibre. I have
preserved some of these, but decidedly prefer du Maurier's rendering
of our common friend. In the accompanying drawing he shows him at the
piano, entertaining us on "A rainy day."
"Ah! Felix, amico mio," he says, "may thy room be always as jolly,
thy coffee be ever so sweet, as on that happy morning! May Brassin's
fingers be ever as brilliant and inspired! May Tag be ever as lazy,
and with equal satisfaction to himself, and may I never be blinder!
Amen."
That sketch admirably pourtrays the lankiness and flabbiness of
Brassin's figure, contrasting as it did with the strength of the wrist
and the grip of the fingers. He was certainly a fine subject for du
Maurier, whom I always looked upon as a sort of vivisector of music
and musicians, of their methods and their moods. A brilliant career
awaited Louis Brassin, but it was to be suddenly and unexpectedly cut
off. He died some ten years ago at the age of forty-four.
In 1858 my father came on a visit to Antwerp with my mother and my
youngest sister, Clara. Wherever my father took up his abode, even
temporarily, a grand piano would in the natural course of events
gravitate towards him, and a select circle of art lovers would soon be
grouped around it. Amongst the friends in the Antwerp circle were--Van
Lerius, Tadema, Baron Leys, Heyermans, and Bource. My sister at that
time was a bright and happy creature, not long out of her teens,
full of hopes--alas! never to be realised, and of talents never to be
matured. The large dark eyes--they seemed the gift of her godmother,
the famous Malibran--reflected the artist's soul, and a grand soprano
voice spoke its powerful language. Du Maurier and she were soon on a
brother and sisterly footing, and they ever remained so.
[Illustration: CLARA MOSCHELES.]
Of the pleasant evenings we of the circle spent together I recall one
in particular. My sister had been singing one song after another;
my father was engaged in an animated conversation with Stefani,
the pianist, on the relative merits of Mendelssohn and Schumann. Du
Maurier and I had been sitting at the farther end of the room, talking
of his eyes. At that time one doctor held out hopes; another, a great
authority, had considered it his painful duty not to conceal the
truth from his patient, and had, with much unction and the necessary
complement of professional phraseology, prepared him for the worst.
The sight of one eye had gone, that of the other would follow. Those
were anxious days, both for him and for his friends; but, whatever
he felt, he could talk about his trouble with perfect equanimity,
and I often wondered how quietly he took it, and how cheerfully he
would tell me that he was "fearfully depressed." That evening I had
been putting the chances of a speedy recovery before him, and making
predictions based, I am bound to admit, on nothing more substantial
than my ardent hopes. But du Maurier was too much of a philosopher to
be satisfied with such encouragement as I could give, and said: "No, I
had better face the enemy and be prepared for the worst. If it comes,
you see, my dear fellow, there is Nature's law of compensation, and
I firmly believe that one cannot lose one faculty without being
compensated by some great gain elsewhere. I suppose one gets to see
more inside as things grow darker outside. If one can't paint, one
must do something else--write perhaps; that is, as long as one can,
and then, if the steam accumulates, and one wants a safety valve to
let it off, dictate." Happily, to this day he writes, and need not
have recourse to dictation.
When we joined our friends we found Van Lerius and Heyermans had been
pressed into the service, and were making sketches for my sister's
album. Du Maurier took up a pencil, and, with a few characteristic
touches, drew that sister's eyes. "Quand je les vois," he wrote
underneath, "j'oublie les miens. (Reflexion d'un futur aveugle.) When
I see them I forget my own. (Reflections of a man going blind.)"
Soon the main business of the evening was resumed. Was it Beethoven's
sonata for piano and violin, or a mighty improvisation on classical
themes that came first? I do not recollect; but I remember that du
Maurier's rendering of Balfe's "When other lips and other hearts,"
with my scratch accompaniment, was warmly greeted by all lips and
hearts present.
When these pleasant evenings had come to an end, the friendly
intercourse was not allowed to drop, and so a number of sketches by
her new friends found their way into Miss Clara's album.
In the following winter, when I left on a short visit to Leipsic, he
sent her a few lines through me. I quote from his letter because
the wording is peculiar, and illustrates his capacity for expressing
himself in a language that he had to evolve from his inner
consciousness:--
"Herr Rag schickt zu Fräulein Moscheles _sein_ empfehlung und _ihren_
bruder; es wird höflicht gebeten das sie wird die sach reciprokiren,
und in fünftzen dägen _ihr_ empfehlung und _seinen_ freund zuruck
schicken."
For the benefit of those whose inner consciousness is not in touch
with the above, I give the English version:--
"Mr. Rag sends _his_ greeting and _her_ brother to Miss Moscheles, and
kindly requests her to reciprocate the proceeding in a fortnight by
returning _her_ greeting and _his_ friend."
[Illustration: "HERR RAG SCHICKT ZU FRÄULEIN MOSCHELES SEIN EMPFEHLUNG
UND IHREN BRUDER."]
[Illustration: LIX.]
When I think how easily and spontaneously such sketches dropped from
his pen, I am reminded of a passage in one of Mendelssohn's letters to
my mother; he sends her the _Mailied_ and says: "This morning a song
came to me. I really must write it down for you." So, too, from the
first the pen-and-ink compositions came to du Maurier. His talent
manifested itself not only in a desire to illustrate this or that
incident or adventure, but also in his inexhaustible capacity for
making something out of nothing, and as the nothing was never lacking,
he might well say: "Dear Bobtail, I will never write without sending
my compliments to thine album." His rendering of "Cher Lix," for
instance, takes the shape of a graceful monogram, or diplogram, or
whatever I ought to call a combination of our two profiles and my
name.
[Illustration]
He starts a short missive with a sketch of himself seated in his
trunk, pipe in mouth, and says: "Dear Bobtail, I write to you out of
sheer idleness, so as to have an excuse not to pack up for the next
half-hour." Or he draws himself looking over my shoulder whilst I am
writing to my sister and puts the supposed context of my letter:--
[Illustration: AN INDISCREET FELLOW LOOKING OVER MY ----]
"Bobtail writes (in German of course):
"I won't write any more, for there's an indiscreet fellow looking over
my ----"
"_Rag_. It's not true, I swear. (For Miss Clara.)"
[Illustration: DU MAURIER AT WORK AGAIN.]
Another time he wants me to send him some brushes and various other
painting materials he enumerates: "Oh, and a little thing like this
for oil to do the thing cheesy." He depicts himself quite elated; his
eyes seemed so much better that he had once more resumed work in the
studio of his friend Goyers. "Gruss from maternal and self," he ends;
"ganz hertzlich; come soon, or write soon, or do something soon, hang
it.--Thy RAG, jusqu' à la mort."
[Illustration: "CLAUDIUS FELIX ET PUBLIUS BUSSO, CUM CENTURIONE
GUIDORUM, AUDIENTES JUVENES CONSERVATORIONI."]
Monsieur Staps, Sous-Chef of the "Guides," the best military band in
Brussels, was a friend of ours. He had invited us to one of the famous
Concerts du Conservatoire, a treat in anticipation of which du Maurier
at once takes to the pen, and shows us in classical garments and
dignified attitudes listening to the "young men of the Conservatorio."
"Sketch represents," he says "Claudius Felix et Publius Busso, cum
centurione Guidorum, audientes juvenes Conservatorioni, A.D. CCLVIII."
The "Busso" derived from his full name--George Louis Palmella Busson
du Maurier.
In striking contrast with the last drawing is the next. Here we are
decidedly anything but conventional in our attire, as he depicts us
in "Double-bedded room, Brussels. Time 11 a.m. (train starts 11.20).
Bobtail's face being rather smutty, he washes it, and Rag's boots
being rather tight, he puts them on at leisure, during which process
he has time to smoke three pipes. _Bobtail_. Bub-bub-bub-bub ... whew
... pouf!... _Rag_. How many?"
[Illustration]
A favourite theme of his was his supposed inability to shine on
occasions when I had introduced him to friends of mine, and was
particularly anxious to show him off to advantage, and then, again,
the unrelenting fate that would swiftly overtake him if he ventured
to put himself forward. I need not say that the inability and the
discomfiture existed only in his imagination, for in all circles he
was ever appreciated and admired. But he would have it otherwise, and
pourtrays us side by side with the legend--
[Illustration: "The height of enjoyment. Rag thinking of his eyes, in
a pair of tight boots, with Bobtail whispering: 'Say something clever,
you stupid muff!'"]
Another drawing shows what happened when for once in a way he presumed
to accept the homages of the fair.
"One fine morninge, earlie, at ye Café de la Plage, Blankenberghe, ye
celebrated Rag, deeming himself alone, treateth himself to a private
performance of ye Padre furioso e figlia infelice, in imitatione of
his illustrious friende, Felix Bobtailo. Presentlie a voice exclaimeth
behind him, 'Monsieur, permettez moi de vous féliciter,' and a ladie
politelie maketh him complimente on his talente. Rag replieth that
she must not be surprised thereat, as hys life has been spent among
ye great musicians, and that therefore he can scarcelie helpe being a
consummate musician himselfe. Shortly after as he lighteth hys cigarre
at ye barre, he enquireth bumptiously, 'Who might that good ladie be?'
'She is the prima-donna of the Munich Opera, Monsieur.' Whereupon ye
soul of ye humiliated Rag sinketh into hys bootes, and he retireth for
ever under a perpetual extinguisher.
"Ye hero of ye above unfortunate adventure presenteth hys compliments
to Miss Clara Moscheles, and beggeth she will deigne to accepte
ye sketche in acknowledgment of ye last box of 'acidulated
lemon-flavoured droppes' entrusted to her brother's care (need he
remark that they have not yet reached their destination).
"Miss Clara is invited to observe how cunninglie ye profile of Rag is
made to imitate that of her talented brother."
[Illustration: YE CELEBRATED RAG TREATETH HIMSELF TO A PRIVATE
PERFORMANCE OF YE PADRE FURIOSO E FIGLIA INFELICE.]
Du Maurier's stay in Blankenberghe was but short. He soon went to
Düsseldorf to put himself under the treatment of a famous oculist,
Hofrath de Leeuwe, who resided not far from there at Gräfrath. He
wrote, in high spirits: "Spent yesterday in Gräfrath; jolly place,
lots of beauties, plenty of singing and sketching and that sort of
thing, you know. Long walks in beautiful valleys, most delightful. The
fact is, I'm so beastly merry since I've been here that I don't think
I'm quite sane, and altogether only want your periodical visits and
permission to have my fling on Saturday nights to be in heaven. Doctor
says he'll do me good; have to go to Gräfrath once a week. Ça me bote
joliment. Good-bye, my old. Thine ever
[Illustration]
He had met some old acquaintances and fraternised with some English
and American artists, had got into the swim of Gräfrath society, such
as it was, and was soon placed on a pedestal, whilst sundry beauties
sat at his feet and, to the best of my belief, sighed. "They all want
me to make etchings of the little can-cans and lick-spittlings going
on here. Splendid study; shall think about it. Carry novel, of course,
adjourned _sine die_; haven't got time just now--you know what a
fellow I am. Just got her letter; very naïve and amusing--but don't
tell her so, or else she will pose for that and spoil it. Here is a
little drawing for you. Do all honour to it, since it has met with a
little ovation here."
[Illustration: AT THE HOFRATH'S DOOR.
"SHE. REALLY I DON'T SEE THE SLIGHTEST MOTE IN YOUR EYES."
"HE. NO, BUT I CAN SEE THE BEAMS IN YOURS."]
He calls it "a new adaptation from the New Testament." He and a
charming "she" sit waiting their turn at the Hofrath's door. _He_
is looking into her eyes and _she_ into his. "Really I don't see the
slightest mote in your eyes," says she. "No, but I can see the beams
in yours," he replies.
[Illustration: "I SAY, GOVERNOR, MIND YOU DON'T GASH HIS THROAT AS YOU
DID THAT POOR OLD SPANIARD'S!"]
Did du Maurier ever attempt to shave anybody, I wonder? According
to one of the sketches he sent me from Düsseldorf he did, and was so
engaged on a blind man Kennedy, when a Captain Marius comes on the
scene and says, in discreet whisper and with much concern, "I say,
governor, mind you don't gash his throat as you did that poor old
Spaniard's! (_Out loud_) How d'ye do, Kennedy?"
The same Mr. Kennedy figures once more, when, unaware of the presence
of the captain, he discreetly informs the professor that Captain
Marius Blueblast "is na' but a sinfu' blackguard."
[Illustration: MR. KENNEDY, WHO IS QUITE BLIND, DISCREETLY INFORMS
THE PROFESSOR THAT CAPTAIN MARIUS BLUEBLAST "IS NA BUT A SINFU'
BLACKGUARD."]
[Illustration]
A portrait he drew of the doctor was a great success. "I have done the
old cock's portrait stunningly," he says; "nine crosses of the Legion
of Honour, &c. Not a sou into my pocket; all for poor-box. Fancy a
fellow like me making presents to the poor-box (_vide_ sketch)! But as
the portrait will be very much spilt about (_répandu_), I may fish a
stray order or two. I have followed your advice for a whole week and
done a magnificent Framboisy. Shall not attempt to go on until you
are here to give me another stirring-up. Am going to Antwerp next week
(always am). Shall you be moving too? Journey together--great fun.
Take care of my purse and passport, and see my trunks are locked."
[Illustration: MEETING IN DÜSSELDORF. WE SAT INTO THE SMALL HOURS OF
THE MORNING, TALKING OF THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.]
[Illustration: SCENE FROM MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN:--
"Dark was the sun! Heavy the clouds on the cliffs of Oithona--when
the fair-headed son of the Maurialva crossed his claymore with
the stern dark-browed Bobthailva and swore friendship on the names
of Carry and Damask."]
I was moving, and as du Maurier kept on being about to go to Antwerp,
I went to pay him a flying visit at Düsseldorf on my way to Paris. We
sat into the small hours of the morning (as he depicts us), talking
of the past, present, and future, a long-necked Rhine-wine bottle and
two green glasses beside us, our hopes and aspirations rising with
the cloud that curled from my ever-glowing cigar. We talked till
his fertile imagination took us across the sea, and "Ragmar of the
Maurialva and Bobthailva, the son of Moscheles, swore eternal amity on
their native heath."
Damask was another beauty whom we appreciated, perhaps all the more
because we knew she was dying of consumption.
* * * * *
In Paris I was probably absorbed in some work I had in hand and must
have neglected du Maurier, for he writes urging me to answer by return
of post and give an account of myself. He had been visited, he says,
by an alarming nightmare, which he forthwith sketches for my benefit.
Carry, the Circe, had captured the lion. The noble beast--that was
me--had succumbed to the wiles of the enchantress, and submitted
tamely to being combed and brushed and to having his claws clipped
by her hand. Like birds of a feather, so do lions of a name,
flock together. And so another noble beast--that was he--is seen
approaching, presumably to claim his share of the combing and clipping
and of whatever other favours may be forthcoming.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Another time when, I suppose, I was again letting him wait for an
answer, he writes from Düsseldorf: "DEAR BOBTAIL,--Est-ce que tu
te donnes le genre de m'oublier par hazard? I have been expecting a
letter from you every day, running thus: 'DEAR RAG,--Come to Paris
_immediately_, to illustrate thirty-six periodical papers which I have
got for you. In haste, Bobtail.' My old pal, Tom Armstrong, is here,
working hard; eyes the same as ever. Write soon and tell all about
that portrait. Düsseldorf rencontre was jolly." The letter is headed
by a drawing representing me soaring heavenwards, whilst he, chained
to the spot, is philosophically consulting the cards on his prospects
of release.
[Illustration] Then comes a postscript: "Going in for this sort of
thing."
[Illustration]
"Will you come old fellow and be
[Illustration]
I suppose I answered saying that I only put off writing till I had
mustered the full complement of periodicals. If I was in a prophetic
mood I may have added that it was all right, and that very shortly
thirty-six editors would be clamouring for his work, and perhaps
thirty-six States hallooing for him to come over _immediately_. Hoping
to be punch'd at an early date, I probably remained his, &c., &c.
The early date came, for, before his final return to England, we met
once more in Antwerp and Malines. And that takes me back to Carry.
She was changed to her advantage, so, at least, the world of Malines
thought. We were not quite so sure that the change would prove
altogether to her advantage. She had been quite pretty enough before,
and we thought she could well have done without developing further
physical attractions. She had always known how to use her eyes, not
unfrequently shedding their beneficent light on two persons at the
same time, and we considered that that number should not be exceeded.
But now their activity seemed daily increasing, and it was not without
concern that we noticed in her a certain restlessness and a growing
tendency to discuss with the serpent questions relating to the
acquisition of prohibited apples. After a while, and perhaps in
consequence of the good advice we gave her, she sobered down and
surprised us by her docility; but at best her moods were uncertain and
she puzzled us much.