"Now, Bobtail," said Rag, as we walked along the sober old streets
of Malines, discussing the state of Carry's mind and heart. (He has
omitted the streets, but has put us into our very best mediæval suit.)
"Now, Bobtail, what do you think? Is she in love? And if so, with
whom?"
"She may be, or she may be not," said Bobtail, with oracular
discretion; "but, if she is, it can only be with one of us. She would
not waste her sentiment on a native whilst we were within reach."
"But which of us is it?" asked Rag, somewhat alarmed.
"I know not; but I hope neither," answered the oracle thus appealed
to; "but the state of her mind, I believe, is this: If she were to
marry you, she would fall in love with me; and if she were to marry
me, she would fall in love with you."
This dictum must have impressed du Maurier, for it started him on
a series of drawings, with accompanying text in illustration of it.
There were to be two volumes. The first, in which I figure as the
husband, was rapidly produced; the second, in which he was to be the
husband, never saw the light of day. It was shelved _sine die_, a
proceeding I always thought particularly unfair, as he never gave _me_
a chance of being loved. I am compensated, however, by the possession
of the first volume of the "Noces de Picciola," or "Cari-catures," as
they are called. On the title-page Bobtail is made to say:--
[Illustration]
"If Carry were to marry one of us,
I'd give thee any odds she would be safe,
O Rag, to love the other--"
(_Shakespere_. "_Two Swells of Antwerp_.")
"Varium et mutabile semper femina," he adds, and his story illustrates
the truth of the poet's words. His points will be so much better
understood later on, when some of the problems connected with our
matrimonial laws have been solved, that it would be a pity to publish
them prematurely. Suffice it to show how Félix and Georges produced
the portrait of Picciola. "Félix put all his talent and Georges all
his good will into it, for, once completed, Picciola was to select
a husband from the two suitors. After much cogitation she decides
for Félix, whilst offering her friendship to Georges, who seems but
moderately satisfied with this arrangement; and then, when husband and
wife leave for distant countries, Georges, who cannot bear the thought
of being parted from his dear Picciola, enters the service of the
young couple and accompanies them on their honeymoon." This mythical
journey gives the author opportunities for the subtle psychological
analysis of a young lady's heart, strongly inclined to revolt against
some of the conventions laid down by Society for its regulation.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF PICCIOLA.]
We had fondly hoped we might escort and protect her on the thorny
path of life, as pertinently shown in the drawing,[3] where we are
all three going along, our arms and hands fraternally intertwined and
linked together in perfect symmetry, as if therewith to tie the knot
of friendship and make it fast for ever and a day.
[Footnote 3: See Frontispiece.]
[Illustration: "ON THEIR HONEYMOON."]
But it was not to be. A big wave intervened to separate us, and swept
away all traces of the road before us. Poor Carry! Yes, she had a
story. Sad. Bright. Then sad again. First she gave to Amor what was
Amor's, and then to Hymen what was Hymen's. She tasted of the apple
her friend the serpent had told her so much about. Then--"la femme
à une chute est rare comme le Niagara"--and there are more apples
than one in the Garden of Eden--she tried another; such a bad one
unfortunately. It was a wonder it didn't poison her, body and soul,
but it didn't. There was a moment when the Angel with the flaming
sword threatened to cast her adrift, and it would have fared badly
with her had not a helping hand come to save her. But sound as she
was at the core, and true, she rallied and rose again to new life and
unhoped-for happiness. It was a young doctor who came to the rescue;
a mere boy he seemed to look at; but a man he was in deed and word. He
worked hard and walked fast; he defied convention and challenged fate.
With a stout heart he laboured to raise Carry to the level of his
affections, and with a strong hand he tightened his hold upon her. He
loved her passionately, devotedly, and she, clinging to him as to the
instrument of her salvation, gradually regained her better self, and,
slowly but surely, learnt to find in her own heart the greatest of
treasures that woman can bestow upon man. But he was a Southerner of
the French meridional type, excitable and impulsive, and, so, alas!
he was jealous of Carry's northern friends and snapped the thread
asunder that bound her to them. We only knew, and that we learnt in
a roundabout way, that she was the happiest little wife in Paris.
Once, and only once, she wrote to us, to tell us how complete was
her happiness. A crowning glory had come; a little glory to nurse
and fondle, to cry over--tears of joy; to smile to--the prettiest,
foolishest of mother's smiles; to pray for and to worship from the
bottom of her little blossoming soul. It was not till three years
later that I was in Paris and succeeded in picking up the thread of
Carry's story. Hale and hearty, overflowing with health and happiness,
the young doctor had gone to his work at the hospital. He came
home blood-poisoned, to die in his wife's arms. It was a case of
self-sacrifice in the cause of science, of heroic devotion to a
fellow-creature. And the young widow was left alone again, with none
to weep over (tears of anguish this time) but the little glory, who,
poor thing, could only wonder, but not soothe. What can have become
of Carry once more cast adrift in Paris to fight the battle of life in
this hard ever love-making world?
We never knew.
Back to England. The time had come when--
"Who was to be lucky and who to be rich,
Who'd get to the top of the tree;
Was a mystery which
Dame Fortune, the witch,
_Was_ to tell du Maurier and me."
[Illustration]
What with the boxing-gloves and one thing and another, he had been
"getting English again by degrees." In a drawing he shows us how he
is going through the process arm-in-arm with his old friend, Tom
Armstrong, now the Art-Director of that very English institution, the
South Kensington Museum. Armstrong and T.R. Lamont, the man who to
this day bears such a striking resemblance to our friend the Laird,
had presented du Maurier with a complete edition of Edgar Allan Poe's
works. His appreciation of that author is expressed in a letter which
he addressed to Armstrong, and it needs not much reading between the
lines to gather what was the literary diet best suited to his taste.
It is amusing, too, to notice the little shadows cast here and there
by coming events.
(Billy Barlow was, I really don't know why, for the time being,
synonymous with George du Maurier.)
"Gulielmus Barlow, Thomasino Armstrong,
Whom we hope is 'gaillardement' getting along
And salubrious, ave!
You'll wonder, I ween,
At Barlow's turning topsy-tur--poet I mean.
I take odds you'll exclaim, 'twixt a grunt and a stare,
'Gottferdummi' the beggar's gone mad, I declare,
And his wits must have followed his 'peeper'--not so;
He will give you the wherefore, will William Barlow--
Viz: he's so seedy and blue, he's so deucedly triste,
He's so d----d out of sorts, he's so d----d out of tune,
That for mere consolation he cannot resist
The temptation of holding with Tommy commune.
Then that _he_ should be bothered alone, isn't fair,
So he'll just bother _you_ a bit, pour se distraire,
This will partly account for the milk--then the fact is
That some heavy swell says that it's deuced good practice,
And then it's a natural consequence, too,
Of the classical culture he's just been put through.
I'll explain: T'other day the maternal did say,
'You are sadly deficient in reading, Bill; nay
Do not wrinkle your forehead and turn up your nose
(That elegant feature of William Barlow's!)
You've read Thackeray, Dickens, I know; but it's fit
You should study the _classical_ authors a bit.
Heaven knows when your sight will be valid again,
You may throw down the pencil and take up the pen,
And you cannot have too many strings to your bow.'
--'A-a-amen!' says young William to Mrs. Barlow.
So we're treated (our feelings we needn't define)
To a beastly slow book called the 'Fall and Decline'
By a fellow called Gibbon, be d----d to him; then
Comes the 'Esprit des lois et des moeurs,' from the pen
Of a chap hight _Voltaire_--un pédant--qui je crois
Ne se fichait pas mal et des moeurs et des lois.
After which just to vary the pleasures, _Rousseau_
By Emile--no: Emile by _Rousseau_? Gad! I know
That which ever it be it's infernally slow,
And I'm glad Billy's neither Emile nor Rousseau--
Such my fate is to listen to, longing to slope--
Then come horrid long epics of Dryden and Pope,
Which I mentally swear a big oath I'll confine
To the tombs of the Capulets, every line--
Not but what the old beggars may do in their way,
Gad! Uncommonly fine soporifics are they;
But they seem after Tennyson, Shelley, and Poe
Just a trifle _too_ Rosy for Billy Barlow--
Oh, dear Raggedy, oh!
Ulalume and Ænone for William Barlow.
Erst, they're short. Then they breathe in their mystical tone
An essence, a spirit, a draught which alone
Can content Billy's lust, for the weird and unknown
(Billy's out of his depth) they've an undefined sense
Of the infinite 'mersed in their sorrow intense
(Billy's sinking! A rope! Some one quick! Damn it! hence
That mystical feeling so sweetly profound
Which weaves round the senses a spell (Billy's drowned)
(Here run for the drags of the Royal Humane!)
A mystical feeling, half rapture, half pain,
Such as moves in sweet melodies, such as entrances
In Chopin's 'Etudes,' and in Schubert's 'Romances.'
Ah! Chopin's 'Impromptu'! Schubert's 'Serenade'!
Have you ever heard these pretty decently played?
If you haven't, old fellow, I'll merely observe
That a treat most delicious you have in reserve.
Lord! How Billy's soul grazes in diggins of clover,
While Stefani rapidly fingers them over,
Feelingly, fervidly fingers them over.
Illusion that enervates! Feverish dream
Of excitement magnetic, inspired, supreme,
Or despairing dejection, alternate, extreme!
Gad! These opium-benumbing performances seem,
In their sad wild unresting irregular flow
Just expressly concocted for William Barlow.
Oh! dear Raggedy, oh!
Why, they ravish the heart, sir, of Billy Barlow."
Du Maurier's stay on the Continent had come to a close some time
before mine, and to that circumstance I owe several letters in which
he speaks of his first experiences in London. He revelled in the
metamorphosis he was going through, and illustrated the past and the
present for my better comprehension. There on one side of the Channel
he shows the dejected old lion of Malines gnawing his tobaccoless clay
pipe, and then on the other the noble beast stalking along jauntily
with tail erect and havannah alight. He wrote in high spirits:--
[Illustration]
"DEAR BOBTAIL,--I need not tell you how very jolly it was to
get your letter and to hear good news of you. My reason for
not writing was that I intended to make my position before
giving of my news to anybody. I was just funky and blue about
it at first, but fortunately I was twigged almost immediately,
and, barring my blessed idleness, am getting on splendaciously
just now. Lots of my things have been out. I'm going in for
becoming a swell.
"How strange to think of such a change. I'm leading the
merriest of lives, and only hope it will last. Living with
Henley, No. 85, Newman Street; very jolly and comfortable.
Chumming with all the old Paris fellows again, all of them
going ahead. There's Whistler is already one of the great
celebrities here--Poynter getting on. This is a very jolly
little village, and I wish you were over here. They do make
such a fuss with an agreeable fellow like you or me, for
instance. But I suppose Paris is just as jolly in its way.
My ideas of Paris are all Bohème, quartier latin, &c., et si
c'était à recommencer, ma foi je crois que je dirais 'zut.'
This is a hurried and absurd letter to write to an old pal
like you, but I hardly ever have time for a line--out late
every night and make use of what little daylight there is in
Newman Street to draw. 'S'il faisait au moins clair de Lune
pendant le jour dans ce sacré pays.' I daresay I shall treat
myself to a trip over to Paris as soon as the weather is
jollier. I intend to go abroad this summer to do some etchings
'qui seront aux pommes.' Is there any chance whatever of your
coming over here before? You mustn't form your opinion of my
performances by what you may happen to see, as half of what I
do is spoiled by bad engraving (that's why I intend to etch),
and what I have done, bar one or two things, are merely little
chic sketches for money. I have many plans; among others I
intend to bring out a series in _Punch_, with which I shall
take peculiar care--something quite original. I think you
would precious soon get more portraits than you could paint
here, but if you are getting on so well in Paris, of course it
would be madness to leave. But I do not like the idea of your
not being one of us--such a band of brothers full of jolly
faults that dovetail beautifully. It was quite a freak of mine
coming over here; I did it against everybody's advice--came
over with a ten-pound note and made the rest. 'Your friend
Bobtail seems to be the only man who had no doubt of your
talent,' writes my mother. 'Enfin c'est prouvé que je suis au
moins bon a quelque chose.' Do you go much into the world?
I go knocking about as happily as possible, singing and
smoking cigars everywhere. Jimmy Whistler and I go 'tumbling'
together, as Thackeray says. Would you were here to tumble
with us! Enfin, mon bon, écris moi vite."
When at last I too returned to London I was privileged to take my
humble share in the "tumbling," as also in the steady process that was
gradually to wean us from Bohemia. We tumbled pretty regularly into
the Pamphilon, a restaurant within a stone's throw of Oxford Circus,
of the familiar type that exhibits outside its door a bill of fare
with prices appended, to be studied by those who count their shillings
and pence as we did. We had got beyond the days when no wines are sour
and when tough meat passes muster, if there is only plenty of it; we
wanted a sound dinner, and we got it at the Pamphilon; to wind up we
adjourned to the coffee-room and talked and read and smoked.
Stacey Marks, Poynter, Jimmy Whistler, and Charles Keene were among
the crew, and others not so well known to fame. Pleasant hours those
and gemüthliche, as the Germans say; how different the after-dinner
clay pipe or cheap weed of those times to the post-prandial havannah
we now complacently whiff at our friend's Mæcenas' hospitable table!
Yes, things have changed, my dear Rag, since the day we were paying
our bill, and you addressed the waiter with superb affability: "Here,
Charles, is a penny for you. I know it isn't much, but I can't afford
more."
It is hard to fancy anything less like Bohemia than Regent Street,
but a little incident that occurred as I walked down that busy
thoroughfare one afternoon recalls the best traditions of the land in
which practical jokes abound. I was going along without any definite
aim, killing time and gathering wool, flanéing, in fact; perhaps there
was a touch of the foreigner about me, for I had only lately returned
from abroad; anyway I suddenly found myself singled out as a fit
subject to be victimised. I felt a hand stealthily sliding into my
pocket; on the spur of the moment I grasped that hand in as much of an
iron grip as I could muster. Then--I hardly know why--I waited quite
a number of seconds before I turned round. When I did, it was du
Maurier's face that I beheld, blanched with terror. Those seconds
had been ages to him. Good heavens! had he made a mistake? Was it not
Bobtail's but another man's hand that was clutching his wrist? Thank
Heaven, it was Bobtail's!
There never was an occasion, before or after, I feel absolutely sure,
when du Maurier was more truly glad to see me. His colour rapidly
returned, and he swore that of all the bonnes blagues this was the
best; but for all that, one thing is certain--he has never since
attempted to pick pockets in Regent Street.
A delightful compromise between Bohemia and the land where
well-regulated Society rules supreme, was the ground on which stood
Moray Lodge, the residence of Arthur Lewis, the head of the well-known
firm of Lewis and Allenby.
We have read of him before:--
"Sir Lewis Cornelys, as everybody knows, lives in a palace on
Campden Hill, a house of many windows, and, whichever window
he looks out of, he sees his own garden and very little else.
There was no pleasanter or more festive house than his in
London, winter or summer."
I quote this, as probably it may not be known to everybody that Sir
Lewis was knighted on the memorable occasion of Trilby's birthday,
when she was presented at the drawing--and every other--room. With
much kindly fore-thought his friend and biographer allows him to be
eighty years old in the early sixties, thereby enabling him to have
attained to-day the ripe old age of one hundred and fourteen.
Well, he was one of du Maurier's earliest friends, and when Taffy
the Laird, and Little Billie, "a-smokin' their pipes and cigyars,"
told the cabby to drive to Mechelen Lodge, I found my way to what I
called Moray Lodge, and met them there. And there too, to be sure,
was Glorioli, "the tall, good-looking swarthy foreigner from whose
scarcely parted, moist, thick, bearded lips issued the most ravishing
sounds that had ever been heard from throat of man or woman or boy."
As we now empty one or the other of the million bottles that are
about, marked "De Soria, Bordeaux," we often think with gratitude of
the great wine-grower and still greater singer, so correctly described
as "singing best for love or glory in the studios of his friends."
To return to Arthur Lewis:--
He occupied an exceptional position, inasmuch as he had made his house
a centre towards which intellectual London gravitated. When he had
done this, that, and the other to make his bachelor days memorable to
a host of friends, he wound up by marrying one of England's fairest
women, our great actress, Kate Terry. It was in those early days that
Ellen, the débutante, was introduced to the dramatic world as "Kate
Terry's sister." Since then Kate, having elected to rest on her
laurels, is proud to be referred to by the younger generation as
"Ellen Terry's sister."
In early life Lewis had various roads open to him. Born, as he was,
with the capacity of a man of business, the means and opportunities of
a man of leisure, and the talents of an artist, he managed to follow
the three roads at the same time, and they all led to well-deserved
success. He was to be found at his desk in Regent Street, at his easel
in the studio, or on the threshold of that big billiard and reception
room which he had built to entertain his friends. Himself an artist,
and for many years a regular exhibitor at the Royal Academy, he was on
terms of close friendship with the men who had made their mark in the
art-world, and with many who were destined to become famous. He was
a Mæcenas of the right sort, knowing a good thing when he came across
it, and frequently acquiring it before the sleepy world awoke to its
merits.
I well recollect the enthusiasm with which he welcomed the first
pictures Joseph Israels exhibited in England in 1862. Neither in
the English nor in the Dutch department of the Exhibition could he
ascertain whether these two pictures, "The Drowned Fisherman" and
"Washing the Cradle," were for sale. But luck would have it that he
was introduced to Israels at the Academy _soirée_, and the artist,
assuring him that the pictures were "certainly for sale," Lewis
secured the coveted works, and was thus the first to establish
Israels' fame in England.
The gatherings in Moray Lodge were unique in their way. It was
characteristic of the master and the house that they made everybody
feel at home, from the titled aristocrat in the dress-suit to the
free-and-easy brother-brush or pen, and the sometimes out-at-elbow
friend Bohemian.
There was the Duke of Sutherland, the Marquis of Lorne, Lord Dufferin,
Mr. Frederic Leighton, Associate of the Royal Academy, Fred Walker,
who sang tenor in the choir, of which more presently, and who on
several occasions designed the cards of invitation for Lewis.
There was Lord Houghton, Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Rossetti,
Landseer, Daubigny, Gustave Doré, Arthur Sullivan, Leech, Keene,
Tenniel, &c., &c. It is as hard to pass those names over without
comment as it must have been to run the gauntlet of Scylla and
Charybdis, for every one of them brings back some recollection, and
calls upon the pen to start a paragraph with an "I well remember."
But that would lead me away from Moray Lodge and the famous Saturday
evenings, and I never was, and am not now, in a hurry to get away from
that hospitable mansion.
The billiard-table was boxed over on the gala nights and transformed
into a buffet. It was covered with bottles and glasses, pipes and
cigars, and towards the close of the evening with mountains of
oysters. The amount we consumed on one occasion was 278 dozen, as I
happen to know. But the great attraction at these gatherings was the
part-singing of the twenty-five "Moray Minstrels." John Foster was the
conductor, and led them to such perfection that the severest critic of
the day, dear old crabbed Henry F. Chorley, proclaimed them the best
representatives of the English school of glee-singing.
Another no less interesting feature was the performance of small
theatrical pieces. Du Maurier and Harold Power had given us charming
musical duologues, like "Les Deux Aveugles," by Offenbach, and "Les
Deux Gilles," with great success, and that led to further developments
and far-reaching consequences. A small party of friends were dining
with Lewis. "What shall we get up next?" was the question raised.
"Something new and original," suggested the host. "Now, Sullivan, you
should write us something." "All right," said Sullivan, "but how about
the words? Where's the libretto?" "Oh, I'll write that," said Burnand.
And thus those two were started. "Cox and Box," a travesty of "Box
and Cox," was read and rehearsed a fortnight afterwards at Burnand's
house, and the following Saturday it was performed at Moray Lodge.
Du Maurier was "Box," Harold Power "Cox," and John Foster "Sergeant
Bouncer." Du Maurier's rendering of "Hush-a-by, Bacon," was so
sympathetic and tender that one's heart went out to the contents of
the frying-pan, wishing them pleasant dreams.
Then there was his famous duet with "Box," reciting their marriage to
one and the same lady, and the long recitative in which the printer
describes his elaborate preparations for suicide.
How he solemnly walked to the cliff and heard the seagulls' mournful
cry--and looked all around--there was nobody nigh. Then (disposing his
bundle on the brink)--"Away to the opposite side I walked." ("Away"
on the high A, that Sullivan put in on purpose for du Maurier, who
possessed that chest-note in great fulness.)
I must skip a few years and speak of a drawing that appeared in
_Punch_ in 1875,[4] and which has a special interest for me; it brings
back to my mind a happy thought of du Maurier's, which is closely
connected with a particularly happy thought of my own, that took root
then and has flourished ever since.
[Footnote 4: Published by kind permission of the proprietors of
_Punch_.]