a part of the pines and firs close to the dwelling in which we had
sought shelter, we found ourselves groping blindly along, following each
other like phantoms in the darkness which enveloped us. So far there was
little need for the woman to have sworn us to secrecy, for neither going
nor returning did we get a glimpse of anything likely to indicate the
spot to us again at any future time. At last we felt what appeared to be
a rough flight of stone steps beneath our feet, then our guide lit a
pine-wood torch which she carried.
Holding up the flickering light before us, the woman led us into what we
conjectured to be one of the catacombs of an ancient city. On both sides
of us as we moved along the red flare of the pine-wood revealed many
bodies of the dead, each stretched in a niche cut for it in the red
rock, while at intervals between these we saw the resting-places of
others distinguished by various strange emblems. One of these niches was
silently guarded by two carved figures of horsemen with their white
steeds caparisoned, and each of the riders held in his uplifted hand a
sword such as the Damascenes use.
"A strange resting-place that," I remarked to Denviers, as it stood out
weird and ghastly in the light of the torch. "No Russian soldiery ever
wear such accoutrements as are depicted there, I am certain."
"They wear the garb of boyars of the time of Ivan the Terrible," our
guide said, as she pointed to the mounted horsemen. "Where the pine
forest about us is now there stood more than four hundred years ago one
of the many cities built by that extraordinary monarch, but it has long
been blotted out, and the Russ have forgotten its very existence. None
now know of its catacombs save those of us who form a secret band, and
whose object is to help the exiles who may escape and seek shelter and a
safe hiding-place. Even now it would be impossible for you to find the
one you seek, and if you wish to go farther it must be done blindfolded,
or I will not lead you."
We stood by the strangely carved horsemen, and having consented to the
woman's request, allowed her to fasten our sashes securely over our
eyes; then, led by her, we slowly advanced through what appeared to be a
labyrinth of ways until we were stopped by someone who spoke to the
woman in a calm, grave tone. There was a whispered conversation between
the two, directly following which our eyes were uncovered, and we found
ourselves facing a strangely-robed hermit. His long white beard fell
almost to his waist, contrasting forcibly with the black garment which
covered him, while his high forehead and the steadfast look directed
towards us seemed to be in keeping with the hermit's strange
surroundings. A heap of blazing pine-wood lit up his retreat and served
to lessen the intense coldness of the air.
[Illustration: "WE FOUND OURSELVES FACING A STRANGELY-ROBED HERMIT."]
"You are Englishmen, and have promised to help Marie Lovetski to escape
from here to our next station of refuge," he said. "Since the day when
she fled she has been hidden in various of our secret places. Six months
ago she was brought here, yet so dangerous is the risk that we have
waited for the mujik's messengers, telling us that all is safe for her
to be conveyed there. He says in his message that you can be trusted,
and doubtless your passports will help you to accomplish the task more
easily than Russ or Pole could do. We trust, then, in your honour, that
once Marie Lovetski is in your keeping, you will die in her defence
rather than surrender her to the horrors of a mine."
We explained to the hermit the difficulty which the approaching duel
between Denviers and Rachieff might cause, and discussed with him the
possibility of overcoming it. Denviers was emphatic in his determination
to meet the Russian on the morrow, and so it was arranged that at a
certain hour Marie Lovetski should leave the catacombs and secretly
watch the result of the duel. If Denviers escaped uninjured we were to
mount our sledge and make for the spot where she would be stationed, and
hiding her beneath the wraps, to start on our long journey back to the
mujik who had intrusted us with the task of saving her.
"You will, of course, allow us to see this exile?" Denviers remarked, as
soon as everything was arranged. "It was for that purpose that we were
brought here to-night."
"Then your visit has been made in vain," was the unexpected reply. "It
will be time enough for you to do so if your duel with Rachieff is
successful."
We endeavoured to overcome the hermit's objection, but, although the
woman who had guided us there spoke strenuously on our behalf, the
strange guardian of Marie Lovetski was not to be persuaded from
following his own cautious plan. Finding our protests useless, we
consented to be blindfolded once more, and were led back through the
catacombs into the forest, and before long we had entered the log hut
again. There we threw ourselves on our sheepskin wraps in front of the
pine-wood fire, and laid down upon them to sleep; then, when daylight
came, the woman awoke us and we passed the morning vaguely wondering
what the result of the duel would be.
Denviers urged upon our guide, Hassan, and myself the necessity of
attempting to save the woman so long shut up in the dismal catacombs,
and at last I gave a reluctant consent to do so if he fell, instead of
making an attempt to avenge him. The Arab stolidly refused to do this,
and justified his position by numerous quotations from the Koran, while
declaring that Mahomet would certainly come to my companion's
assistance, which, in spite of the gravity of his position, provoked a
smiling retort from Denviers. Little did we know what the termination of
the fight would be, or the strange part in it which Marie Lovetski was
to have.
III.
"Hark, sahibs!" exclaimed Hassan. "Although noon has not yet come, the
Russian is approaching to keep his promise to fight."
We threw open the door of the hut and distinguished the ringing sound of
the bells of a distant sledge. A few minutes after this the cracking of
a whip and the neighing of horses were heard, and finally we saw the
sledge appear before us. There were three occupants, and as it drew near
we distinguished among them General Rachieff as the one who was urging
on the horses. The conveyance dashed up to the hut; then one of the
officers sprang out and restrained the animals, while a second, who
carried a couple of swords, followed close behind Rachieff, with whom
Denviers was soon to try conclusions.
"The weapons are here," said General Rachieff, frigidly, as Denviers
approached and bowed slightly. "There is no time to lose: we fight with
swords as you see. Choose!" and he motioned to his second, who held them
out. Following out the plan which we had determined to adopt, Hassan
quickly placed our horses in our own sledge and drew them a little
ahead, so that the conveyance should be ready for us to enter when the
duel was ended, if my companion did not fall in the encounter.
"We fight there," said Denviers calmly, as he motioned to the part of
the plain to the right of where Hassan had already stationed our sledge.
"As you will," responded Rachieff indifferently, and, accompanied by his
second, he moved to the spot Denviers pointed out. There the usual
formalities were settled by the other officer and myself, whereupon the
two duellists made ready and waited for the signal to begin, which fell
to my lot to give.
I fluttered a handkerchief in the biting air for a moment, dropped it,
and the swords were rapidly crossed. The reputation which Rachieff had
won as a duellist was certainly well deserved, since his feints and
thrusts were admirable, while Denviers, whose coolness in critical
circumstances never deserted him, acted mainly on the defensive,
parrying his enemy's lunges with remarkable skill.
More than once the duellists stopped as if by mutual consent, to regain
breath, then quickly facing each other again, fought more determinedly
than ever. Rachieff saw that for once he had apparently met his match
with the sword, and grew by degrees more cautious than he had been when
the fight began; yet repeatedly he failed to completely ward off the
quick lunges from my companion's weapon, and I saw the crimson stains of
blood which marked where the sword point had touched him. Then he rained
in his blows with lightning speed, pressing hard upon Denviers several
times, and glaring furiously at him, while his distorted features showed
plainly enough the mark of the blow he had received from the whip the
day previous.
"Rachieff wins!" cried the Russian's second, and I saw, to my dismay,
Denviers's weapon suddenly twisted from his hand and flung into the air,
while an exultant exclamation burst from Rachieff's lips as he rushed
upon his defenceless opponent! Before he could make use of the advantage
which he had unexpectedly gained, Marie Lovetski uttered a wild,
mournful cry, and started forward from the pine forest, standing pale
with momentary fear before him!
The superstitious Russian stared incredulously, his sword-arm dropped to
his side, while he gasped out:--
"Lovetski's daughter, and yet she is surely dead!"
Taking full advantage of the Russian's dismay, Denviers instantly flung
himself upon his foe, dashing him backwards to the ground. Kneeling upon
his enemy's chest and gripping him by the throat, as he held the sword
he had seized before the startled Russian, my companion hissed in his
ear:--
"Yield, or you are a dead man!"
The Russian's face turned to a purple hue as he almost choked for
breath, then he muttered brokenly the exiled woman's name.
"She is living!" cried Denviers, as he lowered the point of the sword
till it touched the Russian's breast. "Swear that you will not attempt
to hinder her flight, and I will release your throat."
General Rachieff raised his hand in sign of assent, for his voice had
failed him. Denviers rose, whereupon the Russian staggered to his feet,
then, mad at his defeat, moved over to where his sledge was.
[Illustration: "HE RUSHED UPON HIS DEFENCELESS OPPONENT."]
"Get the woman into our sledge," cried Denviers to me. I started forward
to where Hassan was; we snatched up the exile and immediately drove off.
"After them, men!" cried Rachieff, caring nothing for his promise. "We
will take Marie Lovetski, or shoot her down!"
"Never trust a Russ, sahibs!" exclaimed Hassan, as he lashed our horses
on, while our enemies followed furiously behind. "The only way to secure
his silence would have been a sword thrust through the false one's
heart."
Away our sledge was whirled across the plain, faster and faster still,
yet Rachieff, whose horses were more numerous than our own, drew
gradually nearer. Marie Lovetski, who had forgotten her alarm now that
Denviers was safe, turned her pale-set countenance towards our pursuers,
and, as she did so, the report of a pistol rang out, while a bullet
whizzed past her head! I saw Rachieff holding the smoking weapon in his
hand as Denviers cried to me:--
"If he fires again, I will shoot him like the dog that he is!"
"No," cried Marie Lovetski, snatching a pistol from my sash before I
could prevent her. "Rachieff slew Somaloff, my lover, and I will avenge
him." She pointed the weapon full at the Russian, and I barely had time
to brush her arm aside before the frenzied exile fired. Fortunately, the
shot was deflected, and Rachieff was saved from the fate that he
certainly deserved.
"Shoot their horses!" exclaimed Denviers, and as our own dashed along he
leant over towards the pursuing sledge and fired at the foremost of
them. The animal reared for a moment, then fell dead, throwing the rest
into confusion. Out the Russians sprang, and cut the traces through, and
having in this way speedily managed to disencumber their steeds of the
dead one, they immediately began the pursuit again. We waited for them
to get near again, then fired in quick succession and brought down their
other horses, in spite of the bullets which the Russians rained upon us,
and which, fortunately, struck none who were in the sledge. Baffled in
their pursuit, we saw our enemies standing knee-deep in the snow
watching us as we dashed along.
"Well," remarked Denviers, as we slackened our speed at last, "we have
had a strange running fight, such as I least of all expected."
"The sahibs have saved the woman," said our guide. "Their slave the Arab
believes that even the Great Prophet would approve of what they have
done. The promise to convey Marie Lovetski to the mujik's hut will now
surely be kept"; and so it came about, for the daughter of Lovetski the
Lost lived to find freedom hers on another soil and under another flag.
_Illustrated Interviews._
No. XXIII.--MR. HARRY FURNISS.
[Illustration: "INTERVIEWED!"]
It is the proud boast of every married man, and more particularly so
when his quiver is fairly full, that he presides over the happiest home
in the land. But there is a corner of Regent's Park where stands a house
whose four walls contain an amount of fun and unadulterated merriment,
happiness, and downright pleasure that would want a lot of beating. The
fact is that Mr. Harry Furniss is not only a merry man with his pencil.
Humour with him may mean a very profitable thing--it unquestionably
does; fun and frolic as depicted on paper by "Lika Joko" brings in, as
Digby Grant would put it, many "a little cheque." But I venture to think
that the clever caricaturist would not have half as many merry ideas
running from the mind to the pencil if he sold all his humour outside
and forgot to scatter a goodly proportion of it amongst his quartette of
children.
[Illustration: "MY LITTLE MODEL."]
[Illustration: "LITTLE GUY--OR, A FIDGETY MODEL."]
I had not been in the house five minutes before they made their presence
known. I had not been there a quarter of an hour before the discovery
was made that they were small but impressive editions of their father.
Have you heard of Harry Furniss's little model--"My Little Model"? She
is Dorothy, who sits for all the little girls in her father's pictures.
A clever, bright young woman of thirteen, with glorious auburn tresses.
For two or three years past she has not forgotten to write her father a
story, illustrated it herself, and duly presented it on his birthday.
"Buzzy," for that is her pet name, is retained as a model at a modest
honorarium per sitting. Should she be indisposed, she must find a
substitute! Then there is Frank, the eldest, home for his holidays just
now from Cheltenham; young Lawrence, who also draws capitally; and
little Guy, the youngest, who creeps into the pictures occasionally. Guy
is a very fidgety model. "I have drawn him in twenty different moves,
when trying to bribe him with a penny to sit!" said Mr. Furniss. And it
seemed to me--and one had an excellent opportunity of judging during a
too-quickly-passed day spent at Regent's Park--that not a small amount
of Mr. Furniss's humour was caught from the children. He has brought
them up to live a laughing life, he ignores the standing-in-the-corner
theory, and believes that a penny discreetly bestowed on a youngster
during a troubled moment will teach him a better lesson than a
shilling's-worth of stick. It is also evident that the brightness and
jollity of the children are inherited, not only from father, but mother
as well; and it was easy to discern, from the remarks that fell from the
subject of my interview, that the touches of artistic taste to be seen
about the place were due to the "best of wives and mothers"--immaculate
housewife and capital hostess--Mrs. Furniss. And, as Mr. Furniss himself
acknowledges, half the battle of life is overcome for a hard-worked
professional man by the possession of a sympathetic and careful wife.
[Illustration]
Just run through this budget of letters from father to children. When I
arrived at Regent's Park--ten minutes before my time, by-the-bye--Mr.
Furniss was out riding, a very favourite exercise with him. "Buzzy" and
Frank and Lawrence and Guy brought out their treasured missives. When
"Lika Joko" gets a pen or pencil in his hand he can't help caricaturing.
These juvenile missives were decorated with sketches in every corner.
Here is a particularly merry one. Frank writes from Cheltenham for some
fret-work patterns. Patterns are sent by return of post--the whole
family is sent in fret-work. Mr. Furniss goes away to Hastings,
suffering from overwork. He has to diet himself. Then comes a letter
illustrated at the top with a certain gentleman greatly reduced in face
and figure through following Dr. Robson Roose's admirable advice. There
are scores of them--all neatly and carefully kept with their envelopes
in scrap-books.
Some few days afterwards I discovered that Mr. Furniss delights in
"illustrating" his letters to others besides his children. My photo was
needed by Mr. Furniss for the purpose of making a sketch. I sent him a
recent one. He wanted a "profile" too. The "profile" was taken when I
was sadly in need of the application of the scissors of the tonsorial
artist. I posted the "profile" with a request that perhaps Mr. Furniss
would kindly apply his artistic shears and cut off a little of the
surplus hair. By return comes an illustrated missive. I am sitting in a
barber's chair, cloth round neck; the artist is behind me with the
customary weapon, and laying low the locks. The whole thing probably
only took a minute or two to do, but it is a capital little bit of
drawing. It is reproduced at the end of this article.
This quarter of an hour spent with the youngsters over their paternal
letters was not lost. It prepared me for the man himself, it gave me the
true clue to his character, and when he rushed into the house--riding
boots and whip included--it was just the one the children had
unanimously realized for me. A jolly, hearty, "give us your hand" sort
of individual, somewhat below the medium height, with a face as merry as
one of his own pages in _Punch_. He is restless--he must be always at
it. He thinks and talks rapidly: there is no hesitation about him. He
gets a happy thought. Out it comes--unique and original in its
unvarnished state. He is as good and thorough a specimen of an
Englishman as one would meet--frank and straight-spoken, says what he
thinks and thinks what he means. An Englishman, notwithstanding the fact
that he was born in Ireland, his mother was a Scotchwoman, and he
married a lady of Welsh descent! But, then, his father was a
Yorkshireman! So much for the man--and much more. Of his talents we will
speak later.
We all sat down to lunch, and the children simply did for me what I
could not have done for myself. Frank ran his father on funny stories.
Then it all came out. Mr. Furniss is an excellent actor--had he not been
a caricaturist he must have been a comedian. His powers of imitation are
unlimited. He will give you an Irish jarvey one moment and Henry Irving
the next, and the children led him on. But it all at once dawned upon
Mr. Furniss that it was interfering with the proper play of knife and
fork, so we dispensed with the mimicry and went on with the mutton.
[Illustration]
"Lika Joko" is suggested at once on entering the hall. Here are a
quartette of quaint Japanese heads, which their owner calls his "Fore
Fathers!" His Fellowship of the Zoo is typified by pictures of various
animals. A fine etching of St. Mark's, at Venice, is also noticeable,
the only two portraits being a Rembrandt and Maroni's "Tailor."
"I always hold that up as the best portrait ever painted," said Mr.
Furniss, as he glances at Maroni's masterpiece.
[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
In the dining-room Landseer, Herkomer, Alma Tadema, and Burton Barber
are represented--little Lawrence was the original study for the child in
the latter artist's "Bethgelert." Fred Barnard's work is here, and some
quaint old original designs on wood by Boyd Haughton are pointed out as
curios. _Punch_ is to the front, notably in Du Maurier, by himself,
which cost its possessor thirty guineas; a portrait group of the staff
up the river, some delicate water-colours by C. H. Bennett, and a fine
bit of work by Mr. Furniss of the jubilee dinner of the threepenny comic
at the Ship Hotel, Greenwich. Upstairs the children's portraits, and
pictures likely to please the youngsters, reappear. The nursery is full
of them, though perhaps the most interesting apartment in this part of
the house is the principal bedroom. It is full of the original
caricatures of M.P.'s and other notabilities, and the occupant of the
bed has Bradlaugh and the Baron de Worms on either side of him, whilst
from a corner the piercing eye of Mr. George Lewis is constantly on the
watch.
A striking portrait of Mr. F. C. Burnand recalls to Mr. Furniss the
first time he sketched him.
"I was making a chalk drawing of him," said the caricaturist. "He sat
with his back to me for half-an-hour writing, and suddenly turned round
and wanted to know if I had finished! Perceiving a piece of bread for
rubbing-out purposes in my hand, he objected to my having lunch there!
And finally, when I induced him to turn his head my way and I finished
the sketch, he looked at it critically and cried out, 'Splendid
likeness, remarkable features, fine head, striking forehead,
characteristic eyebrow, splendid likeness; somebody I know, but I can't
remember who!' Encouraging, wasn't it?
"But I remembered it. Some years after I gave a dinner at the Garrick
Club to the _Punch_ staff and some friends. Burnand sat at the head of a
long table. It was understood that there was to be no speaking. Suddenly
I saw the editorial eyebrows wriggling. I knew what it meant--Burnand
was going to make a speech. I hurriedly got about a dozen sheets of
note-paper, and tore them in bits. I jumped up very nervous, produced
'notes'; terrible anxiety on part of diners--suppressed groans. I spoke,
got fearfully muddled, constantly losing notes, etc. 'Art amongst the
Greeks,' I said--notes; 'yes, your sculptors of Athens were,
unquestionably'--notes again. 'And what of it? _Punch_ is a--_Punch_ is
a--well, you all know _what Punch_ is!' Then it began to dawn upon them
that this was a little lark. So I hurriedly threw notes under the table
and suggested that on an occasion like the present it was our duty to
first propose the health of the Queen! We did. Then the Prince of Wales,
the Army and Navy, the Reserve Forces, the Bishops and Magistrates. All
these were replied to, and Burnand didn't get a chance!"
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
There are many delightful water-colours in the drawing-room, bronzes and
quaint Japanese ivories. The first meet of the "Two Pins Club" at
Richmond, June 8th, 1890, gives excellent back views of Sir Charles
Russell, F. C. Burnand, Frank Lockwood, Q.C., Linley Sambourne, Chas.
Matthews, Q.C., and the caricaturist himself. The "Two Pins" is a riding
club named after Dick Turpin and Johnny Gilpin. Works by Goodall and
Rowlandson are here, a fine Albert Dürer, and a most ingenious bit of
painting by a man who never had a chance to get to the front--he has
used his brush with excellent effect on the back of an old band-box.
Mary Anderson has written on the back of a photo, "Better late than
never," for the picture was a long time coming; another excellent
example of photographic work being a large head of Mr. Irving as
"Becket," bearing his autograph. In a corner is a queer-looking wax
model of Daniel O'Connell addressing the crowd, and amongst a hundred
little odds and ends spring flowers are peeping out. Mr. Furniss finds
little time now to use his paint-box. The example--an early one,
by-the-bye--he has contributed to this apartment is by no means
prophetic. It is a trifle in water-colours--a graveyard of a church with
countless tombstones! Now, who would associate the caricaturist with
tombstones?
[Illustration: THE STUDIO.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]