Forty Years of 'Spy'

CHAPTER VIII

MY CLUBS

The Arts Club.—Mrs. Frith's funeral.—The sympathetic Waiter.—Swinburne.—Whistler.—Edmund Yates.—The Orleans Club.—Sir George Wombwell.—"Hughie" Drummond.—"Fatty" Coleman.—Lady Meux.—The Prize Fighter and her nephew.—The Curate.—The Theobald's Tiger.—Whistler and his Pictures.—Charles Brookfield.—Mrs. Brookfield.—The Lotus Club.—Kate Vaughan.—Nellie Farren.—The Lyric Club.—The Gallery Club.—Some Members.—The Jockey Club Stand.—My plunge on the turf.—The Beefsteak Club.—Toole and Irving.—The Fielding Club.—Archie Wortley.—Charles Keen.—The Amateur Pantomime.—Some of the Caste.—Corney Grain.—A Night on Ebury Bridge.—The Punch Bowl Club.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.—Lord Houghton and the Herring.

"The pleasantest society is that where the members feel a warm respect for one another."—Goethe.

It was in 1874 that my parents left London and returned to Windsor, and I being obliged to remain in town, took rooms in Connaught Street, and a studio in William Street, Lowndes Square. I also joined the Arts Club, Hanover Square, and finding that dining alone had its drawbacks, especially after the delightful family life at home, I frequently used my club as a more sociable place to have my meals in. There was also a pearl among waiters whose sympathetic and also clairvoyant sense enabled him to tell by one's expression exactly what one wanted. If one came in looking fit he would say perhaps, "Ah, yes! I think so-and-so to-day," or if one came in jaded and weary, he would wheedle one into a chair and say in tactful tones, just tinged with sadness, "Leave it to me, sir." But if simultaneously another member burst in with hilarious mood and cried, "Now then, Shave, what have you for dinner?" the obliging creature would be waiting for him with a bright reflection of his mood and suggest some quite appropriate and savoury dish.

Shave was my mainstay in many a dark hour. I shall always remember the only time he disappointed me. I had been to my godmother's funeral, and feeling tired—the black coaches and all the inevitable solemnity of death had oppressed me—when arriving at the door of my club, I saw a very funereal looking carriage outside the door, which reminded me very forcibly of the scene I had just left. Throwing off the growing feeling of depression, I bethought me of my lunch, and, consoled with the remembrance of the coming tact of my attendant waiter, I walked quickly into the club. Not seeing him, I said to the hall porter, "Where's Shave?"

"He's in that carriage, sir!" replied the man. "At least, 'is corpse is."

This was the finishing touch! I had imagined men might come and go—but that poor Shave would go on for ever. I discovered on inquiring later that the sudden death was due to suicide after depression resulting from some misunderstanding which I did not inquire into, which must have affected his brain.

I belonged to the club shortly after Swinburne had resigned his membership, and the following story was repeated to me. It seems that he had spent an evening in the club; and he was about to leave when, selecting what he thought was his hat from amongst the many, he felt he had inadvertently mistaken another for his own. Replacing it, he tried again. Several times he repeated the process of trying on in hopes of finding the right hat, but all in vain. Growing excited, he began to try on indiscriminately, without success; then, finding he had lost his hat, he lost his head, and dashed the offending hats to the ground in turn. At last, after a grand finale of destruction, he strode hatless from the club, leaving devastation behind him.

Whistler once came searching for his opera hat. I was comfortably ensconced, and did not assist him. Finally, roused by his persistent search, I got up to help, and found to my chagrin that I had been sitting on the hat, and that, in so doing, I had ruined the springs and rendered it useless. He put it on, nevertheless, and although the effect was "amazing" (his favourite expression), Jimmy accepted my apologies most good-humouredly and philosophically.

One of the occasions of note at the club was an annual fish dinner held at the "Old Ship," Greenwich, but when that custom ceased the dinner took place at the club itself. It was at one of these festivities that Edmund Yates, who had been very bitter against me previously in his paper, made, I remember, a very kindly allusion to myself. I had caricatured him, as he thought, with intent to hurt his feelings; and he had publicly—and very unjustly—accused me of artistic snobbery. He had said that I was in the habit of caricaturing only those who were socially unimportant, and flattering noble lords; but at this dinner I was sitting almost opposite him, and when he rose to reply to a toast, he endeavoured to propitiate me by referring to himself as "portly, but not quite so portly as the artist of Vanity Fair had depicted him." This I understood to be a tentative offering of the olive branch. Later, when in prison for libel, he wrote his reminiscences, in which he alluded in a more than friendly manner to some drawings I had done for him in earlier days to illustrate lectures that he delivered in America on Dickens and Thackeray.

The Arts Club numbered some very distinguished men among its numbers. When I belonged, Val Prinsep, Marcus Stone, Phené Spiers, Louis Fagan, Pellegrini, Archibald Forbes, Tenniel, Dr. Buzzard, Marks, and Tadema were frequenters of the Club, as also was Charles Keene, who combined an air of the sixteenth century very successfully with his idea of modern dress. Keene used to smoke a clay pipe which was both becoming and in keeping. These clays, of which he had a continual supply, were among a number found in the Thames, where they had probably been buried at some time, unless, perhaps, a pipe factory had existed in old days on the banks of the river.

Another prominent member, John Tenniel, (so Linley Sambourne told me) had never seen either Dizzy or Gladstone in the flesh till years after his earlier cartoons of them appeared in Punch. It may be also new to my reader that Sambourne gave the nucleus of the idea for his famous cartoon "Dropping the Pilot" at one of the weekly dinners of the staff, the original drawing of which, I believe, is in the possession of Lord Rosebery.

When I left Connaught Street and went to live on the other side of the Park, I became a member of the Orleans Club, and enjoyed the then unique advantage of belonging to one where ladies were permitted to dine. Here I made many pleasant acquaintances and spent a good time.

Shortly after I joined the club a branch was opened at the Orleans House, Twickenham; but, although it was a delightful place to go to in the long summer days, and many a good cricket match was played there, the attendance each season grew smaller until the club was forced to close. I believe to-day the little Orleans in King Street, St. James', continues to enjoy a considerable reputation for good food and fellowship.

The late veteran Sir George Wombwell, a constant attendant, who was known to be one of the smartest figures in London, and was always immaculately dressed, unfortunately spilt one evening some coffee down his shirt front, thereby spoiling his appearance for the supper he was giving that same evening. Being much concerned, and as I was in the club at the time, he consulted me as to what was best to be done. It was too late to go home to change, he remarked. I thought a little. What about billiard chalk? No, it wouldn't be sufficiently permanent. Then, as luck would have it, I remembered there was a tube of Chinese white in the pocket of my overcoat, so with this I completely eradicated the stains. Sir George was so pleased with my success as a shirt restorer that he invited me to his supper.

At this period I paid occasional visits to Theobald's Park. On one of these, while Sir Henry Meux was away in Scotland, Lady Meux was entertaining a few guests previous to leaving England. An idea struck her before the party broke up, and she suggested a little farewell dinner and a theatre afterwards in town.

"Where had we better dine?" she questioned. "Do any of you belong to the Orleans Club?"

I was silent on purpose, but a tactless man at once said, "Leslie Ward's the man; he's a member," so I knew I was "in for it," and as I had received much hospitality at Theobald's, and as I was aware of no rule that would interfere with our arrangement, beyond the one which prohibited the introduction of actresses, I acquiesced.

"Capital," said Lady Meux, "we will dine there and I will stand the dinner."

On the following day, upon arriving in town I hurried to the Orleans Club. There I ordered a table to be ready for dinner in the private room that evening, and to be nicely decorated with flowers.

When my lady guest arrived with her small party, which included a parson, I was requested in the usual way to write their names in the visitors' book. After this was done, we proceeded to the private dining-room; but "My Lady," to my utmost astonishment, with a look of disgust on her face turned to the door, saying—

"This won't do! We will dine in the public room."

Fortunately, as it was August, that was quite empty, so we dined in comfort, having the room to ourselves.

A few days after, I received a letter from the club, saying that the committee had met and considered that I should be asked to take my name off the books immediately. I then wrote explaining that I was quite ignorant of a rule which it seems had been (so innocently) violated when I introduced my guest to the club. I received a reply written in quite a friendly spirit, saying they had taken my letter into consideration, and that I was reinstated.

Lady Meux was a hero-worshipper, and one of her peculiarities, which in later years almost amounted to a mania, was the desire to leave her property to a hero. Her difficulty in making a selection must have been great. The popular generals or naval men who had distinguished themselves held very high places in her esteem. Her sporting instinct, which was very strong, was sometimes carried to extremes; for instance, she once wished to test the courage of a nephew of her husband's who was staying in her house, and engaged a professor in the gentle art of prize-fighting to come down and try the boy. The man, by way of a preliminary, knocked the boy about a little, which did not satisfy Lady Meux, who urged the prize-fighter on to harder blows. When the boy's blood began to flow, she was delighted, and considered the ordeal was making a man of him; he made a very plucky stand against his professional antagonist, and when his strength was just at its ebb, the thoughtful lady let him off, and immediately gave him a handsome present for the pluck he had shown.

On another occasion, a curate who depended upon her for the living on her estate, was cruelly persuaded to allow himself to be used as a sort of human firework display. He took his torture very philosophically, and was first tied up in tarpaulin from head to foot, and then covered with every imaginable kind of cracker, a large Catherine Wheel forming a centre piece to complete the scheme. When the fun began, he jerked and jumped, while the various fireworks ignited and exploded with terrific effect. Afterwards, refreshment was administered, and the company were so pleased at the courage he had shown that the men asked him at once to come and have a drink with them.

Actually, Lady Meux was a kind-hearted and intelligent woman in her way; she used to organize "tea-fights" for the village children, and many acts of a generous nature are to be attributed to her; although perhaps her method of bestowing her gifts was sometimes a trifle eccentric.

I was invited to stay at Theobald's Park with a sporting acquaintance. The attractions of the surroundings of this country house were somewhat unusual by reason of its menagerie, which contained a fine collection of animals, including a valuable tiger, and a museum full of old Roman curios, mummies, and innumerable curiosities, collected by Sir Henry Meux, who was himself a connoisseur of antiquities. We arrived, I remember, in advance of the rest of the house party, and that evening, as we drank our coffee, our hostess told us rather an uncanny story of a burglary which had happened shortly before. The man had been arrested and was "doing time." (By the way, Lady Meux visited his wife and befriended her during his imprisonment.) The next evening we were sitting in the billiard room, when we were disturbed by the loud barking of a dog.

"What's the matter, I wonder?" said my friend, as the noise didn't cease.

A moment later, a great roar was heard, followed by most extraordinary sounds, then on the top of this came the firing of a gun, then a trampling and uproar, after which followed a volley of shots, and immediately a sound as if every animal of the Zoo had broken loose, the monkeys screaming and chattering above the trumpeting of the elephant and the growls of the bear.

We jumped to our feet; my friend was horrified, and Lady Meux shrieked: "There are the burglars!" and fled upstairs.

Abandoning our game of billiards, we prepared to seek the scene from which such strange sounds were coming, when a footman appeared and informed us that the tiger had got loose and had mauled the gardener's boy.

"I have orders," he said, "to turn out the lights, lock the doors, and forbid any one to go outside."

"How ridiculous!" said my friend. "I've had considerable experience with tigers in India … those orders are absurd … turn up the lights at once."

"No, sir; I daren't," answered the man.

A moment later, the gardener appeared with his clothing torn and his arm all over blood.

"I've shot the tiger between the eyes," he said, "and effectually."

We were rather relieved, and after some instructions as to his somewhat severe wound, finding we could be of no service, we prepared to go to bed, when our hostess suddenly turned up in rather a melodramatic looking boudoir gown, her hair dishevelled, and her face white as death. We went up to her (as she paused in the doorway, with her hand on her heart, she appeared to be suffering), and told her, thinking to reassure her, that the tiger had been shot by the gardener while mauling his son. When she realized the significance of our words, she gave way to a frenzy of anger.

"What! You don't mean to say that horrible man has shot the dear tiger that Sir Henry paid so much for! If he knew, he would no longer keep him in his service—I shall dismiss him at once!" And with a final burst of anger, she departed in a fit of hysterics.

When Lady Meux had gone, my friend, who was awfully upset, broke into anger.

"What a heartless woman!" he said. "Why, the poor chap ought to be well rewarded for his pluck, instead of which he will be dismissed. What a damned shame!"

At that moment the footman entered again. "Perhaps you'd like to know, sir," he announced, "the boy is still alive, and not so seriously hurt as we first thought."

We were somewhat relieved by this news, and as the lights were out we could not see to play billiards any longer, so we managed to grope round and find some little refreshment and go to bed.

The next morning, as I was dressing I heard a voice outside calling my name. Looking into the garden, I saw my friend, whose normal ruddy colour had changed to a most deathly white.

"What's the matter?" I cried.

In a hoarse voice he besought me to come down, which I did. Taking me to the managerie, he showed me the general scene of destruction; bushes had been trampled down, some torn up by the roots, and everywhere the signs of a great struggle met the eye. As we walked, he told me how, going to the tiger's cage, he had looked for the body. Seeing nothing but the broken bars, he looked into the sleeping compartment where a live tiger had sprung at his face, which he had withdrawn in the very nick of time. We were very puzzled by the fact that the animal was alive and apparently unharmed, and as we paced up and down by the cage, we tried to account for the tiger's reappearance in the sleeping compartment. A reporter appeared a little later on behalf of the local paper, but was ordered off the premises rather peremptorily. As we walked, a groom accosted us, who informed us that he was not one of the regular servants, but an odd man from Newmarket.