Forty Years of 'Spy'

CHAPTER XIV

MUSICIANS—AUTHORS—ACTORS AND ARTISTS

Wagner.—Richter.—Dan Godfrey.—Arthur Cecil.—Sir Frederick Bridge and bombs.—W. S. Penley.—Sir Herbert Tree.—Max Beerbohm.—Mr. and Mrs. Kendal.—Harry Kemble.—Sir Edgar Boehm.—George Du Maurier.—Rudyard Kipling.—Alfred Austin.—William Black.—Thomas Hardy.—W. E. Henley.—Egerton Castle.—Samuel Smiles.—Farren.—Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft.—Dion Boucicault and his wife.—Sir Charles Wyndham.—Leo Trevor.—Cyril Maude.—William Gillette.—The late Dion Boucicault.—Arthur Bourchier.—Allan Aynesworth.—Charlie Hawtrey.—The Grossmiths.—H. B. Irving.—W. L. Courtney.—Willie Elliott.—"Beau Little."—Henry Arthur Jones.—Gustave Doré.—J. MacNeil Whistler.—Walter Crane.—F.C.G.—Lady Ashburton and her forgetfulness.

I was a privileged member of a select audience at a rehearsal in 1877 at the Albert Hall with the intention of studying Wagner and his eccentricities, while he was conducting one of his own operas, therefore, I was not as surprised as I might have been when I observed him waving his baton and growing more and more excited, dancing on and off his stool, until finally losing his head he grew very angry with everything and everybody, and gave up evidently in fear of one of those nervous attacks to which he was subject. Richter then took the baton and conducted magnificently.

Under very different circumstances I studied Dan Godfrey the bandmaster, a very different type of musician, when he had just been promoted to the rank of lieutenant. An officer on guard invited me to breakfast after I had watched him conduct the band in the quadrangle of St. James' Palace, to enable me to examine his features more clearly.

Arthur Cecil, the actor, loved music and was a born musician in addition to his interest in the stage, and was for some time in co-partnership with Mrs. John Wood at the Court Theatre. He was the first Baron Stein in Diplomacy. During his fatal illness at Brighton I visited him in the nursing home, and his first words to me were uttered in complaint of his food, for he dearly loved his food.

"What do you think they gave me to-day?" he said. "A boiled mutton chop." When he was convalescent he gained permission from his doctor to go, with his nurse, to reside at the Brighton Orleans Club, and whenever the menu was put before him, he selected the choice dishes dear to his heart (or his palate) that had been forbidden him a very short time previously. His greatest pleasure, however, was to be able to play the piano again, and that he did before me in the private hospital, his first selection being some music from his favourite opera of "Hansel und Gretel." Owing to his indiscretion during convalescence, he caught cold which caused his death prematurely, for he was under sixty.

After many times acting as an amateur he joined German Reed's company at St. George's Hall, and from there went to the Haymarket Theatre, after which he had a distinguished career as an actor in comedy. He was very popular both at the Garrick and Beefsteak Clubs. Of course Sir Frederick Bridge was an acquaintance of his, for Arthur was devoted to sacred music. Although it is quite ten years since I portrayed Sir Frederick he appeared just the same when I saw him recently at lunch at our mutual friend, C. S. Cockburn's house. He has, I think, officiated at innumerable historical ceremonies, including the Jubilees of '87 and '97, as well as the Coronations of King Edward and King George. He told me the following story, in the terse and witty manner which is so characteristic of him.

"In '87, just before the Queen's Jubilee, a good deal of alarm was experienced in consequence of the Fenian outrages, and the very frequent discoveries of clockwork bombs in black bags. Previous to the Royal visit, the Abbey was closed to the public and the utmost precautions were taken by the officials to ensure the Royal safety, by the order of Colonel Majendie (another of my victims) the Chief Inspector of Explosives. Every portion of the choir stand was examined, and even the organ pipes and every corner of the Abbey was subjected to vigorous inspection. The day before the Royal ceremony, I called a rehearsal of the band, and after their departure I remained in the organ loft to look over my music for the next day, in the company of a young pupil, who interrupted me when I was engrossed in my music, by calling my attention to a strange noise.

"'Listen, Doctor,' he said, 'don't you hear a ticking?'

"'Ticking!' I shouted. 'Where?'

"Jumping out of my seat, I listened intently, and sure enough, I heard a faint sound that was strangely ominous, and in the corner of the loft I saw that fateful sight—a little black bag.

"I confess I behaved very badly, for instead of waiting to be blown to pieces for my country, I left the loft as quickly as possible and hastened into the Cloister, where I met an old servant. He was a comfortable looking old creature with a glass eye.

"'Graves,' I said, 'go up into the organ loft and fetch a little black bag that you will find in the corner.'

"'Yes, sir,' he replied, and ambled off unsuspectingly. Then I waited. I do not know what I expected to see—a headless Graves returning in some gruesome but faithful remnant trying to perform this last request—but I breathed again when he reappeared safe and sound—with the bag—which contained an alarm clock, ticking away very merrily. I discovered upon inquiry that a cornet in the band had bought the clock for his wife on the way to the rehearsal, and how he had escaped detection, with the bag, and run the gauntlet of the fifty policemen who were guarding the Abbey I never quite knew. If a rumour of my discovery had got into the papers, I do not think the Queen would have come to the Abbey; as it was, I might have made my fortune by giving a nice little account of it to the Press.

"That is my only experience of dynamite. Graves died safely in bed a short time ago, and when I sent a wreath to his funeral, I thought of the episode of the bag, for to the day of his death, he used to say, 'You very nearly blew me up that time, sir!'"

Quite recently Sir Frederick has married again for the third time.

Most people are unaware that the late W. S. Penley was a clever musician, and had a remarkably fine organ in his house which he delighted in playing; also that he was a choir boy. I saw him in his inimitable and famous part in "Charley's Aunt" several times, and one could hardly realize he could have worn a serious look or had a quiet side to his character. When he stood to me in my studio, I was attempting to catch a certain expression that I knew was very characteristic of him. I ran backwards and forwards, to quickly seize the look and convey it to my paper, and staggering backwards once too often in my forgetfulness and interest, I went head over heels over my rug. Penley did not stop laughing for some minutes and said when I had recovered (and he had!), "I shall not forget that, it was too funny—and when I play the part of an artist, I shall put your little accident and incidental business in."

But not very long afterwards he retired from the stage and death claimed him before the opportunity came.

I have always been treated with the greatest possible kindness by members of the theatrical profession, and I cannot speak too highly of the aid they have given me when occasion called for it.

It only seems the other day since I caricatured Sir Herbert Tree in 1890, when he looked a slim young man with a remarkably sleek figure. I think it was in the Red Lamp that a lady who had seen Tree's first performance in the part prophesied his enormous future, and told me she considered he would win a position on the stage that would rival Irving's, but no doubt the same idea entered other heads.

Quite recently Sir Herbert presented me with his book, which is quite unique amongst the literary efforts written by the members of his profession, and is well worth study, as he jokingly impressed upon me at the time, adding that no man should consider his life completed unless he read it before he died. Which reminded me of Bulwer Lytton who told me that no young man's education was complete who had not read Scott through and through.

I first met Max Beerbohm quite a long time ago when I was at the "Mitre" (Oxford), when Julius Beerbohm happened to be staying there also and he invited me to dine with him, adding:—

"I want you to meet Max Beerbohm, my half-brother, because I should particularly like you to see some most amusing caricatures that he has drawn, and which I think you will appreciate," and I did. "Max" has now a world-wide reputation in caricature and in letters; then he was an undergraduate and invited me to lunch in his rooms, when he showed me many of his humorous sketches.

The Kendals I have known since I was a boy, and I was first introduced to them at the house of the late Mr. Augustus Dubourg, then an official in the House of Lords, and joint author, with Tom Taylor, of New Men and Old Acres, in which they played. Their retirement from the stage, which was not advertised in any way or accompanied by the usual "benefit," was one of the greatest losses, in my opinion, that the stage has known, for Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson), who was a sister of Robertson the author of School, etc., is one of the most beautiful and consummate artistes England has ever produced. William Kendal himself, would even now, almost fill the part of a young man on the stage, for with him years do not tell us a tale of age.

If I were to relate all the anecdotes that I have heard of Henry Kemble (or the "beetle" as he was known) I might yarn for ever. For instance, on one occasion the tax collector called on Kemble for the Queen's taxes, "Quite an unusual tax," said Kemble; but after much discussion he found he had to pay. "Very well," he said to the collector, "I will pay just this once but pray inform Her Majesty from me that she must not look upon me as a permanent source of income."

Some of Charlie Brookfield's stories were very funny. He also drew a series of caricatures of Kemble as a special constable, in which capacity he was enlisted in a time of riots. There is a story "Brooks" used to tell of Kemble. He and Kemble were returning from a theatre one evening when they observed a large crowd gathered round the Mansion House. Dismissing their cab, they prepared to join in the fun, if there was to be any, and on approaching, found Sir Charles Dilke was speaking from a window. As they had arrived somewhat late and the speech was nearly over, their interest was not excited, nor did they comprehend the gist of the matter. Here and there rough-looking men commented aloud with decided emphasis, sometimes for and sometimes against the speaker, when Brookfield, in a mischievous mood, thought he would add his comment to the next remark.

"What abart the dockers!" he roared, choosing his words quite at random, with his hand to his mouth, in loud imitation of his audience.

"Yus—what abart the dockers," shouted a navvy next to him, and immediately pandemonium followed, Brookfield's hat being squashed in, his coat ripped up, and a few minutes later, two very dishevelled actors emerged from the melée, wondering vaguely why "the dockers" had proved such a sore point!

When I made my drawing of Sir Edgar Boehm, the famous sculptor, I depicted him working in a characteristic attitude upon his bust of Ruskin, which was in the rough clay and half finished. He was engaged also at the time upon a bust of Queen Victoria, to whom he was "Sculptor in Ordinary." Imagine my surprise when I received the following letter from Sir Edgar:—

"Dear Mr. Ward,

"… Did you hear that the Queen when she saw your excellent portrait of me was under the impression that Ruskin's bust was meant for one of herself! till some time after the mistake was pointed out to H.M. I have heard it now from three different people who know, else I should not have believed that we could be for one instant suspected of being disloyal....

Very shortly after the deaths of Boehm, Millais, and Leighton (who died within a very short time of one another) it interested me to visit their tombs in St. Paul's, and I was almost staggered when I beheld on Sir Edgar Boehm's tomb a crude reproduction in brass of my Vanity Fair cartoon! Some time after I met Linley Sambourne (who was a particular friend of his), and when I asked him if he knew who was the designer, he replied, "His son—I thought you were aware of that. Have you never heard that Sir Edgar said that he should never give any friend his photograph in future, but always send the Vanity Fair representation of himself instead."

The sketch of George du Maurier I made for him while he was busily engaged at his drawing-table illustrating Trilby.

I also made a caricature of his son, Gerald du Maurier, for Vanity Fair, who told me that Dana Gibson in his early days had such a great admiration for his father's work that he had founded his own largely from its study. When the two artists met many years after in London, du Maurier, who was not only a great artist but a man of singularly sweet and generous disposition, paid Dana Gibson the compliment of telling him that if, as a student, he had used him as a guide the follower had certainly outstripped the leader. The story reflects the modesty and generosity of George du Maurier, but, of course, it does not follow that this view is taken by the public.

Rudyard Kipling, being thoroughly accustomed to studios, was at once at home in mine, and was so engrossing in his conversation with Oliver Fry (the then editor of Vanity Fair) that it was all that I could do to stick to my sketch, and not give myself up entirely to listening to his interesting and amusing stories. I watched him, however, and took him in his most humorous mood.

In the case of the late Poet Laureate, Mr. Alfred Austin, I required but a tiny scrap of paper to take my notes. It was at his charming house, Swinford Old Manor, which is surrounded by the garden that he loved and in which we strolled. His dress was that of a country squire and not that of a long-haired poet. He stood but a few feet high.

William Black, the novelist (who was also small in stature), was very modest and cheerful. I represented him in waders with a large salmon rod, for being a Scot he was an expert with it. His deep-red complexion and dark eyes surrounded by thick-rimmed spectacles conduced to the making of an effective cartoon.

Mr. Thomas Hardy was not talkative as a sitter, but he was pleasant. In appearance he did not present the idea of the typical literary man: his clothes had a sporting touch about them.

I believe that one of my most popular character-portraits was that of W. E. Henley, the poet who looked more like an Australian bush-ranger than a follower of the winged Muse. He was brought to my studio by Mr. Charles Whibley, the well-known writer. In consequence of his lameness he sat, and he told capital stories of Whistler and other interesting characters.

Mr. Egerton Castle posed splendidly in his rich brown velvet fencing costume with foil in hand, and looked so self-confident and certain of victory that one might have thought that he was concocting a plot for a new story of romance.

I must not close this note on authors without a word of tribute to the old-fashioned charm and courtesy of Samuel Smiles, who presented me with a copy of his famous book, "Self-Help."

I find that my earliest recollections of the stage are also the keenest, and the acting I saw in my youth seems to have made the most lasting impression. The stage world was, of course, much more limited in its dimensions in those days, and the few representatives of genius were nearer and, perhaps in consequence, seemingly greater than in later years, when of all the ministers of delight it must be acknowledged that the actor gives most pleasure to the greatest number of people.

As a youth I was fond of attending first nights, and continued to be present at them whenever I had the chance, until by degrees I came to the conclusion that although a first night was amusing in many ways I preferred not to risk a failure, but to wait for the play that I knew was worth seeing.

The Sir Peter Teazle of old William Farren will always last in my memory, and I recollect it from my youth.

Of course I used to enjoy, of all things, the old Prince of Wales's Theatre under the management of Bancroft and Mrs. Bancroft, whose truly great acting, especially in the Robertson plays, was indeed a delight. Earlier than that, too, I remember how deeply I was impressed with the acting of the elder Boucicault and his wife in those vivid dramatic representations of Irish life, The Colleen Bawn and The Shaughran. In private life the feelings of this old and distinguished actor on the subject of Home Rule were identical with that of Redmond at the present time, and he did not hesitate to express them.

Sir Charles Wyndham, our veteran actor, of whom we are most justly proud, seems to have one leg in the past and the other in the present, so unconscious of the passing years and full of life and power does he still seem on those occasions on which the public have the opportunity of watching this favourite of several generations of playgoers. The peculiarly low-pitch of the voice with its pleasing upward gradation, the finished manner, the sympathetic attraction, all these qualities have ever belonged to Wyndham. Of course, I saw him many times in David Garrick, the play through which he is best known, but there are many parts in modern comedy wherein he stands alone, for instance, in Mrs. Dane's Defence, the play in which Miss Lena Ashwell won her first laurels.

I consider myself particularly fortunate in being able to count Mr. Leo Trevor among my friends. I caricatured him for Vanity Fair in a straw hat and the Zingari colours. He is the cheeriest of good fellows—his bright and happy smile is particularly characteristic of the nature of the man, who, in spite of the fact that he is so much sought after, always remains unspoilt. The public probably knows him best through his most popular play, The Flag Lieutenant, which, coming as it did just after the Boer War, appealed to the sympathy and patriotism of all. The author was particularly fortunate in being able to portray his creation of the Major through the genius of Mr. Cyril Maude. Under the mirth and mirth-provoking art of this gifted actor there always runs that magic touch which has been defined as "serious without being earnest!" In character parts, especially those associated with the typical old gentleman, he is of course, incomparable, but whether he is cast for an old or a young or a middle-aged part he can always draw the smiles and the tears of his audience. Of course, when sketching him I was most anxious to catch his characteristic expression which can only be caught through his smile.

When Mr. William Gillette sat for me in dressing-gown and pipe, I did not have to request him to smile, for a serious and contemplative gaze was quite in keeping with his róle of Sherlock Holmes. During our conversation he asked me if I could recommend a good tobacco, because the brand he smoked on the stage burnt his tongue. I suggested "Log Cabin," and at our next meeting asked if he had acted on my recommendation, and if he found the result satisfactory; but "Log Cabin," in spite of its merits and mildness, was not suitable for dramatic service as it took too long to light.