Forty Years of 'Spy'

Like another successful actor of modern times, Arthur Bourchier began acting when at Oxford. After he left the University he used to play as a member of the company known as the "Old Stagers" at Canterbury during the cricket week. When he talked of taking his hobby seriously and becoming a professional actor he was considerably chaffed by his friends; but he got the best of the laugh, as from his first appearance on the legitimate stage he did well, and was not long in proving himself one of the most powerful actors of the day.

My old friend, Allan Aynesworth, was another amateur who went on the stage with full confidence, although he had less experience than Arthur Bourchier. However, he made a great success, and won for himself a foremost place in the esteem of the public. He is a beau ideal of "an officer and a gentleman" with a touch of the hero thrown in. I understand that besides being a popular actor he is an excellent producer of plays.

When I started to sketch Charlie Hawtrey he looked almost glum, and the only thing to help me out in conveying a humorous impression seemed to be his characteristic habit of stroking his head with his hand. I asked him to think of something funny, and the result seemed to work so well that I begged him to share the joke, but he left it secret under the pretext that it was too silly to tell.

With the Grossmiths talent seems hereditary; the younger George Grossmith, son of the original G. G., is already a fountain of fun for modern playgoers, and my old friend, Weedon Grossmith, is an actor who, whenever he has had a part to suit him, has proved himself to be an inimitable and a thorough artist which, by the way, he is in more senses than one. One of his best parts is the Duke of Killiecrankie, in which his witty and delightful personality gets full play.

H. B. Irving, through his very strong resemblance to his distinguished father, seems almost to be a link with the past. He has inherited Sir Henry's charm of manner and the sunny sudden smile which one remembers so well, also his immense power of concentration. He is a keen student of facial expression, and like the late W. S. Gilbert seeks his types in the criminal law courts. One whom experience has convinced of the truth of the phrase, "New times, new manners," may be permitted to make the comment, "New times, new plays." Outside the shadow of his great father's great, but somewhat gruesome plays, it is difficult to say what his son may not accomplish.

Writing of H. B. Irving reminds one that W. L. Courtney was a don at Oxford when H. B. was an undergraduate there, and that the distinguished writer and critic had a great opinion of the young actor's talent. Courtney has a particularly dry sense of humour, and he is so engrossing in conversation that when he does go to the Garrick or Beefsteak Clubs late at night, few other members who happen to be there will leave before him.

Another excellent fellow, who for a time was an amusing and clever actor, is Willie Elliot. He has a natural gift for story-telling and his Scotch stories are inimitable. As an actor, he was for some time quite a success, and created the part of "Deedes, the gifted author," in A Pantomime Rehearsal, afterwards played by "Charlie" Little, and he was also strikingly good in the Little Minister. The late C. P. Little was a most delightful creature who is best described as Society's Impressario. When Little left the stage he started to chronicle the doings of Society, and was so much in it that he became a part of it. His entire attention was concentrated on the constitution, influence, and the events of Society, and he knew every detail relating to its proceedings, manners, and whims. In his unique part he was a complete success, and always an acquisition.

Mr. Henry Arthur Jones usually rode to the theatre, and as I found him conducting a rehearsal of the Bauble Shop in riding-kit I sketched him in it with a hunting-crop in one hand and a book of the play in the other, which reminds me of another subject who wished to be painted in "boots and breeches," and turned up at my studio in a pair of the latter that had evidently been worn in earlier days, for they appeared to irk him somewhat round the knees. After he had been standing for a considerable length of time, I asked him to rest, as I always prefer to give my sitters as little trouble and fatigue as possible. But he did not move, and finally when I asked him again he remarked rather ruefully:—

"Either I shall have to go on standing for ever or I shall fall over, for I'm paralysed by these breeches." So I had to treat him like a lay figure and liberate each limb and rub it until the circulation was restored.

Another sitter was an undergraduate in training for the 'Varsity boat-race. I have found men of this rowing calibre usually wonderful sitters, being perfectly fit; this particular young man was in excellent form, so much so that he completely outstood me and said when I, at last, begged him to have a rest:—

"Why I can go on standing all day without fatigue!"

The following is an amusing but somewhat embarrassing contretemps which befell me at an afternoon party. I was greeted on arrival by my hostess's young and effusive daughter whose father I had just cartooned in Vanity Fair and who introduced me to an old lady, exclaiming:—

"This is Mr. Leslie Ward.... I should say the great Mr. Leslie Ward!" whereupon the old lady raised her lorgnettes and gazed severely through them at me, and then turning to the young lady remarked somewhat ironically, "I think perhaps in future you'd better label your guests." I felt inclined to sink into the floor, especially when I viewed the embarrassment of my young hostess, and then the cold gaze of the lady.... I have often wondered since whether I had caricatured her husband.

Artists have not been entirely ignored in Vanity Fair; Gustave Doré was a willing victim, and gave me good opportunities of watching him in a studio in London while at work, but eventually I represented him as I first saw him, in dress clothes. I nearly fell over his sketches on the floor, for they were so thickly spread about everywhere.

Somewhere about the same period I did Whistler, who was an excellent subject, but his unlimited peculiarities lay more in his gesture and speech and habits. I never went to a social function at which he was present without hearing his caustic, nasal little laugh, "Ha-ha-ho-ho-he-he" raised at the wrong moment. For instance, when a song was being sung in a drawing-room, or when a speech was being made at a public dinner. At the same time there was something quite irresistible about the fascination of the man. He lived in a house in Tite Street on the Chelsea Embankment where there was a charming garden, and every one who had the opportunity breakfasted with him when invited, although the menu usually consisted of a sardine and a cup of coffee. His wife, who was the widow of Godwin, the architect, was a charming woman, and he simply adored her; in fact he so much felt her death that he was never the same high-spirited man after.

À propos of public dinners, I am reminded of Walter Crane, whose name I always shall hold in grateful memory, because he saved me from that most detestable task, at least to me, a public speech. We were invited as representatives of art to the Company of Patten Makers, the Lord Mayor being present, and I was suddenly told in the middle of a pheasant course, that I should be expected to speak, a piece of information that agitated me considerably, but was much relieved when Crane, who sat next to me, took the burden off my shoulders, and saved the situation very cleverly indeed.

F. Carruthers Gould, with his bushy eyebrows, I frequently came in contact with in the precincts of the House of Commons where we were both engrossed in making mental notes of our subjects. I have a great admiration for his work in which he has expressed the views of his party with admirable spirit in some of the finest cartoons of the age. Many people are unaware he was originally a member of the Stock Exchange, but he was not born for that business, although in it he saw ample opportunity for caricature. It was there that he made a startling cartoon in which he represented the Members of the Stock Exchange as the animals coming out of the Ark two by two, in a truly humorous manner, and this made his reputation. I have always admired the way in which he introduced birds into his caricatures, and on one occasion remarked to him how beautifully, and with what thorough knowledge, he drew them; and he then informed me that he was the nephew of the great ornithologist, Gould, and had been brought up among birds from his earliest youth. His political cartoons are most humorously conceived and carried out, although we know which side he favours in politics.

A stray anecdote occurs to me, as I write, of the very artistic but eccentric Louisa Lady Ashburton, a gifted lady who knew most of the really great literary and artistic people of her age, and counted many others, such as Watts and Carlyle, her intimates. My mother, who knew her very well, painted several interiors of her residence, Kent House, Knightsbridge, in one of which a striking portrait of her figured. But my story is chiefly concerned with the exacting old lady from whom I received a letter through her secretary (previous to my introduction to her), saying, "She had taken a fancy to a pencil-sketch of mine, of a child that she had seen, and that if I would lunch with her, at a day and hour mentioned, we could discuss the possibility of my making a portrait of her little grandson." The day arrived and with it a thick fog—for it was in November—I called upon the lady at the time stated in her letter, and was informed that she was out. After waiting some little time, I took myself off for a short while; had lunch elsewhere and returned about three o'clock, and was more fortunate this time, for I was announced into the dining-room, where I found Lady Ashburton and her lady secretary at lunch, to which they had just sat down. I was much astonished, after being requested to take a seat at the table, to receive rather a strong glare from my hostess, with the query, "Who is he?" to her secretary.

"This is Mr. Leslie Ward; don't you remember the letter I wrote at your request asking him to lunch to-day?"

Whereupon the forgetful lady remembered, and asked me promptly to have a glass of port. Afterwards we went to the drawing-room, where the little boy was sent for and I was requested to begin the drawing there and then, and upon my remarking that the light was too bad owing to the fog, and that I should be very pleased to make a mental study of the child before I began my portrait upon a brighter day, she observed that she quite understood from me that I had come to make the drawing, and said it was perfectly easy to draw by lamp-light, so I wasn't allowed out of the house before I had started. Then I found her ladyship, although considerably advanced in years, was still a student of drawing, for she produced the cast of a head and was getting ready to copy it. I was straining my eyes in attempting to draw the little boy, while she was endeavouring to place the cast in position and soliciting my attention to her work at frequent intervals.

When finally the pencil sketch of her small grandson was completed, as it was after a second sitting by daylight, I received the most delightful letter of appreciation and thanks from her ladyship, which I have kept to this day. Soon after my mother urged me to attend a special exhibition at the School of Art Needlework in which she was interested, and the first person I saw on entering was old Lady Ashburton. I went up to her and began to thank her for her welcome appreciation of my small drawing, and again she looked at me with astonishment and wonder. "Who are you?… I don't know you," she said. This time I did not hesitate to enlighten her. "Oh," she smiled in remembrance, "Go and find Miss Phillimore; I want to speak to her."

CHAPTER XV

NOTABLE PEERS—TANGIER—THE TECKS

Peers of the Period.—My Voyage to Tangier.—Marlborough House and White Lodge.

In 1880, the new premises of The Daily Telegraph were opened in Fleet Street. It will be remembered that the paper was originated by Mr. J. M. Levy. When he had made The Daily Telegraph a great permanent institution he retired from the toil of journalism and left the control and organising power to his son, the present Lord Burnham, who maintained its reputation, and at the time of the opening ceremony of the new offices in Fleet Street it was undoubtedly the most popular newspaper of the day. The Prince of Wales and Prince Leopold were present among the very distinguished and representative assembly to honour Sir Edward Lawson, and assist at the celebration of an interesting occasion.

When the guests began to move about and conversation became general, I had opportunity to observe the different people, and my eye was immediately attracted to old Lord Houghton (Monckton-Milnes). He had come on from a state banquet, and was dressed in the uniform of a Deputy-Lieutenant which was ludicrously ill-fitting, the tunic rucked up in many folds, whilst the trousers, which were much too long, hung also in folds; on his head he wore a black skull cap, which seemed strangely at variance with his patent leather boots, and he carried a very long stick with a crutch handle. As he moved to and fro among the guests, his odd appearance was accentuated by the occasional contrast of the immaculately groomed contingent, and on this occasion the poet-peer was truly a figure of fun.

I was not alone in my observations, as while I was still gazing at him the Prince of Wales came up to me and remarked what a splendid opportunity was before me of making a good caricature of Lord Houghton, and that I should never have a better. Immediately after and quite unaware that the subject had already been broached, Prince Leopold came to me with the same suggestion.

After the royal party had returned from supper, I noticed the Prince of Wales and Lord Houghton in deep conversation. Lady Lawson, having been let into the secret of the intended caricature, found me a convenient place near one of the pillars, where I watched him unobserved. Of course H.R.H. was amused to see our manœuvres.

Meanwhile, Lord Houghton was, judging from his expression, telling a wicked story to the Prince, and leant forward so that it should not be heard by those near. As he approached the point he became convulsed with laughter, and drawing still nearer, in his eagerness to make it understood, he slid to the end of the chair, and was about to whisper it to the Prince when the cushion, which was not fixed, gave way, and he fell to the floor with his legs in the air. The Prince of Wales picked him up, and looked at me, as much as to say, "Here is your chance." So that I went away with two ideas in my head, one of the entry in the wonderful uniform, and the other of the episode of falling off the chair. I made my caricatures in full colour and presented them in due course to the Princes, the Prince of Wales being very much amused to find that the same idea had occurred to them both, and I received a letter of thanks and full appreciation. Not long after, on going into the Beefsteak Club, I found the sole occupants of the room were Prince Leopold and Whistler, who was monopolising the Prince's attention by reading aloud extracts from a letter he was concocting, with the intention of administering a sound snubbing to a tradesman who had sent in an exorbitant bill. Jimmy, who was priding himself far more on his literary composition than the creation of one of his masterpieces, was chuckling over the pungent satire and barbed phrase with obvious appreciation, but the Prince was looking a little bored, and, by way of changing the subject, he turned to me and said that he had only just received the caricature of Lord Houghton, and how delighted he was with it.

An altogether very different type of peer was the old Marquis of Winchester, hereditary bearer of the Cap of Maintenance, whose office it is to carry the Cap on state occasions, such as the Opening of Parliament. On the last occasion on which Queen Victoria opened Parliament in person, I recollect this Marquis, who was the last remaining representative of the old Georgian type of beau, and of most picturesque appearance, make a striking figure in the group. It was the only occasion on which I was present at the ceremony, and I remember that as the Queen was going up the steps of the throne, she slipped.

In the early spring of 1882, having a troublesome cough which I could not shake off, I was ordered to take a trip to Tangier.

It was indeed a novel idea to me, having travelled so little, to see so primitive and interesting a place as it had been described to me, and with a portfolio of unfinished Vanity Fair cartoons to complete while away, I set off on a P. and O. for Gibraltar. I arrived there in a dense mist, which, however, passed off in a few hours.

I had a letter of introduction to Colonel Whitaker, who was in command of the Artillery at this time, and having ascertained that there was no boat to take me to Tangier for two or three days, I promptly presented my letter, which was answered with equal promptitude, inviting me to dine at the regimental mess on the following evening. I, of course, accepted, and had a thoroughly good time. Next day I called upon him at one of the charming villas on the Rock, to thank him for his hospitality.

Anxious to be in the warm and sunny clime of Africa, I now lost no time in getting on board a paddle-boat of sorts for my destination. I didn't like the look of the morning, for it was not one that I had pictured to myself as being appropriate to the occasion. When we were under way, I noticed a depressing-looking group of Moors huddled up together, who, as the vessel proceeded, grew very ill indeed, and this didn't enliven matters. On arriving in the Bay of Tangier, the passengers were landed in small boats, their baggage being seized from them, regardless of instructions, by a collection of officious Moors, who followed them with the porters to their respective hotels.

The proprietor of the Continental, Ansaldo by name, was quite a personality and looked after his visitors with the greatest interest, especially those who were likely to make a prolonged stay in his hotel. Evidently anxious to make me at home, he immediately introduced me to a young doctor who was permanently staying in the hotel, and who "knew the ropes," and he was quite a good fellow and very useful in showing me the way about.

My disappointment regarding the weather led me to inquire of him if it was at all usual to see such dull skies in Tangier, and how long the drizzling rain was likely to last. The answer came promptly, "Wait and see," and I did for a week, when the sun appeared in its full glory and everything was couleur de rose for a long time to come.

Having a letter of introduction to Mr. White (the Consul), I lost little time in calling upon him, and after ringing at the bell of the Consulate and giving instructions for its safe delivery, I was shown into the drawing-room. He was evidently occupied at the time, so I had to wait. At last he came in, and to my astonishment handed me the letter back, saying, "I think there is some mistake."

Being much puzzled as to what he meant, I took it out of the envelope and read as follows (as nearly as I can remember):—

"Dear Mr. Ward,

"Mind when presenting the letter of introduction to Mr. White you make out that you are an intimate friend of mine, and be careful in speaking of me to call me by my Christian name, Maughan, pronounced like Vaughan. He is a good chap and will be useful to you, especially if he thinks you are a great pal of mine," etc....!

Imagine my feelings, which were indescribable; with awkward apologies I beat a hasty retreat. Afterwards I had the face to send Mr. White the right letter, the result being that while I was sketching in the market-place next morning, he politely came up to me, and later on I received an invitation to dine at his house, so all ended well.

Having made a "faux-pas," there was nothing now left but to forget it, so, under the guidance of new acquaintances, I sallied forth in pursuit of pastures new. The Socco or market-place first of all appealed to me as a subject for my water-colour brush, and from the hill (taking it all in) I made my first sketch which, on my return home, Sargent happened to see and complimented me upon. The picturesque groups of women in strange straw hats, and the Moors in their Jhelabs, the camels, snake-charmers, and the ebony-coloured men from Timbuctoo, were all something to feast one's eyes upon. Again, the occasional saint (mad-man) and the strings of blind beggars were a novelty to the stranger's eye.

In the town, what struck me first was the persistent way in which these blind people followed one about in pursuit of coppers; many of them I was told had their eyes simmered for some quite paltry offence and in consequence were doomed for life. An occasional leper, too, one came across, but he was despicable beyond description in the eyes of his fellow-creatures.

Becoming by degrees used to the first impressions, and beginning to generalise on the surroundings, the desire came upon me to see something of the country, and for this purpose the hiring of a barb or mule was indispensable.

Mr. Harris (The Times correspondent) and my doctor friend were extremely kind in showing me round at first, and with their aid and advice I soon got to know my way about. The latter escorted me in the evenings to the different haunts of vice, the Kieffe dens, where men were lying sometimes unconscious from excessive abuse of the drug (which was smoked in a small pipe), or to a rather low Spanish music hall of a not refined or elevating character; and to while away the time, I learnt to know how these people enjoyed their leisure hours.

I have no desire to bore my readers, with detailed descriptions of the various weird and picturesque ceremonies that constantly engross the attention of European visitors in Tangier, although I feel sorely tempted while speaking of them to go on. "Sumurun" and "Kismet" illustrate them far better than I can do, and there are many well-written books on the subject.

My companion now suggested what he thought would best give me an idea of the surrounding country and coast scenery, viz. a ride to Cape Spartel9 Lighthouse. I assented, and we hired the mules.

The view all along the route was certainly very engrossing; but at certain altitudes, looking down on the sea, I felt as though I must fall over into the abyss below, it being so precipitous! However, we reached our destination in safety and I was well rewarded by the panorama that surrounded us. After dismounting and taking refreshment, a Moor approached with what appeared to be—rather uncanny—a full-grown scorpion. After marking, with a piece of stick, a circular line on the ground he proceeded to cover it with red-hot ashes, and when this wall of charcoal was completed, to place the wretched scorpion within the circle. Naturally, it did its utmost to escape, but, growing weary in its attempts, arched its tail over its back and stung itself to death. This was termed suicide, but I fear the scorching was the cause, although it retired well into the middle of the circle first. The performance, although curious, was distinctly not edifying.

About now I was lucky enough to make the acquaintance of an English merchant—Mr. Stanbury—from Birmingham who annually visited Morocco. He knew the country and the people and could speak their language, and not only was he a useful travelling companion, but a very nice fellow to boot. As he was starting on a business visit to Tetuan, and invited me to come with him, I took this exceptional advantage of joining him, as I heard it was a place that an artist would revel in.

We were most unlucky in the day we selected to start, for it rained incessantly. I wore a common Moorish Jhelab, which, being full of grease, protected me from the damp. A soldier and muleteer accompanied us, and notwithstanding that we were well mounted, our journey was not all my fancy pictured. It is about a sixty-mile ride, and although we plodded on, the ground was so heavy that it was useless to attempt to get into the town that night. We therefore stopped half-way at the Fondak where the cattle are housed, at four in the afternoon. The rain showing no signs of ceasing, we put up for the night.