Kitabı oku: «Forty Years of 'Spy'», sayfa 11

POKER PLAYERS AT THE FIELDING CLUB

Much of my time was occupied before the curtain was raised in "making up" some of the "Forty Thieves" as prominent people of the day. For instance, Frank Parker's features adapted themselves to Gladstone's in a strikingly useful manner, and in consequence the "make up" was at once recognizable. "Willie" Higgins was Benson the convict, and so on.

At the end of the rehearsals many of us, being members of the Beefsteak Club, adjourned there, and it was not until the early morning that our party sought our respective beds. When I come to think of it, the majority of us were fairly young in those days, so we were all well able to stand the strain.

At one dress rehearsal, a scene representing a soldiers' encampment, where we were seated at mess, and a group of us dressed as officers ate a sham meal, I remember our enthusiasm was added to by the hospitality of an officer in the company who produced real champagne. Whether the effect lasted until another scene I could never quite remember, but "Odger" Colvile (our young Guardsman, who was very fond of theatricals, and had, I believe, a private theatre at his father's place) displayed wonderful agility in the harlequinade, where, as the policeman, he attacked the proverbial dummy, which at the rehearsal, owing to an oversight, was missing. Looking round in all the excitement of his enthusiasm in the part, he grew exasperated by the delay.

"Where the devil is the dummy?" he cried, and looking round desperately, his eye caught mine; without any warning he was on me, caught me up, and for the next few minutes I saw every imaginable star out of the heavens, he belabouring me with all the ardour which he would have bestowed upon the dummy. He at last let me go, while roars of laughter went up from the others—I would have laughed if I had been able, but I never had such a time in my life, and was obliged to reserve my laughter until I could get my breath, when I laughed as heartily as the others.

The occasion of the Brighton performance was not the less amusing to us, as after it was all over the company met together at supper at the "Old Ship," which included several ladies from the Alhambra ballet, who came down to add to the stage effect.

The following morning (Sunday) "Hughie" Drummond, one of the "Forty Thieves" and a champion practical joker, got on to the balcony of the Queen's Hotel, from which he was able to reach the hands of the clock and deliberately altered the time from five minutes to eleven to a quarter past. This, of course scared the people going to church, and resulted in a general stampede.

While sitting next to Lord Houghton at dinner one evening at the Beefsteak Club, I watched him make a lengthy scrutiny of the menu, which made me anticipate a wonderful selection to come. He ordered a herring! When the fish came, he regarded it stealthily for some time and then suddenly picking it up by the tail shook it violently (ostensibly to remove the flesh) and while I carefully picked off the bits of herring that covered me, the absent-minded poet ate the fragments that had accidentally lodged upon his plate.

He used to take out his teeth at meal times, and, growing accustomed to remove them, he became occasionally rather mixed in his discretion as to their removal. One day, on meeting a lady of his acquaintance, instead of taking off his hat, as he intended to do, he plucked out his teeth and waved them enthusiastically.

I remember the eccentric lord coming into the club one evening looking tired and hungry. Over the mantelpiece a white paper gleamed. It was a list of the Derby Lottery. Something stirred in his mind which was far away on other subjects bent, and reminded him that he was hungry. He scanned the Lottery list, anxiously rubbing his head as though he were apparently shampooing it. At last he was heard to murmur in dissatisfied tones, "Waiter, I don't see anything to eat there."

One couldn't help laughing at his funny ways, but he was a distinguished man after all and very kind.

CHAPTER IX
THE LAW

The Inspiration of the Courts.—Montague Williams.—Lefroy.—The De Goncourt case.—Irving.—Sir Frank Lockwood.—Dr. Lampson, the poisoner.—Mr. Justice Hawkins.—The Tichborne case.—Mr. Justice Mellor and Mr. Justice Lush.—The Druce case.—The Countess of Ossington.—The Duke's portrait.—My models.—The Adventuress.—The insolent omnibus conductor.—I win my case.—Sir George Lewis.—The late Lord Grimthorpe.—Sir Charles Hall.—Lord Halsbury.—Sir Alfred Cripps (now Lord Parmoor).—Sir Herbert Cozens-Hardy.—Lord Robert Cecil.—The late Sir Albert de Rutzen.—Mr. Charles Gill.—Sir Charles Matthews.—Lord Alverstone.—Mr. Birrell.—Mr. Plowden.—Mr. Marshall Hall.—Mr. H. C. Biron.

"The reason of the Law is … the law."—Sir Walter Scott.

The Law Courts held more possibilities for me than most "hunting grounds," because I invariably found my subject without the difficulty of "stalking" him, and with the advantage of wig and gown to add to the individuality and relieve the conventionality of his unprofessional habiliments. Another advantage lay in the fact that when a barrister or a judge was conducting a case or presiding on the bench, a host of peculiarities and idiosyncrasies became evident, and I had the satisfaction of observing all unnoticed. In some cases the very fact of being "on the spot" refreshed my memory, for on one occasion I forgot the features of a certain judge, and felt I must have another glimpse to recall them before I could revive my inspiration. Oddly enough, I recollected him perfectly the moment I set my foot upon the steps of the Law Courts, and, returning to my studio, I completed the drawing.

I found my friend Montague Williams (who perhaps defended more prisoners than any counsel of his day) an inestimable help when I wished to find an especial opportunity of watching any well-known criminal or legal character. Besides being a busy lawyer, he had a considerable personal knowledge of the men with whom, during the discharge of his duties, he had come in contact, and whom he regarded with more sympathy and kindness as to their possible reclamation than many men in his profession. He always found it necessary to believe fully in the innocence of the persons he was defending; and as he was naturally very excitable, he would work himself up to fever pitch, bringing tears to his own eyes as he described with pathos and righteous indignation the overwhelming injustice of the case against his client. His enthusiasm usually impressed the jury immensely. I recollect his saying once in an access of sentimental appeal: "Think, gentlemen—think of his poor mother!"

The Lefroy case was a curious and very unpleasant affair; probably my readers still remember the strange story of robbery and crime in a railway carriage, and the long and continually iterated innocence of the accused man whom my friend was defending. I went down (as I was curious to see the prisoner) to the Law Courts with Montague Williams one day. Lefroy's physiognomy was in itself almost enough to condemn him in my eyes—for his bad mouth, weak face, and chin that seemed to have altogether retreated, with the abnormal head with a very large back to it, all gave me an impression of latent criminalism. As I returned with my legal friend in the cab I ventured to say as much to him.

"Good Lord, man," he said. "Look at yourself in the glass … if appearances went for anything you'd have been hanged long ago."

I had neglected to shave that morning, it is true; but in spite of my omission I felt a trifle overwhelmed by my friend's verdict, much as it amused me.

At the De Goncourt trial (one of my early recollections) I sat next to Irving. I was busily engaged in making a sketch of Benson, who had been brought into the witness box with his latest decoration of broad arrows, and I remember that Irving congratulated me upon my drawing. On another occasion I watched Frank Lockwood (as he was then) listening to a case as one of the general public, pencil in hand, ready to portray anything that struck him. The case before the court concerned an accident to a pedestrian (a Scotchman) who was summoning a carter or the company he represented, for damages. The carter accused the plaintiff of drunkenness on the occasion of the accident, when he alleged that the man was so drunk that he reeled up against the wheel of his cart. I was amused to see Mr. Lockwood make a quick sketch of a drunken highlander attired in a kilt reeling against a cart wheel, with a glimpse of the Strand in the background, and send it up to the judge.

In the case of Dr. Lampson, the poisoner, I passed notes to the prisoner who mistook me for Montague Williams' clerk. Williams had defended the man on a previous occasion, but this time the charge was a grave one, for the accused was said to have visited a young relative (who stood between him and a sum of money), and given him poisoned cake which set up such violent symptoms that suspicion rested upon the doctor. The death of the boy, following shortly after, led to the arrest of Dr. Lampson, who was tried and found guilty.

One of the earliest cases I attended attracted great attention at the time, owing to the sensational evidence which embroiled Lord Ranelagh in a plot with a Mrs. Borradaile. This was due to the clever and unscrupulous plans of a Madame Rachel Leverson, who successfully obtained money in this way, and who was finally convicted of misdemeanour and obtaining money by false pretences. The case made a considerable furore, because during cross-examination the accused appeared to divulge the fact that the aforesaid lord had bribed her to let him look through the keyhole while her client underwent the process of being made beautiful. The whole affair turned out to be a fabrication.

One of my earliest caricatures for Vanity Fair was that of Mr. Justice Hawkins drawn from memory in 1873. He had the reputation then of being the most good-humoured in the Law Courts and the possessor of the hoarsest voice of any judge. He once said it was worth £500 a year to him. The last time I saw Lord Brampton (for he became eventually a law Lord) was after the opening of a Parliament, when the peers and peeresses were waiting for their carriages, and there was a tremendous downpour of rain. Standing with his peer's robes wound round and round his body, the famous judge made a most grotesque figure, in tight little trousers with his silk hat slightly on one side, an eyeglass in his eye, and a big umbrella over all. He resembled a resplendent hawk.

The Tichborne case gave Hawkins a chance to excel himself, and he proved to be on the winning side. I sketched most of the principal movers in this game of law, which was played round "the claimant," whom I recollect quite plainly as he sat at his table, which had a half circle cut into it for his unduly large stomach to fit in. Of his illiteracy (if poor spelling goes to prove it) I have a personal proof in a letter which ends,

"beleive me,

"Yours truly,

"A. C. Tichborne."

I once sat in the court, watching him, with pencil in hand ready to jot down upon my shirt cuff anything I especially noticed, when he caught my eye, called the usher, and spoke a few words to him. It was duly intimated that my presence was "extremely disturbing to the claimant."

The claimant's counsel, Dr. Edward Kenealy, Q.C. (and the one man on record who was supposed to have ruffled Hawkins's temper), was said to have believed in the claimant to the day of his death. Dr. Kenealy made his name in the Tichborne trial. He was, besides being a lawyer, a writer and poet (and an admirer of Disraeli) before the stupendous case arose to give him a field for his powers. I remember him as a little man with a wig that contrasted strangely with a sweep of beard and a firmly set mouth. When he rose to speak he placed one hand under his gown as though it might have been coat tails and used his right to point emphasis at his opponent.

Some years afterwards, when I was walking near Brighton, I was very much interested to see his tomb in a churchyard there, or rather a very elaborate monument that had been placed there by the late Guilford Onslow.

Mr. Justice Mellor and Mr. Justice Lush, both Judges in the Tichborne case, came under my pencil at the same period.

Justice Lush wore the oddest round wig with the suspicion of a dent on the top. He always reminded me of a champagne bottle, with this queerly shaped wig like a cork on his head, and his shoulders sloping down like a bottle. As a judge Mr. Lush attempted humour. Vanity Fair labelled him "a little Lush," because when he was told that the toast had been changed from "Women and Wine" to "Lush and Shea," he said, "A spell of sobriety will do the Bar no harm, and a little Lush may do the Bench some good."

Sir John Mellor was noted for his unwearied patience and extreme impartiality on the Bench. When I caught him, he sat sucking his little finger and listening carefully to the counsel for the claimant stating his case as he watched the Court from under his heavy-lidded eyes, over which his eyebrows slanted with sudden fine lines to his big nose, while his humorous mouth seemed ready for a wry smile.

A trial with which I was indirectly associated, and which aroused at the time a furore only to be equalled by the sensation created by the Tichborne case, was the Druce-Portland case. For the benefit of those readers who have forgotten the facts, I will give a slight outline of the extraordinary story.

The fifth Duke of Portland was a very eccentric old gentleman. He had several peculiarities that rendered the mystery surrounding him even more involved, and his odd habits gave rise to the most extraordinary rumours.

The reluctance to show his face or to hear other people was sometimes alleged to have been the result of a fatal quarrel with a brother, and it was said that the Duke, after the affair, retired more completely from public life. He became more eccentric than ever; his servants were taught to play the piano to him. He resented any recognition by his servants and employees, and was accustomed to travel in a special carriage built for himself hung round with heavy curtains, in which he would travel to the station. The coachman had orders to come and go without scrutiny or inquiry, and frequently he was quite in the dark as to whether he conveyed his master or not. At the station the carriage was placed upon a special truck, and so the Duke travelled to town.

His hobby was building. Five hundred workmen were employed to build and excavate museums, libraries, and a ball-room under the lake, and all the plans and models were prepared by himself.

It is said that after making a fine collection of paintings, the Duke's further peculiarity led him to destroy in a huge bonfire several thousand pounds worth of them.

In his personal appearance he was remarkable for an excessively high hat, a strange ulster and trousers that were invariably tied round the ankles with string. He habitually wore a very old-fashioned wig, and never stirred out, wet or fine, without a great umbrella.

In 1880, the Duke, whose habits had grown more and more unaccountable, died, and immediately afterwards, his sister, the Countess of Ossington, commissioned me to paint a life-sized portrait of him, and shortly afterwards Mr. Boehm was asked to model the bust. I therefore lost no time in having a cast of the head taken; a beautiful thing it was, showing how refined the features must have been in life.

Lady Ossington then gave her ideas of how she wished the portrait composed, and suggested that the Duke should be seated in his study with plans of buildings or of gardens that he might be designing, introduced as likely accessories, and, of all things, a sunset appearing in the background of which he would never tire. A considerable correspondence ensued between Lady Ossington and myself and her written descriptions helped me considerably.

"Viscountess Ossington presents her compliments to Mr. Leslie Ward," one of the letters ran, "and sends him an Inverness tweed cloak that used to be thrown lightly on when looking at plans before going out...."

When all this was fully described, the valet paid me a visit and brought with him his late master's clothes, his hat, stick, and wig as well as the cape which was of characteristic cut, at the same time informing me that the frock coat was always rather loosely made.

My great difficulty was to procure a suitable model to sit for the clothes. At last I got the address of one, an old man from Drury Lane, who, I learnt, had been a super. He called upon me in answer to my letter, and I instructed him to come to my studio, showing him the clothes he would have to wear. As it so happened, he came long before his time, and was shown into the studio. He had evidently dressed himself up ready for me, but very carelessly, in the late Duke's early Victorian frock coat suit. When I arrived, there was this elderly gentleman seated on the throne with his own clothes on the floor. On approaching him I found him to be fast asleep and snoring. Being naturally disgusted and annoyed I ordered him quickly to change and be off. He wore a silly smile and with the Duke's wig on all awry he fumbled away at his coat tails. He was trying to explain to me that his change in coppers were in the coat. He could not have been sober on his arrival, but when giving me to understand that he had only been round (in this costume) to have a glass "at the pub," I confess it inwardly amused me.

I was now obliged to procure the services of another model, and this time a real gentleman turned up. He was also elderly, and not prepossessing in appearance, but nevertheless bore the traces of better breeding than the Drury Lane super. He had a ponderous and high-bridged nose of a purple hue which contrasted with his saffron face, and his eyes were tearful with evident sorrows of the past.

When he had changed his rusty suit and knee-bagged etceteras for a spruce frock coat and equally dapper trousers, he sat in the gold-backed chair with the air of a duke while I prepared my palette.

As I commenced to paint, he began to talk and to relate his experiences in the past. He had, according to his story, started life as an officer in a cavalry regiment, and the love of gambling became so irresistible that he lost fortunes. Now, he said, he was determined to make amends for his folly in the past, and by the aid of his sympathisers he knew he could redeem that social position which he formerly held. That he must have decent clothes to start with, went without saying, and those who heard his story, he was convinced, would help him to procure them—of that he was sure. Had I any to spare? (Of course I saw what he was leading up to), and so the talk went on in this maudlin way till he had to be pulled up, and I had to remind him what he was in my studio for.

Possibly there was some foundation for his story, for that he had received a decent education there was little doubt.

Some time after he finished these sittings, he turned up again with a young woman whom he introduced to me as his wife. She was anxious to become a model too, but I fear by this time he was in little request. It occurred to me that he must have related to her some very plausible stories before they could have entered into matrimony.

Then, one morning, upon taking up the paper, I read a thrilling story of how an artist's model had so cruelly treated his wife that she died in consequence. It was a charge of manslaughter. This was the very man, but although in his drunken moments he had behaved as a brute-beast, evidence went to show that when sober no one could have treated her with more consideration and affection, so he got off with imprisonment, but died in gaol (it was said of remorse) shortly afterwards.

Before quite completing the face, and as I had been told of the extraordinary likeness that existed between the Duke and his sister, it occurred to me that a few touches from Lady Ossington herself would enable me to improve the portrait. I therefore, with some difficulty, persuaded her to give me a sitting which really proved useful. Anyhow, I received the kindest letter from her expressing her thanks for the satisfactory way in which I had completed my work, and this naturally pleased me, for it was no easy task.

Very shortly after, she wrote again, saying that although it was her intention to leave the portrait to the present Duke to be permanently hung in the Gallery at Welbeck, it had been arranged that it should be temporarily lent for the approaching visit of the Prince of Wales. In consequence of her anxiety for its safe delivery, I undertook to take it down myself, and Lady Bolsover, who was there at the time, invited me to stay the day. I was fortunate in finding among her guests a lady whom I knew, who kindly showed me over the place, and thereby satisfied my curiosity, especially when we came to the underground passages of which I had heard so much. I must say that after Mr. Henry Savile (his neighbour at Rufford) had related stories to me about the Duke, the mystery existing in my mind was somewhat dispelled concerning him. No doubt he was eccentric, but so much must have been human in him that his interesting personality predominated. Although he took little nourishment he seemed to have worked hard both physically and mentally, and to have possessed tastes of a high order.

Mr. Savile would often see him with his trousers tied with tape, much like the workmen on his estate, not only directing them in their work, but like one of themselves using the spade, although they were forbidden to recognize him by either touching or raising their caps.

Ages after the picture had passed out of my mind, I happened to be dining with friends, when I was introduced to an American lawyer. He was full of stories, as might be expected, and he told us one (of an extravagant order) which he said would lead to a very big case in the Courts of Law in which he himself would appear. The story was too impossible to believe; in fact, I was rude enough to tell him so.

When the case came into Court I was astonished (as were many others) to read the (to me) incredible story of the claim of a Mrs. Druce, who announced that the late Thomas Charles Druce, an upholsterer of Baker Street, had been none other than the late Duke. T. C. Druce was reported to have died at Holcombe House, and it was alleged that he had never been buried at Highgate Cemetery; also, according to report, the servants at Holcombe House had stripped lead off the roof to weight the coffin, to indicate that there was a body inside.

Other evidence was produced to show that Druce was alive several years after his reported death; curious coincidences pointing to a similarity of habits between Druce and the late Duke were sworn to by many witnesses.

The employees at Druce's Baker Street Bazaar said that Druce would never appear when an aristocratic or Royal patron asked for him, and also that, like the Duke, he disappeared for considerable periods, and was known to enter his office from an underground passage leading from Harcourt House. Other significant peculiarities were mentioned—such as Druce's habit of tying his trousers with string round the ankle, the high hat and the old-fashioned wig; and photographs of the Duke and Druce were published in the papers. But I became extremely interested in the case when a point arose as to the date of the Duke's alleged marriage with a Miss Crickmer; it was stated to have occurred in the year 1816 (at this date he was only sixteen and a half years old), and this question was met with a reproduction of my full-length portrait of the Duke, which was stated beyond doubt to have been painted during the period of the Duke's residence at Bury, when he was Lord Tichfield. I regretted that I was not in Court and able to contradict this extraordinary statement; but I felt assured that the Druce claim would prove to be without foundation, and was not surprised to hear eventually that the case had been quashed by the opening of the Druce vault, where the presence of the body put an end to the allegations of the Druce family.

An extraordinary incident which happened with alarming suddenness, and which nearly brought me into unpleasant contact with the law, occurred one night when I was coming home from my club. I usually preferred to walk, for the exercise was beneficial to me after a hard day's work. It was not conspicuously late, and I was walking along lost in thought when a girl whom I knew as one of my models approached me and said rather breathlessly, "There's a woman and two men following you; they're dangerous characters, I feel sure—do take a cab—please!"

I was about to expostulate as this interruption was rather in the nature of a surprise, but before I could speak, she begged me excitedly to "Take a cab," and as a hansom was passing, hailed it and began to bundle me in.

"Really," I began, "why all this excitement? What is the matter?"

At that moment a big woman who looked rather like the adventuress in a Melville melodrama, as far as I could see (she was heavily veiled), came up and addressed some very insulting remarks to the little model.

"Oh, good heavens!" I said, and got into the cab. The girl jumped in quickly and called at the same time to the driver to hurry.

"What is all this?" I said in the cab as I saw her looking anxiously out of the window.

"Let's go another way—she's following us," replied the girl, who appeared to be shaking with fear.

"Oh," I said, "never mind. Let's drive quickly."

The other cab was following, and I wondered what I was "in for," when we drew up at my studio—the girl appeared to be so terrified that I gave her my key and told her to go in while I prepared to settle matters. As I alighted, I saw two rough-looking men getting off the back of the other cab. They looked such thorough blackguards that it occurred to me the girl's fears were not without grounds.

Before I could pay the cabby, the woman alighted and started to abuse me, while the bullies lurked behind.

Catching sight of a policeman sauntering up the road, I called to him to rid me of my unpleasant companions, but at his approach the woman changed her tune to a sort of snivelling self-righteousness, and said to the constable:—

"This man's my husband, I've just caught him in the very act of going off with another woman, he has deserted me cruelly."

The man looked from my face to hers in immediate understanding, and said in conciliatory tones, which betrayed a strong Lancashire accent.

"Why doant ye go 'ome with yer wife?"

"You ass. She's no more my wife than you are," I said hotly—for I was furious.

"I have the marriage certificate," broke in the woman with a well-simulated sob.

"Look 'ere," remonstrated the policeman. "Come naow," and he tried to force me into her cab.

This was too much for me.

"Look here," I said angrily. "We'll end this farce. I'm going to the police station, and you shall come with me."

So we drove off in our respective cabs, by now the two men had disappeared. At the police station, the woman still kept up her foolish acting; after hearing my case, the inspector cross-questioned her. "What name?" She thoughtlessly gave her own, not knowing mine, and once again referred theatrically to the marriage certificate.

An expression of dawning remembrance passed over the inspector's face, and after opening another book, he turned the pages until pausing, he read quietly for a moment.

"Yes, I have it," he said. "You were imprisoned for violent assault, fined, and were only released yesterday. You had better go about your business."

The woman did not appear disturbed or non-plussed when she knew her identity was exposed, but still dogged my footsteps. After my experience of the evening, I refused to go home without a police escort, and all the way my strange adventuress followed us, still abusive, until at last, on nearing my studio, she disappeared. I found my door open as the little model had left it when she had evidently fled in her fear to her home.

I often wonder what object the woman and her two attendant blackguards had in pursuing me. I am glad to think I escaped with a whole skin from an incomprehensible adventure.

Another episode which resulted in my actually appearing in the courts, this time not as a spectator, but as the plaintiff in a case which I brought against an omnibus company, occurred some time back.

I happened to be returning from Queen Anne's Gate, where I had spent a busy morning's work upon a portrait, and I was due at my studio to meet another sitter. Having very little time to spare, I partook of a hasty cup of coffee and some light refreshment in lieu of lunch, and hastily jumped on to an omnibus going in the direction of Chelsea. After a brief interval a lady sitting in front turned round to me as we were passing Ebury Bridge and said, "Would you kindly ask the conductor for me if he will give me my change. I've spoken to him several times and without effect."

"Certainly," I replied, and called to the conductor.

"What do yer want?" he answered tersely, without turning his head.

"I want you to give this lady her change as she is getting down almost immediately and says she has already asked you for it."

"You've got her change," he replied to my astonishment. "I must have given it to you by mistake."

Finding that I only had the sum of twopence halfpenny in my pocket, a penny of which I was holding in readiness for my fare, I was not deceived by this convenient way of shifting the responsibility of fivepence on to my shoulders. But as his manners were so insolent to the lady and to myself, I was determined to ascertain the man's number. Of course he refused to give it me, and covered the badge with his coat. My destination was coming nearer every moment, and in spite of my having such little time to spare, I descended from the top of the omnibus to the footboard, and the man's insolence increased when he realized my resolve to proceed a little further until I gained my point. I was considerably hampered with a parcel containing a drawing-board in one hand and an umbrella in the other, but I tried to tug at the strap which held the badge, at which the conductor turned round suddenly and said:—