Kitabı oku: «Forty Years of 'Spy'», sayfa 3

When I was about sixteen I turned my attention to modelling, and in the vacation I started a bust of my young brother Russell. I spent all my mornings working hard and at length finished it. On the last day of my holiday I went to have a final glance at my work and found the whole thing had collapsed into a shapeless mass of clay. With the exception of watching sculptors work I had no technical knowledge to help me; but, not to be discouraged, I waited eagerly for the term to end, so that I might return to my modelling. When the time came, and my holidays began, I at once set to work again, taking the precaution to have the clay properly supported this time. Allowing no one to help me, I worked away strenuously, for I was determined it should be entirely my own. My bust was finished in time to send in to the Royal Academy, where it was accepted. I had favourable notices in the Times and other papers, which astonished and encouraged me, and I went back to school tremendously elated at my success.

Tom Taylor, then art critic of the Times, wrote to my mother, saying:—

Dear Mrs. Ward,

… I must tell you how much Leslie's bust of Wrio was admired by our guests last night—particularly by Professor Owen....

Later I started another bust of Kate Terry, but I was never pleased with it, as it did not do my distinguished sitter justice, and I resolved not to send it to an exhibition.

I did not follow up my first success in the paths of sculpture, for I still suffered slightly from my strain, and I came to the conclusion that it would prove too great a tax on my strength at that time if I took up this profession.

The stage claimed a great part of my attention about this time, and I became an inveterate "first-nighter" in my holidays. From the pit (for, except on rare occasions, I could not afford a more expensive seat), or when lucky enough to have places given me, I saw nearly all the popular plays of the day; and when Tom Taylor introduced my parents to the Terry family, I became more interested than ever, owing to the greater attraction of personal interest. I grew ambitious and acted myself, arranged the plays, painted the scenery, borrowing the beautiful costumes from my father's extensive historical wardrobe.

The first time I appeared before a large audience was at the Bijou Theatre, Bayswater, which was taken by a good amateur company called "The Shooting Stars," composed chiefly of Cambridge Undergraduates. We arranged two plays, and the acting of the present Judge Selfe was especially good, also that of Mr. F. M. Alleyne.

One night, when I came down from my dressing-room, made up in character to go on the impromptu stage, I complimented an old carpenter of ours, waiting in the wings, upon the clever way in which he had arranged the stage and the scenery.

"Oh yes, sir," he replied, very modestly, thinking I was a stranger, "I didn't paint the scenery, Mr. Leslie did that!"

In some theatricals at the Friths' house, when John Hare coached us, I took the part of an old butler. On my way to Pembridge Villas, attired ready for the stage, I remembered I needed some sticking plaster to obliterate one of my teeth; so leaving the cab at a corner, I entered a chemist's shop, where I was amused, because the assistant put me on one side rather rudely for other customers who came later, and after attending to them, addressed me roughly with a, "Now, what do you want?" His rudeness was an unconscious tribute to my effective disguise, and his manners altered considerably when I disillusioned him.

At one time Miss Marion Terry, who was then about to go on the stage, after witnessing my acting in a play of Byron's, suggested in fun and raillery at my enthusiasm that we should make our début together. Owing to her excessive sensibility and highly strung temperament, rehearsals were very trying to her at first, and for this reason her eventual success was in doubt. When one has seen her perform her many successful parts with such exquisite talent and pathos, one feels glad to realize that she finally overcame her nervousness, and that her gift of acting was not lost to the public.

I knew the Terrys very well then, and I was in love with them all; in fact, I do not know with which of them I was most in love.

Ellen Terry sat to my father for his picture of "Juliet," and Kate Terry for "Beatrice" in Much Ado. I remember too that when Ellen made her reappearance in the theatre, my mother lent our great actress a beautiful gold scarf, to wear in that part in which she fascinated us on the stage as fully as she did in private life. Among my cherished letters I find the following notes written to me at school, after her marriage to G. F. Watts.

1866.

My Dear Leslie,

I am extremely obliged to you for your sketch and I'm sorry Alice [my sister] should be "riled" that I wanted a character of her, as the people down here call caricatures. Please give my love to her and to her Mama and to all the rest at Kent Villa—when you write. Mrs. Carr and Mr. Carr (my kind hostess and host) think the caricature is a capital one of me! Polly [Miss Marion Terry] sends her love, and is awfully jealous that I should have sketches done by you and she not!! With kindest regards and best thanks, believe me, dear Leslie,

Sincerely yours,

Ellen Watts.

Dear Leslie,

I fulfil my promise by sending you the photo of my sister Kate, that you said you liked! I think it's the same. I hope you'll excuse it being so soiled, but it's the only one I have—the fact is, the Baby [her brother Fred] seized it, as it lay upon the table waiting to be put into a cover, and has nearly bitten it to pieces. I came up from Bradford, in Yorkshire, on Monday last, where I had spent a week with Papa and Polly, and I can't tell you, Leslie, how cold it was. I intend going to Kent Villa, as soon as possible. I've promised Alice a song of Mrs. Tom Taylor's and have not sent it to her yet, "Better late than never," tho' I really have been busy.

With my best regards,

Sincerely yours,

Nelly Watts.

Those were delightful days spent with delightful companions. Lewis Carroll was sometimes a member of the pleasant coterie which met at our house in those days. My sister Beatrice was one of his greatest child friends, and although he always sent his MSS. for her to read, he disliked any mention of his fame as an author, and would abruptly leave the presence of any one who spoke about his books. The public at that time were in complete ignorance of the real identity of Lewis Carroll. Later in life, when I wished to make a cartoon of Mr. Dodgson for Vanity Fair, he implored me not to put him in any paper. Naturally, I was obliged to consent, but Vanity Fair extorted some work from his pen as a compromise. He was a clever amateur photographer, and in my mother's albums there are photographs taken by him of several members of the Terry family, together with some of us.

Mrs. Cameron was famous in those days as an amateur photographer, and she took photographs of all the leading people of the day. Watts and Tennyson were among her intimates, and most celebrities of the day knew her by sight. She was a very little old lady—I remember being in a shop (where some of her photographs were on view) with my young brother, who was a beautiful boy, when Mrs. Cameron entered. She caught sight of Russell, and could not take her eyes from his face. At last she said, "I want to know who the little boy is with you," and seemed very interested. I told her who we were, whereupon she asked if I thought my parents would allow him to sit to her. Of course they were delighted.

In 1867 Kate Terry resolved at the height of her fame to marry Mr. Arthur Lewis (of whom I have more to say later), and to retire from the stage, apparently quite content to leave her glories. Then the most famous of the Terry sisters, Kate received an ovation worthy of her. The Times, in a long article, said: "It is seldom that the theatre chronicles have to describe a scene like that at the New Adelphi on Saturday, when Miss Kate Terry took her farewell of the Stage as Juliet.... Again and again Miss Terry was recalled, and again she appeared to receive the long and continued plaudits of the crowd.... Let us close our last notice of Miss Terry with the hope that in her case the sacrifice of public triumph may be rewarded by a full measure of that private happiness which is but the just recompense of an exemplary, a laborious, conscientious and devoted life, on and off the stage, as the annals of the English theatre—not unfruitful in examples of wives—may show."

Punch was just as enthusiastic and published a long eulogy in verse, two stanzas of which I quote below:—

 
She has passed from us just as the goal she had sighted,
From the top of the ladder reached fairly at last;
With her laurels still springing, no leaf of them blighted,
And a fortune:—how bright!—may be gauged by her past.
 
 
May this rhyme, kindly meant as it is, not offend her,
All fragrant with flowers be the path of her life,
May the joy she has given in blessings attend her,
And her happiest part be the part of "The Wife."
 

Although I was not intended to enter the theatrical profession, the stage never failed to attract me; and once, when I was still at school, I was presented with a seat in exactly the centre of the dress circle at a theatre where Miss Bateman (who became Mrs. Crowe) was taking the part of Leah. I remember this fine actress made a great sensation, especially in one scene where she uttered a rousing curse with great declamatory power; the house was hushed with excitement and admiration; and you could have heard the proverbial pin drop, when I … who had been playing football that morning, was suddenly seized with the most excruciating cramp; I arose … and could not help standing up to rub away the pain in my leg, the curse then for the moment echoing throughout the audience.

Another time, somewhat later, I was again to prove a disturbing element. I was at the old Strand Theatre, in the stage box, and my host was a personal friend of Miss Florence St. John, then singing one of her most successful songs. Now I am the unfortunate possessor of a loud voice and a still louder sneeze, which latter I have never succeeded in controlling. In the middle of the song, I was overcome with an overpowering and irresistible desire to sneeze … which I suddenly did with terrific force. Miss St. John was so disconcerted, that she stopped her song, and thinking it was a deliberate attempt at annoyance from her friend—my host—called out, "You brute!" After that, I took a back seat.

Besides visiting the theatre in my holidays, I used to go sketching into the country; and one summer my parents took an old farmhouse at Arundel. This reminds me of another unfortunate propensity of mine, and that is, to tumble whenever I get an easy opportunity. When we were inspecting the house, we discovered a curious sort of uncovered coal hole under one of the front windows, and my father jokingly remarked, "What a trap for Leslie!" Three days later, when we were settled in the house, my parents were going for a drive … and as I waved them a farewell, which precipitately ended by my disappearing into this hole, my father's jest became a prophecy.

At Arundel I made friends with a brewer named Constable, who was also a clever amateur artist. Sometimes he took me fishing, but more often I watched him sketch in the open. An interesting fact about Mr. Constable was that his father had been an intimate friend of the great Constable, although, curiously enough, no relation. My friend told me that whatever he had learned had been owing to his close observation of the great artist's methods. I remember his water colours showed little of the amateur in their strength and handling, for they were masterly and forcible in touch, and perhaps more effective because they were usually painted in the late afternoon, when the sun was getting low, and the long shadows were full of strength and depth of colour.

Vicat Cole, R.A., was also a friend of his, and he used frequently to paint at Arundel.

Although I worked hard in the holidays at my drawing, I managed to enjoy myself pretty considerably, and was the fortunate possessor of many delightful acquaintances.

One of the pleasantest memories of my later school days was of a dance given by Mr. and Mrs. J. M. Levy and the Misses Levy at Lancaster Gate. The cotillion was led by Sir Howard Vincent, and many of the smart and well-known men of that day were there; among them Sir Eyre Shaw, the "Captain Shaw" of "Gilbert and Sullivan" fame. Patti, who was a very intimate friend of theirs, was present, sitting in the middle of the room looking angelic and surrounded by a host of admiring men. We were each given a miniature bugle. Patti had one also, on which she sounded a note, and whoever repeated it exactly was to gain her as a partner in the dance. The men advanced in turn, some blew too high, and others too low, until one and all gave up in disgust. At last my turn came; I was trembling with eagerness and excitement, and determined to dance with Patti or die.... I hit the note!… and gained my waltz!—and the applause was great as I carried off my prize.

In earlier days I went to a juvenile party at Lancaster Gate, and, going down to supper late, I found myself quite alone. I calmly devoted my attention to some méringues, while it seems that my people, amongst the last of the guests, were ready to go. The ladies were putting on their cloaks.... I heard the sounds of departure, but, still engrossed in the good things, I ate on. Hue and cry was raised for me; and finally I was found covered with cream and confusion amongst the méringues.

I remember, à propos of my being a "gourmand," that I was a great believer in the efficacy of prayer. My sister and I used to rise very early in the mornings after dinner-parties to rummage in and to ransack the cupboards for any dainty we fancied. After a good "tuck in," we would pray for the forgiveness of our sins, and then we would fall to breakfast with an easy conscience.

CHAPTER III
MY FATHER'S FRIENDS

My father's friends.—The pre-Raphaelites.—Plum-box painting.—The Victorians.—The post.—Impressionists.—Maclise.—Sir Edwin Landseer.—Tom Landseer.—Mulready.—Daniel Roberts.—Edward Cooke.—Burgess and Long.—Frith.—Millais.—Stephens and Holman Hunt.—Stanfield.—C. R. Leslie.—Dr. John Doran.—Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall.—The Virtues, James and William.—Mr. and Mrs. Tom Taylor.—A story of Tennyson.—Sam Lover.—Moscheles père et fils.—Philip Calderon.—Sir Theodore and Lady Martin.—Garibaldi.—Lord Crewe.—Fechter.—Joachim and Lord Houghton.—Charles Dickens.—Lord Stanhope.—William Hepworth Dixon.—Sir Charles Dilke.

Before I proceed any further with the reminiscences of my school-days and after, I should like to recall a few memories of the men and women who visited the studios of my parents. Artists of course predominated, and amongst the latter were men who distinguished themselves in the world. Many of them, through no fault of their genius, have lost some of their shining reputation. Others, who were merely popular painters of the hour, are forgotten. Again, a few who were somewhat obscure in their lifetime, have gained a posthumous reputation, and still others have to await recognition in the future.

It is an age of reactions. Just as the pre-Raphaelite movement "revolted" against the academic art preceding it, so the photographic idealism of pre-Raphaelitism was superseded by a reaction in art resulting and undoubtedly profiting by its really fine example. I will not go as far as to say Whistler gained by the pre-Raphaelites; but his art assuredly became all the more conspicuous by contrast, and perhaps his school is indirectly responsible for the latest reaction in favour of raw colour. In the "back to the land" style of painting which we find in favour with a few modern artists, abnormal looking women are painted with surprising results, and these artists seem to delight in a sort of blatant realism that becomes nauseous. With passionate brutality they present their subjects to us, and their admirers call the result "life." Let us have truth by all means, and let us not, on the other hand, lapse into the merely pretty; but let the truth we portray be imaginative truth allied to beauty.

That reminds me of the "plum-box" artist, who used to go round to country houses when I was a boy, with a completed painted picture of what was then considered the ideal and fashionable face, which consisted mainly of big eyes, veiled by sweeping lashes, a perfect complexion, a rosebud mouth, and glossy curls. The artist (one feels more inclined to call him the "tradesman") then superimposed the features of his sitter upon this fancy background, and the result invariably gave great pleasure and satisfaction.

Nowadays it has become the fashion or the pose of the moment to decry the works of the Victorians as old-fashioned, and in many cases with undoubtedly good reason; but unfortunately the best work is often included in the same category. In the rage for modernity, culminating in "post-impressionism," "futurism," and other "isms," in art, literature, the stage, and, I believe, costume, the thorough and highly conscientious work of some of our greatest men has become obscured; they are like the classic which nobody reads, and they stand unchallenged, but unnoticed except by the very few. Perhaps their genius will survive to-day's reactionary rush into what is sometimes described as individualism, and the worship of personality before beauty, which, if carried to excess as it is to-day, seems to verge into mere charlatanism. We are a little too near the great ones to see them clearly, and perhaps they can only be judged by their peers. Sometimes I see the casual onlooker glance at, sum up, and condemn, pictures which I know represent the unfaltering patience of a lifetime, combined with a passionate idealism of motive. The abundance of art schools, the enormous reduction in prices, the overwhelming commercialism which sets its heel upon the true artist, to crush him out of existence unless he compromises with art, all combine to render the art and artist in general widely different from the men of my early days. True, the Victorian came at a great moment, and now more than ever, if I may misquote: "art is good … with an inheritance."

Among the innumerable artists I knew during my later school-days, Maclise stands out a massive figure and a strong personality. He reminded me in a certain grand way of a great bull; his chin was especially bovine; it was not exactly a dewlap or a double chin, but a heavy gradation of flesh going down into his collar. In the National Portrait Gallery there is a portrait by my father of Maclise as a young man.

His work is to me typical of the man: he was a magnificent draughtsman, a cartoonist of fine ideas. In the National Collection at Kensington there are some beautiful pencil drawings by him of various celebrities of the day, and they are perfect in line and study of character. In the Royal Gallery of the House of Lords may be seen his "Battle of Waterloo" and "Death of Nelson," which are extremely masterly in drawing and composition. But in my opinion he lost his charm of line when he attempted paint, for his colouring is unsympathetic and the effect is hard. His crudity of colour is not so noticeable, however, in the frescoes as in his oil-paintings.

Sir Edwin Landseer was an artist who, like Maclise, received large sums for his pictures. He was considered one of the greatest painters of the day, but I am afraid it is no longer the fashion to admire him, although his best works must always hold the position they have deservedly won. I wonder how many people remember that the lions in Trafalgar Square were designed by our great animal painter.

"The Sleeping Bloodhound" stands out amongst Landseer's pictures as a masterpiece. It was painted in two hours from the dead body of a favourite hound.

It is curious that in many instances, especially of early work, his colour was very rich, and that in his later work his feeling for colour seems to have weakened.

Tom Landseer no doubt contributed largely to his brother's reputation by his masterly fine engravings of Sir Edwin's pictures, which were sometimes unsatisfactory in colour and gained in black and white.

Herbert, whose name was prominent through his fresco of "Moses breaking the Tablets," was quite a character in those days. I remember he always spoke with what appeared to be a strong French accent, although it has been said he had never been abroad in his life. The story went that, going to Boulogne he stepped from the boat … slipped … and broke his English. Later in life he worked himself "out," and his Academy pictures of religious subjects became very grotesque and quite a laughing-stock. I am afraid this type of work needs a watchful sense of humour and a powerful talent to preserve its gravity.

Mulready was an artist whose character showed in strong contrast to that of Herbert. He was the dearest of old men; I can see him now with his superb old head, benevolent and yet strong. He painted that indisputably fine picture, "Choosing the Wedding Gown," now in the National Collection at the Kensington Museum. Although the subject will not be viewed with sympathetic interest by many of the present generation, its worth is undoubted. His work is completely out of date, but I remember one curious fact in connection with his crayon drawings, which hung upon the walls of the Academy Schools; when Leighton visited there, he had these drawings covered over, because they were extremely antagonistic to his own teaching.

David Roberts, who was then considered the greatest painter of interiors, began life as a scene painter, as did Stanfield who was his contemporary and a very powerful sea painter. Both men were Royal Academicians, as was Edward Cooke, an artist of less power than Stanfield, but of not much less distinction, imbued with the spirit of the old Dutch painters of sea and ships. He lived to a ripe old age with his two sisters, but perhaps the youngest in appearance and manner of the four was his wonderful old mother, who died when she was close upon a hundred.

Then there were Burgess and Long who painted Spanish subjects. Long was best known, however, by his picture of the "Babylonian Marriage Mart," and Burgess as a young man sprang into fame with his picture called "Bravo Toro." Like almost every other artist, Long took to portrait painting, and his pictures became a great financial success; but his portraits were not for the most part successful from an artist's point of view.

Most of the well-known artists of the day visited my parents, and amongst them I remember Sydney Cooper, David Roberts, C. R. Leslie, Peter Graham, Stanfield, Edward Cooke, Frith, Millais, etc., etc. Stephens, the art critic of the "Athenæum," came with his intimate friend, Holman Hunt; he assisted the famous pre-Raphaelite in painting in the detail in some of his pictures, such as the Moorish temple in "The Saviour in the Temple." Later, he wrote the catalogue of "Prints and Drawings" at the British Museum. The last time I met Mr. Stephens, he told me the greatest pleasure he could possibly have was to go round London with my father, for there was not a place of interest of which he could not tell some anecdote of historical or topical information; and as an antiquary of some merit, the art critic was evidently in a position to give his appreciation with the authority of knowledge.

I think my father's closest friend was John Doran. To quote Mr. Edge:—" … Doctor Doran, known as the 'Doctor,' having graduated in Germany as a 'Doctor of Philosophy.' He was a delightful raconteur, a brilliant conversationalist, a man to put the shyest at his ease. He, too, studied history and wrote some of the most delightful biographies in the English language. The painter (my father) and the Doctor took many an excursion together to old-world places celebrated for memories quaint, tragic or humorous, and their rambles were perpetuated in their pictures and books."

Doran began his literary career by producing a melodrama at the Surrey Theatre when he was only fifteen years of age, and continued up to his death to produce a series of interesting works, although he did not write for the stage after his early success. He was editor of Notes and Queries and the author of "Table Traits and Something on Them." Perhaps his best-known work was "Her Majesty's Servants." Among his later works, "Monarchs Retired from Business," and "The History of Court Fools" occur to my mind simultaneously.

The three following anecdotes from Dr. Doran's journal, will appeal on the strength of their own dry humour and at the same time give the reader a glimpse of the character of my father's Irish friend:—

October 18th, 1833. In an antiquated edition of Burnet's "History of His Own Times" it was stated that an old Earl of Eglinton had behaved so scandalously that he was made to sit in the "Cutty Stool" (or stool of repentance at kirk) for three Sabbaths running. On the fourth Sunday he sat there again, so the minister called him down as his penance was over. "It may be so," said the Earl, "but I shall always sit here for the future … it is the best seat in the kirk, and I do not see a better man to take it from me."

December 9th, 1833. Colonel Boldero told us after dinner a good story of Luttrell that Rogers told him the other day. He was about to sit for his picture, and asked Luttrell's advice as to how he should be taken. "Oh," said Luttrell, "let it be as when you are entering a pew—with your face in your hat."

December 5, 1833. Heard also at dinner a story of "Poodle" Byng. Dining once at the Duke of Rutland's, he exclaimed on seeing fish on the table, "Ah! My old friend haddock! I haven't seen that fish at a gentleman's table since I was a boy!" The "Poodle" was never invited to Belvoir again.

Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, also well-known writers of the day, were constant visitors at our house. S. C. Hall was said to have suggested the character of Pecksniff to Dickens, perhaps because he interlarded his conversation with pious remarks, which may have sounded singularly hypocritical to many people. As a child I regarded him with terror, because whenever he called he would come to our nursery and behave in a manner he probably thought highly entertaining to children, which consisted of pulling awful faces. His mass of white hair, bushy eyebrows and staring eyes gave him an ogreish look, and added to my fears when he shook his fist at me in mock horror. Then he would tickle me as hard as he could; and as I hated this form of play, his exertions only moved me to tears, so that when I heard him coming I invariably hid myself until his departure.

Mr. Hall began life as a barrister and turned to literary work, establishing the Art Journal, and carrying it on in the face of very discouraging circumstances. Eventually he was successful, and his work had an extensive influence, I suppose, on the progress of British art. As a writer his output was enormous; he and his wife published between them no fewer than two hundred and seventy volumes. As an ardent spiritualist he was very interested at that time in a medium who, I am afraid, was an atrocious humbug. One Good Friday my father called, to find Mr. Hall in a state of great excitement.

"You've just missed dear Daniel," said Hall. "He floated in through the window, round the house and out again, and I don't doubt we shall see the day when he will float round St. Paul's."

Mrs. S. C. Hall (very Irish), who had a great personal reputation as a writer, was most attractive and altogether a very interesting woman, being a spiritualist and a philanthropist. She founded the Hospital for Consumptives in the Fulham Road, and persuaded her great friend Jenny Lind to sing at charity concerts to gain funds for her institution. My father painted both of them, and the portrait of Mr. Hall is now in the possession of the latter's family.

Ruskin was on very friendly terms with them, and it was the Halls who introduced us to the Virtues, who were the proprietors and publishers of the Art Journal. James Virtue, who was a fine oar and President of the London Rowing Club, was one of the most cheerful men one could wish to meet; and as hostess, his wife, who, I am happy to say, is still living, was equally delightful. His brother William Virtue afterwards saved my life—but that is anticipating events somewhat.

Mr. and Mrs. Tom Taylor were another interesting and talented couple who were friends of my parents. Tom Taylor was the art critic of the Times, and at one time editor of Punch. He was also the author of several popular plays, of which Still Waters Run Deep and the Ticket of Leave Man, in which Henry Neville played the hero, are perhaps the most widely known. In conjunction with Charles Reade he wrote some amusing comedies; as well as writing in prose and verse for Punch he compiled some interesting biographies, of Reynolds, Constable, David Cox, and C. R. Leslie, R.A. At dinner his appearance was remarkable, for he usually wore a black velvet evening suit. A curious trait of the dramatist's was his absent-minded manner and forgetfulness of convention. Sometimes when walking in the street with a friend he would grow interested, and, to emphasise his remarks, turned to look more directly into the face of his companion, at the same time placing his arm around his waist. In the case of a lady this habit sometimes proved rather embarrassing!

Mr. Tom Taylor was a man of unbounded kindness in helping everybody who was in need of money or in trouble; his generosity probably made him the object of attentions from all sorts and conditions of people, a fact very soon discovered by his domestics, for one day Mr. and Mrs. Taylor returned from a walk to be met by a startled parlourmaid who announced the presence of a strange-looking man who was waiting to see them. Her suspicions being aroused by his wild appearance, she had shown him into the pantry, fearing to leave him in the drawing-room. On repairing to the pantry with curiosity not unmixed with wonder, they discovered … Tennyson … quite at home and immensely tickled by his situation.