Forty Years of 'Spy'

    "Feb. 2nd, 1881.

"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....

    "Yours sincerely,
    J. E. Boehm.

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.

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.