Ulrich Middeldorf MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON I • ^rom. n /t/wAjpn^A /y rtAu* J&uetJ, 'Ma/l, (Sa/iny ( ^e^/tufA{/r- /. n /i/A sjfiudco, 22 ^io/ihm <^u/vre. MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON BY JULIUS M. PRICE AUTHOR OF “MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN PARIS,” ETC. WITH 32 ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR AND PHOTOGRAVURE FRONTISPIECE PHILADELPHIA DAVID McKAY, Publisher 604-8 SOUTH WASHINGTON SQUARE In the passage of years I have made many friends ; to all these friends I dedicate this little hook. J. M. P. PREFACE In falling in with the suggestion made to me by my publisher that I should write a further volume on my Bohemian days I found myself confronted with the perplexing question as to when one’s “ Bohemian days ” can really be said to have ended, for I have always been inclined to think that “ once a Bohemian, always a Bohemian.” Of course, I do not refer to the state of affairs which is a dreadful reality to many a struggling artist, and from which through force of circumstances, there is no getting away — to such the word is but a synonym for penury, and there can be little romance in connection with it, in London at any rate. There is another form of Bohemianism not associated with actual poverty that appeals so strongly to some men, that long after youth is passed, and when they are in a position to live as ordinary citizens, they still remain under its spell. It might be termed the fascination of the un- conventional, were it not that unconventionality is almost inherent, and is largely a matter of tem- perament and climatic influence. My souvenirs, as will be seen, relate more specially to this phase of Bohemian life. In writing of the years I spent in St John’s Wood, I realise that my Paris experiences of artistic Bohemianism helped in no small degree to impart v PREFACE a sort of reflected Parisian lustre on my London studio, and made me perhaps take a somewhat different view of life in those days to what I should have done had I never lived abroad. It was not exactly looking at things through rose-coloured glasses, but with a certain sense of the romantic which had developed in the Quartier Latin and Montmartre. I lay no claim to having discovered any terra incognita , as I feel sure that to many men of my age, much of what I have described of the doings in the “ Wood ” in the mid ’eighties and early ’nineties, must have been to a certain extent familiar, but I venture to hope that my own personal reminis- cences will prove of some interest, if only as affording a glimpse of studio life and a Bohemianism which is now but a memory. This volume is intended as a sequel to “ My Bohemian Days in Paris,” so in conclusion I would add in the words of a once famous advertisement, “If you like the pickles try the sauce.” J. M. P. 22 Golden Square, London, W. [NOTE. — The author had no opportunity of correcting the proofs of this book, as he was at the war while it was being printed . ] vi CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAGE I return to London — Searching for rooms — St John's Wood in the ’eighties — A bed-sitting room in Wellington Road — The buxom landlady — A tempting offer — A mysterious hat and stick — A little incident during the night — The defunct lodger, pathetic episode — In search of a studio — Rents in London as compared with Paris — I take a furnished studio — My landlady — “ Dear Old Jeph i CHAPTER II My first experience of Bohemian life in London — Of living as compared with Paris — The saloon bars and the “ shilling ordinary ” — The London char- woman — Her French prototype — My first com- mission — A lady visitor — A delightful afternoon — -Commencement of a little romance — Painting in my back garden — Sudden ending of the romance ....... 12 CHAPTER III My letter of introduction to Sir Frederick Leighton, P.R.A. — His house and studio in Holland Park Road — The artistic beauty of its interior — Im- pressions of my visit — Leighton's sympathetic personality — His wonderful charm of manner — His linguistic accomplishments — The secret of his great popularity — His Sunday receptions — Amusing anecdote of a Royal Academician — The fashionable crowd in the studio on Show Sunday — Story of the President and the model . vii 24 CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER IV St John's Wood in the mid 'eighties — Curious state of things — Art and gallantry — The fastest dis- trict of London — Distinguished men living there — The artist colony of St John’s Wood as compared with Montmartre — The “ Blenheim " — The “ Eyre Arms " — Visits to friends' studios — An amusing incident — Unexpected visitors — The trick bell-cord — A determined guest — A plethora of jelly — Models persistency in call- ing — Families of models — Costume models — Models for the nude — “ Showing " their figure — Different ways of undressing of the French and the Italian models — Amusing episode in the studio — The two girls, a shock for the gas in- spector — A novel evening bodice ... 32 CHAPTER V Models as a class — Love in the studio — An awkward contretemps — An amusing incident — Earnings of models — The temptation to go wrong — Black sheep — Artists marry models — Jealous wives — Some amusing incidents — Love resuscitated — The “ engaged ” couple — Amateur models — Chance acquaintances — Some amusing inci- dents — Risks one ran — A11 exciting adventure . 45 CHAPTER VI My good luck in Marlboro’ Hill — Commissions — Por- traits — A beautiful sitter — Trying work — I fall in love — Symptoms of the disease — Keeping the postman busy — Top-hatted respectability — Bohemianism versus conventionality — “ A talk with papa " — Ignominious retreat — I go to Gorleston — Painting en plein air — Tender recol- lections — I go to Paris to paint portrait — La vie du Grand Monde — Leaving Marlboro’ Hill — Search for another studio — 10 Blenheim Place — The “ Eyre Arms " and its habitues — The Belsize Boxing Club — The dances in the Assembly Rooms — The coffee room — The dignified waiter — The private bar — Pony Moore — Amusing episode — Practical joking in the Wood — I spend a week-end in a haunted house — The family ghost — Thrilling incident . . . 56 viii CONTENTS CHAPTER VII PAGE My first visit to the office of the Illustrated London News — The office-boy and my drawing — Mr Mason Jackson, the Art Editor — I meet Mr William Ingram — His encouragement and ac- ceptance of my drawing — A fateful morning for me — Engaging personality of Mr William Ingram and his brother Mr Charles Ingram — Their remarkable ability — Fascination of the office — A private club — Interesting men there — Lunching places in the neighbourhood — Carr’s — The Devereux — Wilkinson's d la mode beef shop — Illustrated Journalism in those days — Drawing on the wood — The art of the wood engraver — The “ special artist ” — An amusing anecdote ....... 75 CHAPTER VIII Off to the South of France to finish portrait — Adven- ture en route — Mentone vid Elysium — On the Riviera — A funny incident on return journey — The Frenchman and the luggage — Painting at the docks, an episode — Curio-hunting in the Wood — Tea-parties in studio — A good joke — The British workman — Re-arranging the draw- ing room — Summer in the Scilly Isles — A large painting ....... 83 CHAPTER IX Unconventionality of Bohemianism — Evening dress — “ Going to have a bloater for tea ? ” — A week-end visit to my friend’s “ cottage ” — The impromptu fancy dress dinner party — The denouement — Amusing story of a fancy dress ball — The story of the bugler and the barman — Bacchanalian entertainments — The mysterious drink — Stories of Bohemianism . . . 97 ix CONTENTS CHAPTER X In Paris again for the “ Vernissage ” — Amusing in- cident on return journey — Keeping a carriage to oneself — I meet Captain Hargreaves — The Mount, Bishopstoke — Delightful hospitality — His yacht Ianira — A particularly pleasing souvenir — I join the “ Artists’ ” Volunteers — Sir Frederick Leighton, Colonel the South Lon- don Brigade — The grey-uniformed regiments — Distinguished men amongst the officers of the corps — My first march out — Easter Review at Brighton — Fun out with the girls — A practical joke — Easter Monday Field Day — Leighton, an ideal Colonel — An instance of his indefatiga- bility ........ CHAPTER XI “ Show Sunday " — Then a great event — Importance of exhibiting at the Royal Academy — Not a hall mark of talent — Significance of Show Sunday — The dealers' visits — The social crowd — Critics — What the artist has to put up with — Doubtful praise — Success in art not judged by financial results — Show Sunday stories — I send in my large picture — Sir Frederick Leighton’s encour- agement — I have no luck — Not hung “ for want of space ” — My dejection — Thoughts of enlisting — My girl pal — A real comforter — I gradually recover — Picture purchased by Walker Art Gallery — Katie’s illness — Sad ending CHAPTER XII My first campaign for the Illustrated London News — The Bechuanaland expedition — Its origin — I see Mr Ingram and offer to go out for the News — He agrees — First impressions as an accredited representative of a paper — Interview with Colonel the Hon. Paul Methuen — The ist Mounted Rifles, “ Methuen's Horse ” — The recruiting office — A bit of a set back — Sir Charles Warren and newspaper correspondents — Suggestion that I join “ Methuen's,” in dual capacity as artist and soldier — Mr Ingram x PAGE 109 120 CONTENTS PAGE agrees — I pass medical examination — Sign on as trooper — Serious reflections — Enthusiasm prevails — Getting ready to leave England for a year — The departure of the Pembroke Castle for South Africa — Composition of the regiment and pay of troopers . . . . .130 CHAPTER XIII I return to England from South Africa — The call of the wilds — Finding a new studio — 3 Blenheim Place — My cousin Harris — A sporting arrange- ment — Alone once more — The female element again — A pleasant adventure — My new friend — I restart painting — The demure Gaiety girl and the diaphanous drapery — Painting from the nude — Bad times — Living on the cheap — Sen- tentious platitudes — The artists' money-lender — Cycling in those days — The Army Cycling Corps --Our tricycle — Cycling Club costume — The “ Spider," the " Kangaroo " — Ludicrous adven- ture — The new dollar piece — Cycling in France — Le Portel — The " Grosvenor " and Sir Coutts Lindsay — " Varnishing Day " at the Royal Aca- demy — The "Private View" — London hosts and hostesses — Lady Seton — Social life — Card parties — Funny experience — Result of a foraging expedition — " When the moon," etc., curious sequel to the sale of a picture — Keeley Halswelle and the Sketching Club . . . . .136 CHAPTER XIV Aventures in St John's Wood — A pleasant meeting at Marlboro' Road Station — My welcome visitor — Curious incident — A charming friend- ship — The end of the romance — An unexpected call — Painters idealising their models — " Love's Golden Dream " — My search for an ideal — The stage door of Her Majesty’s Theatre — The understudy — I paint the picture — Strange finale — I am introduced to my ideal — The “ material " as against the " ideal ” — The nun at the fancy dress ball — She comes to the studio — The story of the confessional . . . . 1 57 xi CONTENTS CHAPTER XV PAGE The “ Grove of the Evangelists ” — The “ fastest ” neighbourhood in London — Mixture of the re- putable and disreputable in the Wood — The two classes of “ gay ” women — Streets of par- ticularly ill-fame — Hanover Gardens — Wilton Street — A famous house of assignation — Extra- ordinary state of affairs — The “ fast " lodging- houses — Money the fetish always — Extortionate prices — St John’s Wood “ pubs ” as compared with Montmartre cafe's — Rural quietude of cer- tain streets — Sequestered gardens — Secluded villas — The hansom “ cabbies ” — Fancy boys — " Bruisers " — The " Judas ” — The “ best boy ” — Signals to the “ best boy ” — The stamp paper — Beethoven’s symphony — Luxury and sensuality — A masterpiece of voluptuousness — All sorts and conditions of tenants — An awkward embroglio — Liaisons — “ Kept women ” — Sordid arrangements — Calf love — Amusing incident— Story of a rich Frenchman and his mistress — The flashy, fair-haired houris of then — The " flapper ” of to-day — Sunday tea parties — Drunkenness amongst women . . .172 CHAPTER XVI Heavy drinking amongst women {continued)-- A terrible scene in my studio — A midnight visitor — A fortunate interruption — My friend the doctor — Extraordinary denouement — Effect of drink on different women — A curious incident — The bell on the leg of the table . . . . .188 CHAPTER XVII I take up caricaturing — Sir Frederick Leighton intro- duces me to W. Q. Orchardson, R.A. — His kindly reception of me — Difficulties the cartoonist has to contend with — Human weaknesses — Amusing incidents — The Frenchman’s tooth — The carica- ture on the table top — A shirt-front souvenir — CONTENTS PAGE Sketching for the paper — The " Unemployed " Riots — Trafalgar Square on Sunday afternoons — Sir Charles Warren and the police — Mr Hyndman — An unforgettable experience — The " Special Constables ” — I join and am sworn in — The Socialists outwitted — Sir Charles Warren’s clever stratagem — Funny incident — * “A perfect lidy ” — My first literary work for a daily paper — My meeting with Mr W. T. Stead — I go over to Paris for the Illustrated and the Pall Mall Gazette to interview and sketch President Carnot, General Boulanger, and others — My impression of the President of the Republic — An invitation to a reception at the Elys6e — Joke of my pals — The scene at the reception — My interview with General Boulanger Monsieur de Blowitz, Monsieur Eiffel, Campbell Clarke, and Caran d’Ache — Satisfactory results of my Paris visit — Mr Stead’s facetious remark 197 CHAPTER XVIII Artists’ rendezvous in the Wood — Cheap restaurants in the West End — Soho in those days — Pagani's — Pellegrini and the Artists’ Room — Veglio's — Reggiori's, Gatti’s — The Monico — Its curious history — The cheapest dinner in London — The Caf6 Royal — Verrey's — French and English billiards in Windmill Street — Music halls — Our Saturday night’s dissipation — “ Adventures " with the girls — Mad pranks — The baked potato merchant — An amusing joke — The bewildered girls — A curious bet — The wealthy waiter — “ The Maiden’s Prayer ” — “ Regulars " - — The “ street walker ” of those days — Extraordinary sights in the West End — An amusing skit — John Hollingshead’s wit — Foreign women in Regent Street — The “ last ” 'bus — I make a conquest — Facetious 'bus-drivers — Liquid refreshment — Story of a “ rum and milk ” — Week-end boating — Painting at Cookham — Flirtation on the Bridge — The boastful Don Juan and the mysterious female — A splendid “ spoof " — A delightful ad- venture — The launch party — Curious denouement — Another adventure — Missing the last train — The good Samaritans — L’incroyable. . 214 xiii CONTENTS CONCLUSION PAGE Uneventful times in the studio — “ Black and white ” artists and “ stock ” drawings — My fondness for France — Le Guilvinec — I paint a religious sub- ject — Cheapness of living in the village — Ending of my Bohemian days — What brought about the change — The Wiggins Expedition to Northern Siberia — Mr Ingram suggests my accompanying it as his “special artist” — Sir Frederick Leighton’s friendship — Mr Ingram’s generous policy — I start on my big journey through the Arctic regions — Siberia, Mongolia, and China — My eighteen months’ absence from England — I return to London — Enough of “ roughing it ” for the time — I move from St John’s Wood into the West End . . . 239 xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE The Author ...... Frontispiece She had my favourite colour hair — auburn . . 17 The delightful dwelling-place of a very erudite and sympathetic artist ...... 26 — his splendid moustache and his martial bearing . 35 Shabby individuals of uncertain age, who looked like broken-down actors ..... 41 Most of them sat for the figure ..... 42 With a sort of self-consciousness .... 43 Just the model you have been looking for . . 50 The child was just what the artist wanted for his picture ........ 51 — but nothing would induce her to take her shoes and stockings off . . . . .52 I commenced a sketch of her in deshabille . . 53 I worked from my models out on the old pier with the very background and composition I wanted . 60 He was supposed to be in love with her, and carried out the idea so conscientiously .... 89 The very embodiment of all that was sweet and human and sensible . . . . . . .127 The picture which had caused me so much heart- burning was eventually purchased for the Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool . . . . .128 xv ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Leily ......... The deck of one of the old Woolwich steamers . Then an old workhouse man ..... I got a flower-girl to come to the studio . Was, at the time, “ at the Gaiety ” ... So I painted her as a nymph after all Once she had overcome her scruples Hung in the Royal Academy the following year She looked very beautiful lying back in a deck-chair “ Love's Golden Dream ” Made a black and white drawing of her as a ballet girl instead ....... W. Q. Orchardson, R.A. ..... Sir Charles Warren was the head of the police . “You will have to catch me as well as you can " Perhaps it was the pretty barmaid over there — A real river girl, the sort to make you fall madly in love with in a few hours ..... We were very great pals ..... I painted a religious subject there called “ The Viatigue 137 140 140 141 141 142 142 149 161 170 171 198 202 212 226 231 235 240 xvi MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON CHAPTER I I return to London — Searching for rooms — St John’s Wood in the ’eighties — A bed-sitting-room in Wellington Road — The buxom landlady — A tempting offer — A mysterious hat and stick — A little incident during the night — The defunct lodger, pathetic episode — In search of a studio — Rents in London as compared with Paris — I take a furnished studio — My landlord — “ Dear old Jeph.” It was with mingled feelings of regret and trepida- tion that I returned to London after the four never- to-be-forgotten years I had spent as a student in Paris, for I realised that my boisterous days of youthful insouciance were over, and that arduous uphill work was facing me. Henceforth I had to pull myself together and rely entirely on my own efforts to carve out for myself a career in the pre- carious profession I had chosen. The situation I had to face was to me almost tragic, the small income on which I had hitherto depended for daily bread and butter, and an occasional pot of jam, had been snatched away from me through a financial failure, and I found myself practically on my beam-ends with no option but to start out at once and work for my living. The seriousness of this will be only appreciated i A MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON by those, who like myself, through no fault of their own, have found themselves in similar circum- stances. The question now was, what was to be done and how to begin? I was little more than a youth, and had been brought up with the idea that I should never have to depend on my art for a liveli- hood ; young as I was I had already learned that, as a profession, art was not a money - maker to be relied upon. I knew from what I had seen in Paris that it was a lottery in which the prizes are few and the blanks many. It was too late, however, for me to think of taking up one of the many trades or professions which might offer more lucrative promise. I had no inclination for any other than an artistic career ; nought remained, therefore, but to make the best of things and put my back to the wall. Before leaving Paris, in order to avoid expense of packing, I had decided to sell my modest furniture and household goods, though I must admit that it was not without an acute pang of regret that I was forced to come to this decision, and when I saw everything being taken away it was almost like parting with old friends, and I felt a choking feeling in my throat. What stories of tender romance, of heart-burnings, of joys and sorrows these insignificant Lares and Penates could have told ; the poor little fauteails seemed as though holding out their arms to me in mute adieu — all were associated with my innermost recollection of all the romance in my student days, alas ! now over. It was useless repining, so I stiffened my back and endeavoured to persuade myself, much against my own conviction, that it was Kismet, and always for the best. I arrived in London, therefore, with absolutely no belongings ; with no souvenirs of my Paris life beyond my personal effects, my paint-box, sketch easel, camp stool, and a big bundle of canvases. I certainly could not, therefore, under any circumstances, have MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON been considered a possessor of worldly goods and chattels. Everything seemed very strange and cheerless to me at first I remember, as I had no home to go to, and but few relations or friends in London, so I felt almost like a traveller in some foreign city ; but I had made up my mind that there was no time to be lost, and I was in a feverish hurry to make a start. The day after my arrival then saw me searching for rooms. I had been recommended to look round St John’s Wood as being a most likely place to suit me and my exiguous purse, so I decided not to be fastidious, and settle on any- thing so long as it was clean, and at any rate make a beginning. In the ’eighties St John’s Wood was the quarter most favoured by artists, and although this explained to a certain extent how I found my way up there, I cannot help feeling now that it was also the peculiar notoriety of the district that attracted me. There was in those days an eclat about the very name that raised visions of a repetition in London of the joyous times I had spent in Paris, and I must con- fess now, that as a substitute for the Montmartre of my student days, I found St John’s Wood in the ’eighties not altogether out of the running. Of course it was but a quiet suburb, and had none of the life or go of the French Quartier, but there was, as will be seen, plenty of fun and adventure there for those who were so minded, whilst as a place for work it was positively delightful in its almost rural quietude. I found a nice bed-sitting-room on the second floor in Wellington Road in a small semi-detached house, with a garden back and front, for which I paid the modest sum of ios. a week, including my breakfast, and an ample one at that ; cheap enough in all conscience sake, but there was a somewhat curious little incident that perhaps explained how 3 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON I came to be thus favoured, for Wellington Road was not usually so inexpensive in the way of lodgings. When I went to make enquiries about the room to let, the door was opened by the landlady herself, a buxom fair -haired person of uncertain age, g°t U P “lamb fashion.” She had a certain flirtatious look, and gave me an unmistakable “St John’s Wood glad-eye,” as she invited me in to see the room, which as it turned out suited me very well. It was the only one she let, so she told me, as she was a widow, and could not afford to keep servants ; but the rent of it was 1 5s. a week, and was more than I wanted to give, and I told her so. She seemed disappointed rather than annoyed when she learned this. To my surprise, as I was going downstairs she suddenly said that she would reduce it to 10s. if I would take it at once, as she felt she was sure she would like to have me as her lodger, and then to my still further surprise she added, “that will of course include your breakfast as well” This was too tempting an offer to refuse, so I accepted without hesitation. I was young then, and perhaps somewhat dense at times, anyhow I arranged to move in that day. As I was passing through the hall I noticed a man’s hat hanging on the hat-stand with a very truculent looking stick near it. Somehow I did not like the look of them, they had an aggressive air ; the owner I thought could not be an agreeable sort of gentleman. However, I wasn’t obliged to know him, so it didn’t really matter, so I said nothing, but it struck me as somewhat strange to see them as though quite in their accustomed place after what she had told me about herself. Well, I moved in and found my room very clean and comfortable, and forgot all about the hat and stick for the moment. 4 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON I was busy the next week or so hunting for a cheap studio, and was out most of the time, so had not much opportunity for chatting with her, much as she would have liked me to, as I could not fail to notice, for she was a most loquacious and skittish person, and seemed to be always on the slightest excuse waiting to pounce out on me whenever I came in at any time, even late at night. As I went up to my room she would open the door of her bedroom, and peeping out coyly, ask me kindly if I had all I required. At times almost whispering tenderly that I must not mind asking her for any- thing I fancied, as she wanted me to be quite happy and feel myself at home. I often think of a glimpse I got of her on one of these occasions. The light of the candle I was carrying lit up her face with startling effect as she stood in the half-open door of her bedroom, arrayed in a flimsy sort of dressing-gown which only partially hid her ample figure. To my youthful eyes, fresh from Paris, and with the recollections still vivid in my memory of my delightfully young and piquant petites amies , this middle-aged passee individual, old enough to be my mother, with her dyed hair, pasty face, and sickly provocative leer was as a sort of vision of another world, which was new to me, and I hastily thanked her, and felt relieved when I found myself in my room, and with the door bolted. I remember I almost felt afraid she would come after me and try to get in. The next morning she laughingly twitted me about coming in so late, and said that I had no doubt learned some bad habits in Paris, which by all accounts was a very “ naughty place ” — not that she minded what people did if they chose to — and, in fact, she rather approved of youth having its fling, she added significantly. I did not feel inclined to discuss the subject with her, but 5 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON she was quite a character in her way, and it was most difficult to stop her talking once she started. Still, I could have forgiven her a good deal, for she was a kindly motherly person once she forgot her aspirations to be considered a young and beautiful girl. One morning whilst I was having breakfast, which by the way she let me have in her own sitting-room, I asked casually about her other lodger — that I had not seen anything of him. “ Her other lodger ! ” she exclaimed with surprise. “ What other lodger ? ” “ The one whose hat and stick are in the hall.” Then to my intense surprise she suddenly burst into tears, and letting herself drop into an arm- chair by the fire she buried her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically. I was so taken aback that I did not know what to say ; all that I could do was to assure her as sympathetically as I could that I was very sorry indeed if I had said anything to upset her — that it was quite uninten- tional on my part, and so forth — and then I sat and waited until the crisis passed. In a few minutes she became calm again, and smiled sadly at me through her tear-dimmed eyes. I shall never forget what she looked like. She was not beautiful at any time of the day, and in the early morning least of all, and moreover she had a fancy for an excessive amount of a peculiarly white face powder, so the effect of her tears on this pastel-like surface may be imagined ; they had formed little lines all over her cheeks. I should have laughed outright had it not been that 1 realised her grief was quite real and unassumed. “You must forgive me making such a show of myself; I know it’s very silly of me,” she said, as she mopped her streaming eyes again and again with her wet handkerchief; “but I could not help it — I feel so lonely and miserable at times. That was his hat and stick, the poor old dear, just as 6 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON he left them before he was taken ill — he has been dead ten years now, and I haven’t the heart to move them. I feel somehow as though he is still about the house when I see them out in the hall in their old place, and sometimes when I am all alone I go out there and sit and talk with them. It is very silly I know ; but somehow it seems to relieve me.” I said nothing ; the mirth her woe-begone appear- ance had roused in me disappeared, and I felt a deep pang of sympathy in my heart for her, and I realised that behind her skittishness and frivolity was anyhow the heart of a real woman. From this moment her manner towards me com- pletely changed, she abandoned her captivating and alluring ways, and turned out to be so kindly and homely a creature that I was positively loathe to leave her, when I decided to move into a studio. I have often thought since, and with a certain regret of the cosy sitting - room with its cheerful fire when I came down to breakfast ; how she would fuss around and make me comfortable, and tell me all the news, and talk about my work of the day. She was indeed a “ find ” as a landlady, and there are probably few like her nowadays in St John’s Wood. My search for a cheap studio was not an easy one, considering how little I was prepared to pay. My Paris experience had spoiled me in this respect, and I soon discovered that it was a complete impossi- bility to get anything at all in London for the same rent I paid in Montmartre. The reason for this was not difficult to explain. In the artists’ quarter of Paris the landlords often build with a view to attracting artists, and studios with north lights are to be found readily throughout the district. In London this was quite the exception in the days of which I am writing, and if there happened to be a large room in a house facing north, which 7 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON could be converted into a studio, a fancy price was immediately asked. A comparison between the rents of London and Paris of that time may be of interest. I shared a studio with a friend in the Passage Lathuile in the Avenue de Clichy, for which we paid £ 15 a year. It certainly was not pretentious or ex- tremely commodious, but it answered our purpose well, as it was on the ground floor, and had a good light. For £ 2 5 a year we could have easily found quite a luxurious place with bedroom and dressing - room. In London, in St John’s Wood, such rents were unknown, and even for a small workshop in a mews a much higher figure would be cheerfully asked, whilst one had to be getting on very well to afford a real studio. Of course as against this must be considered the fact that if one got on only fairly well, the prices obtainable for one’s work ruled much higher than across the Channel — still it was purely problematical whether one did ever get on suffici- ently to even make a living by art, leave alone pay an exorbitant rent. I realised, therefore, that for the first few years, whilst endeavouring to make headway, it practically meant working for one’s land- lord most of the time — a thankless task, as will be admitted. Still there was no help for it, so I con- tinued my search with unabated energy buoyed up with a dogged determination to see it through, if with hard work it were possible. I was particularly keen on settling in St John’s Wood, as the district had, as I have said, somehow appealed to me from the very first, and after many days of fruitless search for cheap rooms or a work- shop that could be converted into a studio, I suddenly heard of a furnished studio at 36 Marlboro’ Hill, which was to let for a year at a very reasonable rental to a responsible tenant. I was indeed in luck’s way, as it turned out to be the very sort of 8 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON place I had been looking for, and could not have been better suited for my purpose, since I had no furniture whatever. The owner, a rather well-known painter, Ponsonby Staples, was not exacting in his idea of rent, since he was only asking for a twelve months’ tenancy, which was indeed remarkably cheap con- sidering the place was completely furnished, in fact there was everything an artist could reason- ably require, even to crockery, such as it was, and a gas -cooking stove. It was arranged with the artistic taste one might have expected from a man of Staples’ reputation. The premises, which were on the ground floor, and were separate from the house, consisted of a large studio with top light, an alcove with a bed in it, and a sort of annexe which had been con- verted into a kitchen. There was a tiny little garden at the back in which, at a pinch, one could make open-air studies, and there were two entrances, one at the front and the other at the back through the garden. It was a delightfully cheery place, and appeared still more so on the sunny spring morning I visited it. Without hesitation I signed the agreement, and entered into possession at once, and it was with the most pleasurable feelings that I moved in. My sympathetic landlady in Wellington Road was, I believe, genuinely sorry to lose me ; but she agreed that it was a stroke of luck having dropped on such a place at all. She made me promise to come in and see her, and have a cup of tea whenever I felt I should like to have a change and a quiet chat. As I have said, the studio was ready for immediate occupation — in fact, Staples had left all his belongings lying about in the most un- conventional manner, very different to what one would have expected from one’s landlord. If 9 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON I remember rightly, he did not even make an inventory of what was in the place. All I had to do, therefore, was to move a canvas or so, put my own studies on the easels, get out my paint- box and start work without further delay. It was very delightful, and I was quite buoyed up with enthusiasm ; although I was surrounded by some one else’s belongings, everything was so in unison with my own ideas that it was as though I had furnished and fitted it all up myself. More- over, Staples had, like myself, studied abroad, so there was the added charm of a certain continental touch which struck me as soon as I entered the place, and which not a little had induced me to take it. I had, as I have explained, nothing in the world except my personal belongings, and did not wish to encroach on my tiny capital, if I could possibly help it, by buying anything except actual necessities for the moment, and in this resolve I was strenuously backed up by my ci - devant guardian, an uncle of mine named Jephson, a middle-aged bachelor, who, after living many years in China and Japan, had retired and settled down in London. He lived sufficiently close to St John’s Wood to afford him an excuse for a daily stroll round to Marlboro’ Hill to see how I was getting on. Despite the disparity in our ages we soon became the staunchest of chums, and it was mainly due to his sound advice that I managed to pull through as I did, for it was hard and uphill work at first. “ Dear old Jeph ! ” as he was always affectionately called — I can see him now — so spruce and well- groomed, and it was at all times a delight and a source of inward merriment to me to watch him fussing about the studio, good - naturedly doing his best to be of assistance to me in one way or another, without soiling his immaculate attire. He was at io MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON heart a bit of a dilletante , and I fancy he really imagined he was getting on closer terms with art when sitting about the studio trying to smoke a big pipe, which never agreed with him, or helping to prepare a little Bohemian lunch. One day comes back to me. Some friends arrived when he was busily occupied in the kitchen, and he hadn’t heard the bell ring. He had been in there some little time, and, curiosity as to the reason lead- ing us to peep through the door, imagine our amuse- ment at finding Jeph in his shirt sleeves, the char- woman’s apron about his dapper figure, with lemon- coloured kid gloves on, intently engaged trying his hand at making what he was pleased afterwards to inform us was a curry as his “ boy ” used to make it in Shanghai. His was a personality between the level-headed- ness of the travelled man of the world and the irresponsible impetuosity of one who in middle-age has not outgrown his youth, which was strangely fascinating. Beyond all was his cheery optimism, which helped me to bear many disillusions and dis- appointments, and assisted considerably to cheer up my early studio days in London. CHAPTER II My first experience of Bohemian life in London — Of living as compared with Paris — The saloon bars and the “ shilling ordinary ” — The London charwoman — Her French prototype — My first commission — A lady visitor — A delightful afternoon — Commencement of a little romance — Painting in my back garden — Sudden ending of the romance. I CAN conceive nothing less calculated to fire one with romantic thoughts than the feeling of being suddenly thrown on one’s own resources — as I was at this time. Even now, after the lapse of so many years. I can vividly recall my misgivings as to how my experiment with regard to taking a studio would turn out. I was always of a very impressionable temperament, and it takes but little to depress or elate me, and so it happened at this juncture after the excitement of moving in. For the next few days I had a fit of the blues at the mere thought of the strenuous task that faced me and the £50 rent assumed brobdingnagian pro- portions in my vivid imagination. I had a sudden and wild dread that hard times were going to replace the joyous years of my Paris life, and I feared that it would require far more energy than I possessed to get over them. This vague presentiment, fortunately for me, was not borne out by results, for although, like many young artists, I had continual ups and downs, I found that if I could “ keep my pecker up,” things generally turned out all right, as will be seen. There being nothing to be gained by sitting down imagining the worst, I had started work on a sketch 12 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON one morning a few days after I had settled down when Jeph turned up unexpectedly, and to my delight explained the reason of his matutinal visit. Like the good fellow he was, he had spoken to a friend about me, and interested him so much in me and my work that I was to go round and see him at once, and probably he would commission me to paint something for his billiard-room. As may be imagined, I didn’t require much persuading, and, well to cut the story short, I got an order there and then for a couple of small pictures — and this was practically the commencement of my studio life. I cannot remember now what I was paid for these pictures, but I can recollect how proud I felt at already having real work in hand, and practically making a start at earning a living by my brush, though I didn’t allow myself to be led into wild extravagance merely on the strength of my little stroke of good luck. I had already found before I had been many days in the studio that actual living was more expensive in London than in Paris, and that notwithstanding the fact that provisions as a whole in France were considerably dearer than in England. The only explanation of the apparent mystery is doubtless the superior genius of the French in making the best of and utilising everything in the shape of food. The Englishman’s old jibe against French kick- shaws may have some foundation in fact, but to the young student of small purse and large appetite the selfsame kickshaws, at the price at which they are dispensed on the other side of the Channel, are by no means to be despised. The fare one got at the English eating-houses at the time of which I am writing may have been, and probably was, very filling and satisfying for the money, but to any one like myself, who had lived in Paris, and had acquired a somewhat artistic taste in the matter of flavouring, was a very poor substitute for what they served you at even the most humble of marchands de vin over there. 13 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON For the first few weeks, till I was fixed up, I used to go out for my lunch to some public-house close by, as there was nothing in the way of a restaurant anywhere in the district, and I can well remember how repugnant to me it was to have to do so ; more perhaps on account of the idea of frequenting a “ pub ” than by reason of the actual food, which was always fairly good, though very humble, whilst of course there was not much variety. At a house called “The Knights of St John” in Queen’s Terrace, where several artists used to gather for lunch, they gave you quite a good “shilling ordinary,” consisting of a cut from the joint, two vegetables, and sweets or cheese which, washed down with “ half of stout and bitter,” was satisfying enough in quantity at any rate, even for my appetite which, in those days was, I remember, enormous. But it was only “feeding,” or as we called it “stoking,” pure and simple, and you had to be really hungry to enjoy it. I do not think that, even in those days, I could have been accused of putting on “ side ” ; but the contrast between the charming little Paris restaurants I had got so accustomed to and these rough and ready public-house bars, was so great that I made up my mind to avoid them as much as possible. I there- fore decided always to feed in the studio if I could manage it, as I felt that however rough and ready the meals would be, at any rate they would be pre- ferable to going out every day. In order to carry out this resolve, it was neces- sary to find a servant of some description, and I thus made my first acquaintance with the genus char- woman — an individual I have long since come to believe to be absolutely indigenous and peculiar to England. She certainly, so far as my experience goes, has no counterpart in France, where the wife of one’s concierge , if she is a decent sort, may for a small monthly consideration, usually about 4s. H MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON (5 francs), come and clean your place up and get you your morning cafe and roll. If you are differently situated you may for an equally reasonable honora- rium obtain the services of a femme de menage , but in either case you will have a person working for you who for the nonce is your employee, and is an industrious, cleanly, sober person, and, above all, dressed in keeping with her position. In England, as I was not long in discovering, the prototype of the French femme de menage is usually ail impudent, frowsy individual of middle-age, with a marked taste for beer, and for attiring herself in shabby finery. Unfortunately for the struggling artist who has to make his home in his studio, this unpleasant type is a necessity, unless he is prepared to carry his Bohemianism to the extent of cleaning up his place and doing for himself. I was not inclined for this, so had perforce to find some one to come in every morning to tidy up and get me my breakfast and lunch. I was told that 7s. per week was the very least I could get any one to come for, which was of course 3s. more than I paid for the same work in Paris ; but the number of applicants I got for the job, even at this figure, was sufficient to prove that “ charing ” was a popular occupation in the neighbourhood. The person I eventually selected was typical of her class, and indeed quite a character in her way. She had already worked for an artist, so fancied she was familiar with studio life, *and never missed an opportunity to let me know it if I gave her the slightest encouragement to talk. Models in her eyes were depraved hussies, so she told me once, and “she would not sit for the figure, no — not if the King of England asked her.” Needless to add, I was never tempted to induce her to alter her resolve. She hadn’t been with me a week before I realised that on the slightest provocation she could be so MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON insolent that one had almost to ask as a favour for anything to be done, that her other artist, who “was a gentleman, God bless him,” didn’t require. Well I kept her on for a time, as it gave me a good opportunity to have a look round and get used to the neighbourhood, and gradually to make arrangements for having my meals in the studio. Cooking, however, was not her forte , perhaps her former artist had been a nut eater, as the meals she served me were of the roughest description, and required the healthy appetite of a young man to negotiate. My next charwoman experience was not much more satisfactory — perhaps it was that I had been spoiled when living in Paris — anyhow it took me some time to get used to the various specimens I had to put up with in the commencement of my studio life in London. Those early days in St John’s Wood were singu- larly uneventful, probably because my friends had not yet learned my whereabouts, so it was rather dull at first sitting about all day alone, and without even a ring at the bell to liven one up, for I didn’t care to go out in the day-time in case any one should call during my absence. Still there was always a chance of something turning up, as I soon discovered, and it was this expectancy that relieved the monotony of many a quiet day, and in this connection I recall what was quite a little event in its way — my first lady visitor, a model. This incident, trivial as it may have seemed at first, is indelibly marked on my memory, as, curiously enough, it developed all the elements of a little romance, and such it undoubtedly was whilst it lasted. It came about this way. It was about four o’clock one wet afternoon, and I had been absolutely alone all day, not a soul to speak to, when there came a ring at the bell. I went to open the door, my palette in hand — a little 1 6 auburn." MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON trick of my Paris studio life, so as to make one appear busy in case it was an unwelcome visitor — when I saw it was a very nice-looking girl outside. “ Do you want a model ? ” she asked. I was so pleased to have a visitor at all that I invited her in, and said I would take her address down in my model book. More for form’s sake than anything else I asked her to take off her hat, and then saw she had my favourite colour hair — auburn. I cannot recollect what suggested it, but I think it was about tea-time and the tea-things were laid, anyhow I asked her if she would care for a cup of tea, and she accepted without hesitation — in fact I thought she was pleased at the invitation. Somehow I always felt a little bit sorry for girls who made their living tramping from studio to studio, and in all weathers : it had always struck me as being a wearisome and thankless task at the best of times, apart from the precarious nature of the work. In the case of an extremely pretty and delicate type of girl, as this one was, it seemed almost a shame that she should go round by herself amongst a lot of strange men thus. Of course it was in the interests of Art (with the usual big “ A ”) ; but I could not help thinking how many men would have gladly welcomed her, even if she hadn’t said she was an artist’s model. Whether it was the tea, or my frankly unconven- tional manner, I cannot of course tell, but at any rate we were not long before we got on quite friendly terms, more so perhaps than the object of her visit warranted, and I found her a most charming person- ality. To my surprise she informed me she had only just taken up sitting, and that she had been a nursery governess ; but had got tired of the hum- drum life of looking after a lot of noisy children and being treated like a servant. So when one day a girl friend of hers, who was a model, told her she could make a good living by sitting, she had thought 1 7 B MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON it over, and decided to try her luck and go round the studios. With the aid of a Royal Academy catalogue she had made out a lot of addresses of artists likely to want models, and that was how she had come to my studio, because of course my landlord’s name was in the book, as he was a constant exhibitor. She was so delightfully frank and ingenuous about it all that I remember I contrasted her in my mind with the vivacious, but, often so artificial, petites femmes one saw in the Paris ateliers , and the com- parison was not entirely in their favour perhaps, for she harmonised with the grey surroundings of the secluded St John’s Wood street and my particular mood at the moment. In Paris, pretty though she was, she would probably have passed unnoticed ; they want chic as well as beauty over there, and very few English girls possess it. I could not resist the temptation to ask her her impression of studio life, which must have been so different to what she had been accustomed to previously, and was much amused at some of her experiences with artists, for it is always interesting to learn how others see us. I recollect one little adventure she told me she had had at the very commencement of her taking up sitting, which appeared to me to cast a lurid light on the so-called “artistic temperament.” It was, she said, almost the first time she sat, and it was to a young man. He seemed to be at first as quiet and as mild a person as possible ; she had been sitting for what appeared to her quite a long while, in a very strained and unnatural position, doing her best to keep as still as possible ; but he was evidently not satisfied either with his work or her, and she heard him muttering and swearing to himself whilst painting. Suddenly, to her surprise, he jumped up, seized his paint knife and scraped off all his morning’s work, and then flung his palette and brushes on the 18 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON floor, stamped on them with rage, smashing them to pieces. He behaved just like a lunatic, and she was too frightened to say anything ; she thought he had taken leave of his senses and didn’t know what was going to happen next. After a few minutes he calmed down, told her she might dress, paid her, and said she had better go — that he was no good at painting, and would chuck it and take up bootmaking or something else instead. She never sat for him again after that, and would not have if he had begged her to. That was the most curious adventure she had ever had, and although she was getting used to artists she said she didn’t want another like it, and I agreed with her it must have been a bit thrilling. We were getting on splendidly together, and I found her so nice that I had already realised that I was in luck’s way that afternoon, when there came another ring at the bell, and who should it be but Jeph. Of course I asked him in, as I felt quite elated with myself, and I remember the look on his face of astonishment when he saw I had a lady visitor, for beyond what he had read in books about life in studios he knew very little really of what went on in them ; so we had quite a cheery little tea-party, for he was capital company. After this he didn’t take long getting accustomed to finding visitors of the fair sex when he called, and I feel convinced that his ideas on art henceforth were more specially connected with the pretty girls he might have the chance of meeting at my studio. But to return to this particular occasion, I could not afford models, so I had to resist the temptation for the moment to paint a picture from my new acquaintance, much as I should have liked to, for she really was very pretty and had, as I have said, fair hair of a shade I have always had a particular penchant for. When at last it was time for her to go I told her quite frankly that I was not able to give her a 19 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON sitting yet awhile, and I believe she intuitively guessed my reasons and appreciated my frankness, for we parted the very best of friends, and she promised to come and see me again very soon. “ Never mind,” she said, “ if you cannot give me any work, you can always let me have a cup of tea, and I should love to have another nice chat with you like we have had this afternoon,” and when we separated I felt that there was already a certain bond of sympathy between us. After this she was constantly calling on her way home from her sittings and making all sorts of excuses for doing so. In the course of time I began to hope that the studio possessed some possible attraction for her beyond the chance of getting a sitting from me, and I soon got to look forward to her coming to see me, and even to wait for it. She seemed to bring an atmosphere of cheerfulness into the place and somehow managed to impart what I had already felt was wanting to complete the ensemble of the studio — the feminine element — that mysterious something, without which, as I have always felt since those days, all is grey and monotonous. I fancy I can still hear her familiar tap at the studio door, and her cheery “ May I come in ? Are you alone ? ” and can see her unfeigned pleasure at being with me again. One sunny morning I remember she turned up, wearing such a charming frock that it positively gave me an inspiration, and I decided to risk the expense and start a painting from her there and then. I had, as I have said, a few feet of ground which was dignified with the name of “ garden ” at the back of the studio, with rather a quaint little flight of steps leading up to it, and some straggling bushes. It was really not worth mentioning as a garden, but somehow it suggested an open-air subject, and to her evident delight I said she could sit to me for 20 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON it if she liked. Whether it was the subject or my model I don’t know, but the picture brought me luck, as I sold it before it was finished. What jolly times they were whilst I was painting it. I can see her now in my mind’s eye seated on a rug on the top step leaning against a packing case which represented an old wall. Her colouring was perfect in the open air, and I worked with an enthusiasm which I believe she shared, for she took the greatest interest in the work as it progressed — in fact our relations were scarcely those of artist and model, and she realised it as well as I. We used to have afternoon tea in the “ garden,” and I remember her facetiously suggesting that it only wanted a few wasps to complete the illusion and make it quite rural. It was very delightful while it lasted, for it was all new to me ; but it was not destined to become a liaison such as one might have expected under similar circumstances in Paris — as a matter of fact it terminated somewhat abruptly, as will be seen. The picture was at last finished, and then she had to look out for some other sittings ; but still she came to see me as usual. From dropping in occasionally she gradually took to calling every day, until at last I could never be certain if I was going to be alone or not. It was not exactly awkward, but as in the meantime my relations were begin- ning to look me up it was not always convenient to have a girl there when they came, more especially as I was not painting from her. In Paris it didn’t so much matter; studio life was so different, and there were no prejudices to be over- come, moreover I had no female relatives to visit me there. Well, one afternoon I had a little tea-party on when there came a ring at the bell, followed by her tap at the studio door. I went out, palette in hand as was my usual wont, and pulling the door to behind me, explained in a whisper that I had a 21 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON family party, so she must forgive me if I didn’t invite her in. She looked a little bit surprised and dis- appointed, as this was the first time such a thing had happened. “ I suppose it cannot be helped,” she remarked ; “ but I wanted so much to have a chat with you. I will come back this evening.” In the evening, however, I was not there as I had to dine en famille , so I had to leave a note to that effect pinned on the door. The next day she came as though nothing had happened ; she quite under- stood, she said, that I was obliged to go out some- times and be with my people. But it was the little rift within the lute, and on two other occasions shortly after I was again obliged to make excuses for not asking her in. At last the end came with tragic suddenness. I was not expecting her one afternoon — a friend and I had two ladies to tea, and we were having a very jolly time laughing and singing. Any one just outside the studio could have heard our merriment distinctly. Suddenly there was a ring, followed by a tap at the door I knew so well. Somehow I felt annoyed at her visit just at that moment, so asked my friend to go out and say I was engaged and could not see any one. He came back in a few minutes looking very mysterious, and coming up to me said significantly, “It is Jones, and he says he won’t keep you a moment, but he must speak to you ; you had better go, I think.” So I went out. I shall never forget the look on her face ; she was positively livid with suppressed rage or jealousy; I never thought it was in her. “ I am sorry to disturb your little party,” she said with icy intonation ; “ but you might give me that book I left in the studio yesterday.” Her manner irritated me beyond measure, and any tender feeling I may have had towards her vanished instantly. I had seen this sort of thing too often 22 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON whilst living in Paris, and didn’t want to start any of it on my own account here in London — so without a word I went back into my studio, fetched the book, and brought it to her. She took it without saying anything, and was walking down the gravel path to the street, when something impelled me to follow her and ask her when I should see her again — for after all we had been very good pals, and I suppose I had just a little soft spot in my heart for the girl. She turned round, and I noticed to my surprise that her fit of temper had passed, and she was weeping. “ I am never coming to see you again,” she replied quietly ; “ so you will be quite free to have as many girls as you choose in the studio. I have been very foolish to let you see how much I care, but it has been a lesson to me I shan’t forget.” I was dumbfounded, as I had had no idea that she had taken our seeing so much of each other so seriously. I could do nothing but utter a sort of mild protest. She turned to go away without another word, whilst I stood at the gate irresolute and half hesitating, watching her retreating form, as she walked quickly up the deserted street. For a moment I had it in my mind to run after her and persuade her to come back ; but the thought was only momentary, young as I was then I had already realised from what I had seen in Paris that anything in the nature of a “ tie ” was irksome, and besides which I knew that I wasn’t in love with her, although I liked her very much. As she disappeared round the corner and out of my life I felt instinctively that it was better for both of us that it should end thus. “ So you have managed to get rid of Jones at last ; we thought you were never coming back,” cried my visitors. “Yes,” I replied; “I am quite free now.” But I could not help feeling a little pang at my heart as I remembered her tears. 2 3 CHAPTER III My letter of introduction to Sir Frederick Leighton, P.R.A. — His house and studio in Holland Park Road — The artistic beauty of its interior — Impressions of my visit — Leighton’s sympathetic personality — His wonderful charm of manner — His linguistic accomplishments — The secret of his great popularity — His Sunday receptions — Amusing anecdote of a Royal Academician — The fashionable crowd in the studio on Show Sunday — Story of the President and the model. I HAD brought with me from Paris two letters of introduction from G^rome, my Master, at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, one to Lord Leighton, then Sir Frederick Leighton, the President of the Royal Academy ; the other to John Everett Millais, R.A., but had postponed presenting them until I was settled at some permanent address, so that now I was fixed up in Marlboro’ Hill I decided to pay my visits. Millais lived in a great big newly-built house of the prosperous bourgeois type at Palace Gate facing Kensington Gardens. He was reputed to be up to his ears in work, and to be making ^30,000 a year by his portrait painting alone in those days, so I had my doubts about being able to see him. He happened to be out of town when I called, so I went straight on to Sir Frederick Leighton’s, hoping to have better luck with him. Curiously enough, for some reason which I am not able to recall, I never presented my letter of introduction to Millais; it was a long way from St John’s Wood to Kensington, and I heard he was a difficult man 24 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON to catch, so perhaps that accounted for my not chancing the journey again. Sir Frederick lived in Holland Park Road, in a very beautiful place, which he had had built from his own designs, and which had become one of the show places of the artistic world. Holland Park Road in those days was almost rural in its quietude, for it was practically an unfinished thoroughfare, in fact so much so that Leighton used to tell every one as a joke that he lived in a mews, for to get into his road from either end one had to pass through a stable yard ; but he had artistic company in his “ mews,” for his friend Val Prinsep lived next door, and there were several studios of eminent painters close by in the road itself — amongst whom was Solomon J. Solomon, the most brilliant of the younger men of the day, who had just made quite a sensation at the Royal Academy with his painting “ Cassandra.” Leighton’s house, which has been open to the public since, and can now be visited on certain days, is so well known as scarcely to call for any detailed description, and photographs have been published of it scores of times. Out of sheer curiosity to see what alterations had been made since it has been practically turned into a museum and concert hall, I visited the house a short time ago when in the neighbourhood. To my surprise I found little or no change, and that it was practically as I knew it during the lifetime of the Master. I was quite prepared to find it turned into a museum ; but it was somewhat painful to me to enter the familiar hall, to see everything as it was when I used to visit Leighton years ago. A picture or two may have been displaced, and the studio rearranged somewhat to adapt it for concert purposes, but apart from this, to any one who knew the President, there was little or no change. Somehow to me I had rather a few more years 25 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON had elapsed before his sanctum, on which he lavished such loving taste, should have been turned into a common show place for a Bank Holiday crowd to wander through at will. If the house had any historic associations one could understand it — but No. 12 Holland Park Road was a new building, the delightful dwelling-place of a very erudite and sympathetic artist, who had a big circle of friends who sincerely admired and appreciated him and mourned his loss, and therefore, to any one like myself, who had the privilege of his personal acquaintance, the endeavour to keep alive his memory by making an exhibition of the house with all his personal treasures so soon after his death, seems almost a sacrilege. It seems on a par with the modern vulgar craze for publishing letters and biographies of dead men almost before the sound of their voices has gone from our ears, a glaring instance of which was shown in the recently published life of that prince of good fellows, King Edward the Seventh. By all means let us preserve anything of interest concerning our great men ; but let it be for the benefit of future generations. In those days of which I am writing, Sir Frederick Leighton was one of the most popular of English painters, and his Sunday receptions were amongst the attractions of the season, and one met every one of note there. I had chosen a week-day for my call, as I had learned that the President only received his personal friends on Sundays. With a certain amount of trepidation I rang the bell at the extremely unpretentious hall door, for intuitively I felt that a good deal depended on my visit. It was, I remember, a lovely spring morning, one of those days when one feels glad to be alive ; and as I waited in the sunshine I felt that it was a happy idea on my part having made up my mind to call on so fine a day when only a curmudgeon could be sour with his fellows. The door was opened 26 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON by a man servant of impressive appearance — just the type of servant one would have expected. Leighton was said to be so intimate a friend of Royalty and the entire aristocracy that it seemed as though some of his urbanity had shed itself on his attendant. Although he could not fail to per- ceive that I was a young man unversed in the etiquette of visiting the President, there was none of the haughty disdain he might perhaps have been permitted to display. I asked if Sir Frederick was at home. “ Sir Frederick,” he told me with, as I thought, a certain suggestion of deference in his voice, was “ at home, but only receives by appointment, and at certain hours.” On my explaining that I had a letter of intro- duction he said he would take in my card and the letter, and perhaps the President would fix an appointment for me to call. He returned in a few moments, and showing me into an inner hall, said that if I didn’t mind waiting a little while, Sir Frederick would come down and see me. I will not attempt to describe the famous Moorish chamber in which I found myself, for it is practically unchanged to-day — suffice it briefly to attempt to record my impressions of that first visit. Accustomed though I was to splendour of effect in the studios and houses of the great painters in Paris, I had never seen anything to equal the artistic beauty of this inner hall in Leighton’s house. It showed genius in its conception, and the taste of an artist and poet in every nook and corner. There was a sense of the mystery and charm of the East around one, and the silence was unbroken save for the splash of a tiny fountain in a shallow marble pool in the centre of the hall, whilst high above, suspended in the darkness of the dome, a small lamp shed an uncanny glimmer of light on the deep blue of the tiled walls. I was absorbed in contemplation of the romantic 27 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON scene, when I heard footsteps, and turning I found myself face to face with the President. It was often said that Leighton was far and away the best looking man they had ever had as President of the Royal Academy, and I remembered this as soon as I saw him — as I don’t think it would have been possible to find a handsomer specimen of man- hood than he presented in the ’eighties, for he was of fine presence, above the average height, about 5 feet 1 1 inches I should say, and built in proportion — but it was his head chiefly that arrested attention. He was in his fiftieth year, and his long hair and pointed beard, which were just turning grey, gave him a most striking appearance. He had the eye of a dreamer and student. He was the beau ideal painter of tender subjects and beautiful women, and the most brilliant President the Royal Academy has ever had. His reception of me was most unconventional, and put me at once at my ease, for he was attired in an old painting smock, and looked just like any ordinary painter in Montmartre. Holding out his hand to me he said heartily, “ I am very pleased to know you, and glad to hear from my old camarade G6rome.” His unaffected simplicity and fascination of manner absolutely magnetised me ; he held my hand whilst he spoke as though henceforth he was my greatest friend, and I felt in an instant that he was the most genuine man I had ever met. I forgot to mention that the letter of introduction I brought with me was in accordance with French custom sealed up — from his manner therefore it was presumable that its contents were not uncomplimentary so far as I was concerned. He invited me to be seated, and we^had an informal chat on Paris and my work at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, and he seemed interested to hear about friends of his I knew, who had become great painters, for he himself had studied in Paris. He told me that he went over as often as he could, and what a good 28 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON thing it was to keep in touch with one’s Alma Mater, and then I recollected I had disturbed him at his work, so I hinted at it and got up to go. “Yes, it is time I got back to my model, but come and see me again whenever you like,” he said with the utmost geniality, as he shook me warmly by the hand. “ Sunday afternoons I am always at home ; but if it is important you will generally have a chance of catching me in between the lights. I shall be pleased to know how you get on in London.” As I came away from the house, delighted with his reception of me, I realised that Leighton’s inimitable charm of manner and sympathetic voice were part and parcel of the genius of the man, and that learned one never so hard this suaviter in modo is innate and cannot be acquired, and this was undoubtedly the secret of his popularity with all with whom he came in contact. It may be of interest to mention as an instance of his unfailing courtesy, that he never, judging from my own experience, left a letter unanswered even for a day. At the time of which I am writing, before the advent of the telephone and the almost universal use of the typewriter, he apparently did all his correspondence himself, the arduous nature of this task may therefore be imagined considering what the magnitude of his correspondence must have been. This remarkable trait in his character always impressed me, and I have often contrasted him in my mind with other men of importance I have met since, who consider the answering of letters as a subject that requires no manner of regard whatever. From this day I felt that I could look on Leighton as a personal friend, and I had no hesitation in taking advantage of his cordial invitation to call on him. Sunday, as he had told me was his jour de reception invariably, and the house and studio were usually full of interesting and distinguished people who wandered around the place as they pleased. All the work on 29 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON which he had been engaged during the week would be on view, and he gladly welcomed criticism if intelligently given. As is well known, Leighton was a most accom- plished linguist, and spoke several languages abso- lutely fluently and with perfect accent — not the least interesting feature therefore of these informal Sunday receptions in the studio was to watch the remarkable facility with which he kept up conversa- tions with foreigners who happened to be visiting him. He never seemed to be taken aback whether it was French, German, Italian and, I believe, Spanish ; it all came quite natural to him apparently, together with the distinctive mannerism of each. A rather amusing anecdote was told of a brother Royal Academician of Leighton’s who determined to emulate his example and also become a linguist, so as a start he took a holiday and went over to Paris and remained there for exactly six weeks — of course he could not learn the language in the time, and he never returned to France ; but from then till the day of his death, many years after, he always spoke English with a French accent! Leighton’s “ Show Sunday,” before his pictures went to the Academy, was one of the events of the season. Holland Park Road would be quite blocked with carriages that afternoon, and the crowd would be so great that one could scarcely move. I often used to wonder how many of all those people he really knew ; but every one seemed to shake hands with him, and his urbanity never deserted him, tiring though it must have been to keep it up for several hours. These glimpses of smart English society were to me quite a novelty, as in Paris my time, when not in the Bohemian artistic world, had been spent mostly amongst bourgeois folk who, although for the most part extremely wealthy, were very simple in their tastes, and abhorred anything in the nature of 30 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON a “ Society Show.” Somehow it struck me that too many of the visitors on these Academy Sundays attended for no other reason but that it was the fashion. As was well known, Leighton had a strong predilec- tion for painting beautiful women, and on one or two occasions when I went to his studio I met his models coming away, and they all appeared lovely creatures to my eyes — though perhaps that was because I guessed they had been sitting to the great man. In this connection I remember a funny story concerning Leighton and one of his models. A girl who used to sit for him for the nude gave up sitting and went on the stage, and got on so well that eventually she married into the aristocracy. One day, sometime after, she called on Leighton — driving up to the house in a smart carriage and pair. Kemp, the man servant, not recognising the quondam model, and probably much impressed by her splendid equipage and gorgeous appearance, ushered her up at once to the studio, where she burst in on the President with scant ceremony. He turned and stared with surprise at the extravagantly attired person who had come in without waiting to be announced. There was a momentary silence, then he bowed and asked with his most courtly air, “ To what am I indebted, madam, for the honour of your visit ? ” “ Oh ! nothing,” she replied excitedly, “ except that I thought I would like to see you again — don’t you know me ? I used to sit to you for the figure.” “ Oh ! is that all ? — then strip,” said the President, without moving a muscle. 3i CHAPTER IV St John’s Wood in the mid ’eighties — Curious state of things — Art and • gallantry — The fastest district of London — Distinguished men living there — The artist colony of St John’s Wood as compared with Montmartre — The “Blenheim” — The “Eyre Arms” — Visits to friends’ studios — An amusing incident — Unexpected visitors — The trick bell-cord — A determined guest — A plethora of jelly — Models persistency in calling — Families of models — Costume models — Models for the nude — “Showing” their figure — Different ways of undressing of the French and the Italian models — Amusing episode in the studio — The two girls, a shock for the gas inspector — A novel evening bodice. St John’s Wood in the mid ’eighties presented a very curious study ; it was without a doubt far and away the most artistic quarter of London. There were artists’ colonies in Haverstock Hill, Kensington and Chelsea, but St John’s Wood was the artists’ district par excellence , and many of the most dis- tinguished painters of those days had their studios there. At the same time it was the most favoured place of residence of ladies of easy virtue. This juxtaposition of art and gallantry is not altogether an unusual coincidence, for it exists in most big cities, where there is an art centre. In Paris it was, and is still, quite remarkable, and in Montmartre, for instance, Phidias is the neighbour of Delilah in almost every street, and lives on very good terms with her in the bargain. But whilst this state of affairs is not altogether surprising across the Channel, where a broader or rather more lax view of such things prevails — it is extremely difficult to 32 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON explain how it ever came to be tolerated in sancti- monious old London. I have often tried to fathom the reasons that prompted a number of thoroughly respectable gentle- men of the palette — with wives and families — to go deliberately and reside in what was undoubtedly then the fastest district of London. The fact of its almost rural seclusion may partially explain it, for the open country was close at hand to St John’s Wood in the ’eighties. In Montmartre the unmarried painters usually lived openly en menage with their mattresses or their amies , and made no compliment about it ; but such goings-on would have been considered most repre- hensible in London, and therefore few of the artists risked it, if they wished to have any pretension to be looked upon as decent members of society — though it was an open secret that all was not exactly monastic in many of the bachelor’s studios. But of this more anon. Meanwhile it may be of interest in order to con- vey some idea of the artistic character of the district to name a few of the men who lived there in my time. It will be seen that it was a thoroughly representa- tive gathering of some of the best known men of that period. Frederick Goodall, R.A., was in Avenue Road ; close by was Alma Tadema, whose house and studio were badly damaged by the explosion of a barge on the Canal opposite. In Cavendish Place was one of the most popular painters of the day, Thomas Faed, R.A. In St John’s Wood Road were H. W. B. Davis, R.A., who had Landseer’s old house; John Pettie, R.A., Seymour Lucas, R.A., and Phil Morris, A.R.A. Stacey Marks, the R.A., who achieved fame and fortune by his quaint pictures of storks and pelicans and other grotesque birds at the Zoo, was in Hamilton Terrace, and close by him was Yeend King just 33 C MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON beginning to make his reputation as a landscape painter. Just round the corner, in Grove End Road, was Phillip Calderon, R.A., and further on in the same road was James Tissot, the French artist, perhaps one of the most talented and original painters at the time ; he had a house which was afterwards purchased by Alma Tadema. His garden was said to be the most picturesque and most extensive in the neighbourhood, and there was a small lake in it with water lilies and rushes on it, which he depicted in many of his pictures. Tissot, so rumour went, lived there very much a la Franqaise , and as he always painted his mistress, she was usually referred to as “ his favourite model,” for decorum’s sake. The goody folk round about were very scandalised at his household arrangements I remember — they prob- ably looked on the high wall surrounding his place as enclosing a veritable abode of iniquity. M‘Whirter was at the corner of Abbey Road, and in Carlton Hill close by was J. D. Watson, one of the greatest personalities of the Bohemian world at that time. He was a splendid looking man, with a fine figure and handsome aquiline features, reminding one somewhat of a youngish Don Quixote. He was quite a genius in his way ; it was one of the things no one could understand, why he was never elected to the Royal Academy. His work was of the School of Pinwell and Fred Walker, and as a painter he was far ahead of the majority of his contemporaries. He gave me the impression of being a disappointed man, yet in spite of his always being a bitter cynic he was very popular amongst the artists in the Wood. Laslett J. Pott, whose studio was close by, was also quite a character in his way, though not a great painter. He was a major in the volunteers, and looked a good deal more like a soldier than an artist — in fact it was a little weakness of his to be taken for an officer of the Regulars, and certainly his 34 “ HIS SPLENDID MOUSTACHE AND HIS MARTIAL BEARING.” MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON splendid moustache and his martial bearing gave him quite the appearance of the guardsman of the period. All along Grove End Road, and in the turnings off it, artists were to be found, and all more or less well known. In Melina Place was Johnny Parker, the water colour painter, and across the way in Elm Tree Road was Ernest Parton, who had just made a big hit at the Royal Academy and had his picture purchased by the Chantry Fund ; and Ethel Wright, one of the prettiest and most talented of the lady artists, not only of the neighbourhood but of London, who lived in a gem of an old-world house with a studio and a garden. She had a chaperon always staying with her as she was far too young to be living alone in St John’s Wood — even under the aegis of Art. She used to give delightful little dinner-parties to her artistic friends, amongst whom I had the pleasure of being counted. In Waverley Place were amongst others Delapoer Downing and Herbert Lyndon, who shared a studio ; and Tom Hemy, a clever painter of marine subjects, but who was over-shadowed by the greater reputation of his brother, Napier ; Onslow Ford, the sculptor, was at the corner of Acacia Road ; whilst a few hundred yards away in Finchley Road were Dendy Sadler and two Royal Academicians, Briton Riviere and Burgess. There were groups of studios off Queen’s Road, Finchley Road, Marlboro’ Road, Carlton Hill, and other streets where were younger men, many of whom made names for themselves since. I have, however, enumerated sufficient to give some slight idea of the district in those days. It was a unique little colony of artists, the like of which could not, I think, exist to-day. Although there was no fortune to be made out of painting, many of the big artists were doing extremely well, and that encouraged the less known 35 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON men to persevere in their efforts. Modern art had not yet been ousted by Old Masters, nor illustration by photography. Looking back on those years it seems to me that every one took life easier, even one’s pleasures less boisterously, and one had more time to oneself than nowadays — though perhaps that was because you were young then and with all your life before you. But anyhow there is no doubt the temptation to gad about was not so great, and I soon found that if St John’s Wood did not offer the same wild attractions I had got accustomed to in Paris, it had its compensations in the shape of plenty of pretty girls to come and sit for one, and lots of good fellows who were glad if you dropped in to have a smoke and a yarn after work, for I was not long in getting to know several of my confreres. There were one or two places where one was sure to run across brother brushes ; the “ Blenheim,” which was quite close to my studio in Marlboro’ Hill, or the “Eyre Arms,” a little way off, of which I shall have plenty to relate further on. These chance rencontres with men who had studios near you gave an additional charm to the artistic life of the neighbourhood, and reminded one not a little of living in a big village where every one soon gets to know every one else. Men would “ put on a pipe ” of a morning, and stroll round to friends’ studios very often for no better reason than that they didn’t feel up to work yet, and wanted to while away an hour or so, and unless one was busy oneself, or wanted to be alone, it was very pleasant having some one calling to see you at any odd time. Moreover, it gave opportunities for exchange of ideas which were often very acceptable. One was not old enough in those days to have “ axes to grind,” and one got franker criticism than one gets as one grows older, when the stress of competition and jealousy begins to develop itself. 36 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON ‘‘Come round, old chap, for a few minutes and have a smoke, and tell me how my picture is getting on,” was what you heard almost every day, and very often one was glad for the excuse of a stroll out, especially if it was a fine, sunny morning, and the studio appeared a bit stuffy in consequence. Whilst these informal and unexpected visits from one’s neighbours were very pleasant, they were apt at times to lead to somewhat awkward predicaments, and this reminds me of a funny incident which is worth telling. An artist who had a studio not far from me was very fond of the ladies — not an unusual state of affairs, perhaps, especially amongst the knights of the palette, but he was particularly strong on this point, and was seldom without a petticoat near him. One fine, hot summer afternoon a gteat pal of his went round to see him, and finding the door of the studio ajar, walked in unceremoniously and without knocking first. To his great amusement he dis- covered his friend on the divan with a lovely girl in diaphanous drapery in his arms. This situation was certainly compromising, and the unbidden visitor was about discreetly to retire so as not to disturb the two inamorata who were in the ecstasies of spooning. He was hoping that his entrance would not be noticed, but in backing out he knocked against something which caused the couple to turn round with guilty haste, and the lady gave a little scream. The visitor apologised profusely for his intrusion, whereat his friend, seeing who it was, got into a violent rage, and called out to him, “ How dare you come in when you see I am engaged ! ” So irritating were these unexpected visits at times when one wanted particularly to be alone, that a man I knew had fixed up an ingenious arrangement by which he could ring the street door bell without going outside. There was a sort of wooden pedal at the 37 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON side of a paint cabinet, attached to this was a cord connecting with the bell wire ; when he wanted to get rid of a bore he would stroll nonchalantly as though to get something from the cabinet, and the rest was easy. There would be a loud ring at the bell, he would go to see who it was, remain away for a few minutes, and on returning would say, “ Awfully sorry, old chap, but I have got to go out at once, some one has sent for me,” or anything else that came into his mind at the moment. Then putting on his hat he would add, if he saw his visitor had not taken the hint, “ I am afraid I shall have to turn you out, as I do not know what time I shall be back.” Unwelcome visitors were, however, not always got rid of in spite of the bell, and he used to tell of an incident that occurred to him on one occasion in particular. He was expecting his best girl when there was a ring at the bell, and on going to the door he found it was the mother of a damsel who had sat to him in a friendly way for a picture. The family had been very kind to him once when he was ill, and shown him a good deal of hospitality at different times ; so, although it was very annoying and awkward the old lady turning up at this particular moment, he had to pretend to be delighted to see her, and asked her in. Meanwhile he glanced surreptitiously at his watch, and discovered he only had about twenty minutes to spare. As the old lady had always accompanied her daughter when she was sitting for him, she knew the studio well. She had a lot of parcels under her arm, and in she walked and flopped down contentedly into the most comfort- able armchair, saying cheerfully, to the artist’s horror, “ Well, it’s lucky finding you in, as I am positively dying for a cup of tea. I have been shopping all day and feel knocked up, so I said to myself, if George is in I know he will be a good Samaritan 38 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON and let me sit quietly in his studio until it is time to go to the station to catch my train.” “ Catch your train,” repeated George mechanically. “ What time does your train go ? ” “Oh, there’s one at 5.5 (it was then past 4) and there is not another after that till 7.15.” The artist made up his mind instantly that, bar unforeseen circumstances, she would catch the 5.5 — but, of course, he didn’t tell her this. So with much alacrity he put the kettle on the stove with as little water in it as possible, so that it would boil quickly, laid the tea things, and altogether was so smart about it that the dear old lady chaffingly suggested he had missed his vocation — he ought to have been a parlour-maid. Well, he hurried her through tea as rapidly as he decently could, and bethought him of the bell trick, and he went out in response to the ring. In a few minutes he returned with an assumed air of much annoyance, preached the usual yarn, and told her how awfully sorry he was that he had to go out at once, and as he was not certain what time he was coming back he thought he had better put her in a cab and she would just catch the 5.5. His feelings may be imagined when she replied that she felt so tired that she had unbuttoned her boots, and she didn’t mind a bit him leaving her alone in the studio, and that she would have a sleep and tidy herself up and catch the 7.15 — she knew he was a very busy man, so she would forgive him running away and leaving her, etc. Here was a pretty predicament, for what could he do, he could not very well tell her she must go, so he murmured something about not liking to leave her alone there. “Never you mind about me,” she replied, with a merry old lady’s laugh. “ I can look after myself, and I shall probably make myself another cup of tea before I go — so you run away and don’t worry about me.” There was no help for it, so out he 39 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON had to go, and he strolled up and down outside till his girl, who was never punctual, turned up, and he told her all about what had happened, and they had to walk about the streets till the old lady had gone. The denouement was too funny for words ; when he got back into the studio he found a sweet little note, that the dear old soul had noticed that George wasn’t looking quite himself (probably a little worried !), ^nd having luckily the ingredients with her that she was taking back with her into the country, she had spent the time, when alone in the studio, in making him a little invalid jelly — and adding that he must leave it to set till the following day, when she would look in to see if he was better. George was naturally pleased at her kind thought. Imagine his horror when the following morning his charwoman came to him and asked what she should use for his breakfast as all the cups and basins were full of some “ yellow muck,” which perhaps, she added, he didn’t want disturbed. The dear old lady had made enough jelly to supply a military hospital ; but the worst of it was, it hadn’t set, and showed no signs of doing so. Here was a pretty predicament, as he didn’t like to throw it away, as she was coming to see him again that day. As far as I remember, he drank his tea that morning out of the soap-dish. The most persistent of visitors at all times were the models ; all day and at any hour they would be calling. As the studio I had taken was a very well-known one, and had been occupied for several years by figure artists, a day never passed without several rings at the bell from would - be sitters — and generally females. Most of them seemed to live in Camden Town, and they hunted in packs apparently. A very large percentage had little pretension to good looks, and had evidently tried to take to sitting as an easier way of earning 40 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON money than going into service. After the novelty had worn off, one got very tired of answering rings at the bell, when one happened to be busy, to find some dowdy, ill - favoured individual outside, and to hear the invariable, “ Do you want a model, sir?” It was a mystery to me how the majority managed to make a living at it at all ; in Paris they would not have earned a crust. The patience they displayed was often exemplary, for it must have been very disheartening going from studio to studio, and so seldom getting anything out of it all — except a rough answer when the artist was in a temper at being disturbed. Male models were also calling persistently, though there didn’t seem to be so many of them. They were not nearly so picturesque as the ones you saw in Paris, as they were generally down at the heel, shabby individuals of uncertain age, who looked like broken-down actors, and who probably divided their time between “ supering ” at theatres and sitting for artists. There was an oldish fellow I remember, who used to come round, he wasn’t anything to look at, and hadn’t got a hair on his head — in fact, he was as bald as a billiard ball, yet he called himself a model ; what he used to sit for I could never imagine. There were, however, two or three who were quite characters in their way — one in particular with a very fine head. He was an old seafaring man, and eventually sat for the doctor in Sir Luke Filde’s famous picture. Many artists would fix notices outside their doors, “No models required,” and one I knew, who was a bit of a wag, went so far as to put — “ No models, hawkers, or dogs admitted — dustmen may call.” Still this didn’t deter them, for they were a determined lot, and would ring the bell at all hazards. It was so seldom that any really beautiful women called that one often wondered where the artists found the lovely faces they painted in their 4i MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON pictures ; but it was probably the same as I noticed in Paris — an exceptionally good - looking model never had occasion to go round asking for work, so unless she had an introduction she never called to see you, she got all the sittings she could manage among her own clientele. Apart from those girls, who, as I have suggested, probably took up sitting instead of going into service, there were many who had been brought up as models, and who came from families who had been all models. There were several girls of this description who were quite well known among the artists — they had been posing practically since they were old enough to sit up, and if they were not beautiful, at least they made excellent and reliable models, and could therefore always make a living at it. They were in great request for drapery, or any pose requiring exceptional steady sitting. Most of them sat for the figure, and it was often quite amusing to me at first to note the businesslike method in which they acted. As I was a newcomer, and a possible employer, they would always suggest “ showing their figure ” when they called, if I happened to ask them in to take their address. It didn’t seem to make the slightest difference to them how chilly the studio was. “ That doesn’t matter,” they would often say ; “ I’ll show it you now while I am here, and then you will know what it is like, and you can make a note of it in your model book,” and often before one could stop them they would start undressing. Many would look round for a screen or curtain to disrobe behind, but others treated the process in so business- like a manner that it made no difference to them taking off their clothes in the middle of the studio. They often seemed to wear specially made dresses and underclothes which seemed to come undone as if by magic — a button here, a hook there, and the whole lot was off in an instant. 42 Bit permission of R. Sondier MOST OF THEM SAT FOR THE FIGURE.” J.M.P MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON It used to be said in the Paris studios that you can always distinguish between the French and the Italian models by the way they take off their chemise. The French girl invariably lets hers fall daintily to the ground round her feet, and steps out of it, whereas the Italian, on the contrary, takes it off carelessly over her head. I was reminded of this by the way the English models disrobed — they did it usually with a sort of self-consciousness which seldom had either the grace of the Frenchwoman or the abandon of the Italian. A peculiar episode comes back to me in this connection ; it makes me smile even now when I think of it. One morning two models called, and, as I was alone, and they were not bad - looking girls, I asked them in to take their addresses. Somewhat to my surprise they both offered to show me their figures there and then to “save time,” as they put it, so, as I was not expecting anybody, I told them they could undress behind the curtains which masked the alcove which I used as a bed- room. They had just left me when there came a ring at the bell, and I found it was the gas inspector, who had called to see me with reference to a fault in the gas-cooking stove. We stood talking out- side for a moment on the matter, and then, without thinking of what I was doing, I asked him to come into the studio. He had just finished looking at the stove, and we were coming out of the inner room, when suddenly a voice called out, “ Shall we come in?” For the moment I clean forgot about the two models, and thinking I had left the studio door open I said, “ Who’s there ? Come in ! ” The curtains of the alcove were parted and in walked two nude girls, and stood like statues in the middle of the studio. The inspector stared in blank amaze- ment at the vision before him, as well he might, for it was as unexpected as it was pleasing, as both the models had lovely figures. He had the presence of 43 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON mind, however, to hide his embarrassment, and didn’t utter a word ; for all the curiosity he displayed he might have been an artist himself, but the look on his face spoke volumes. After giving one or two different poses the girls asked if that would do, and could they dress again. Of course I told them to do so, and they went back behind the curtains. Whilst they were getting into their clothes the inspector, with a snigger, whispered to me that he “ must really take up art as a ’obby ! ” One of the best looking of the women who used to come round and ask for sittings had hit on quite a novel idea. I had been told of it, but the first time she called I forgot it, so her dress gave me a curious surprise. She told me she didn’t sit for the whole figure, but merely for the bust, which she added was said by artists to be very fine. She would show it me. I told her not to trouble, as I was not in want of a model just at the moment; but she was not to be deterred. She was wearing a long rough ulster and a grey skirt. To slip off the ulster was the work of a moment, when to my surprise she was wearing a black evening bodice cut so low as to completely display her bosoms. She certainly had a magnificent neck and shoulders and figure, so she was perhaps justified in wishing to display it, though the manner was singular to say the least of it, and far more suggestive than the entirely nude form would have been. But then, what elsewhere might appear uncon- ventional and even indecent, is in studio life, as I shall try to show as I go along, looked upon as of ordinary occurrence. 44 CHAPTER V Models as a class — Love in the studio — An awkward contretemps — An amusing incident — Earnings of models — The temptation to go wrong — Black sheep — Artists marry models — Jealous wives — Some amusing incidents — Love resuscitated — The “ engaged” couple — Amateur models — Chance acquaintances — Some amusing incidents — Risks one ran — An exciting adventure. Lots of people, I found, imagined because a girl sat for the “altogether” that she must be a bad lot, and this I was not long in discovering un- doubtedly was a very erroneous impression, for as a ' rule models I came across were a very respectable and hardworking class. Anyhow that was always my experience, especially with those who had been brought up in the profession and been at it practically all their lives. An artist who would have ventured to take liberties with his model ran the risk not only of seeing her put on her clothes and walk out of the studio, but also of her telling every one of his goings-on. Of course I do not wish to infer that there were no tender episodes in the studios, as there were doubtless many models who were in love with artists they sat for, and vice versd ; that was only human nature after all. I refer to men who might have had the idea that a girl sitting to him for the figure was “ up to anything,” and attempted to act accordingly ; more often than not he found out his mistake, and had sometimes to make very humble apologies to avoid a scene. I remember something that an artist friend of mine told me happened to him on one occasion, and 45 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON which taught him a lesson he never forgot. A very pretty girl, a model, called on him one day, and she had such a glorious figure that he could not resist the temptation to give her a sitting the follow- ing morning. He was not quite decided what he should do from her, so when she was undressed he got her to try various poses, in all of which she looked so splendid that he couldn’t make up his mind how to paint her. Whilst suggesting different positions they were chatting in quite a friendly manner, till at last, and he couldn’t quite explain why, he said, as he was gazing at the lovely form before him she suddenly became in his mind, what she really was, a very beautiful woman and no longer a model. His admiration for her was responsible for the intro- duction into the tones of his voice of a trace of tenderness, and under the pretext of altering the pose she was taking, he touched her lightly. She took no notice of this apparently, so he felt instantly emboldened to go a step further, and bending forward he gave her a slight kiss on the neck. She started back as though she had been stung, and exclaimed angrily : “What do you mean by doing that? How dare you? If you attempt that sort of thing with me I shall put on my things at once and go — so I warn you.” He stood abashed, not knowing at first what to say, then started making excuses for his lapse from decorum, all of which she treated with scornful indig- nation ; however, he managed to appease her after a while, and she forgave him, but she never sat for him again. The mention of relations between artists and their models reminds me of a story they told of a man who was on the best of terms with a girl who sat for him — it was an open secret, and they always addressed each other even in public in the most en- dearing terms, such as “ sweetheart,” “ducky darling,” and so forth. One day, however, an important client 46 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON called unexpectedly, and was shown in whilst a sitting was in progress. The artist waited till the visitor had got well into the studio, and turned with an air of importance to the girl and said abruptly, “You can rest now, model.” “ All right, artist,” was her prompt reply. You paid your model then, the same as you do now, namely, 7s. a day and her lunch, so she didn’t do so badly if constantly at work ; but this was seldom the case, and probably at the end of the month she would have only earned a starvation amount. All the more credit to her, then, if she kept straight, and a wonder to me always was that so many did. There were, of course, as in every line of life, lots of black sheep amongst them — girls who took to drink and went to the bad, and the wonder was there were not a great many more, considering the “fast” atmosphere of St John’s Wood in those days, and the numbers of gay women who lived in every street — the sight of whom must have often given the poor models furiously to think. Several artists I knew had fallen in love with their models and married them, and in most cases the result was a very happy one ; but there were a few very much the reverse, where the wife had developed jealousy of other models to such an extent as to be almost unbearable, even if their husbands were not good-looking and long past the age when they might have had some excuse for mistrust. The curious part of it was that the usual form this jealousy took would be a wild, unreasoning suspicion of anything in petticoats that came to the studio — sometimes even of the very charwoman — with the result that in order to have peace at any price, the unfortunate artist would end by sinking his individu- ality, and only painting subjects his wife approved of. It was quite pitiful at times to watch a man’s spirit gradually being nagged out of him. There was one lady, the wife of a distinguished 4 7 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON old painter, whose whole life appeared to be taken up with watching her husband, and from all accounts she was never really happy unless she thought she was on the verge of catching him in flagrante delicto. She positively revelled in her fancied grievances against him, yet he was as guileless an old man as one could meet anywhere ; but now and again his beaten down spirit would revolt against her bullying — a flash in the pan as it were. On one occasion, for instance, he was working very diligently, when his wife rushed into his studio and accused him of being familiar with his model — and the old man actually had the pluck to retort angrily : “ Good God, woman ! how can I be spooning with a person sitting twelve feet away from me?” He was usually very meek and cringing, and once, rather than have a row, he sent his model away and never finished his picture. There was another artist’s wife, also an ex-model — who had conceived quite a brilliant idea. She had had a peep-hole — with a sliding flap over it, which worked noiselessly, somewhat similar to those used in prisons — made in the studio door, so that she could look in at any moment and see what her husband was doing, without his being aware of it. Perhaps, however, one of the most curious affairs of this description I ever heard of was about an old married couple who had for years been living a cat and dog existence — always quarrelling, or not being on speak- ing terms — suddenly changing for some reason, best known to themselves, and actually ending by falling in love with each other again. I should never have believed it if I had not seen them myself, sitting hand in hand, calling one another by endearing terms, and looking as spoony as a pair of young lovers. I am told that such cases are not altogether rare ; but I don’t want to come across one again. It struck me, I remember, as being positively nauseating. Living en menage , such as one saw so much of in 48 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON Paris, was very rare amongst the artists I came across in St John’s Wood. I knew two people who had lived together for a number of years and shared the same studio ; but they gave out- they were “engaged,” and people pretended to believe them, and so there was no scandal, and as they eventually got married, when on the verge of old age, and were happy ever after, it all ended in most conventional style. The fact was, what in London commenced as a flirtation generally ended at that outwardly ; whereas in Paris there was no halfway house — it was all or nothing, and no secrecy about it whatever. If a man in Bohemia preferred to live with his maitresse to getting married, no one thought any the worse of him. There may be a lot of hypocrisy about the English view of these matters ; but it seems to be better it should be so, than proclaiming one’s peccadilloes from the house-tops. What spoilt “ modelling,” if one may so term it, as a profession was the number of amateur models. There is undoubtedly a great fascination about a studio for the average female, who probably asso- ciates it with endless romance and mystery, and pictures to herself all young artists as out-and-out Bohemians and devil-me-care fellows, and is there- fore easily persuaded to sit if “ asked nicely.” In St John’s Wood, when I was living there, one had no difficulty in finding any number of pretty girls who lived at home, and had nothing much to do during the day, who gladly welcomed the chance of a break in the usual routine of their everyday life by going for an hour or so to a studio. My experiences in this respect were doubtless but similar to those of many other artists who took the trouble to keep their eyes open when strolling about the neighbourhood. In this relation I found that one had more chance than in Paris — where if one got to know a girl without a formal introduction the 49 D MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON odds were she was a femme entretenue , or some one who would speak to any one who spoke to her, and with whom it was only a question of L.S.D. In the Wood these chance acquaintances often turned out to be quite respectable girls, with whom one became great pals, and who looked upon it as quite an adventure to sit for a picture. I may have been particularly fortunate, but certainly some of the best friends I had in those days I got to know through the introduction of ladies whom I met casually in an omnibus or train, and who came and sat for me. Several of my most successful pictures were painted from “ friends,” whose acquaint- ance I had made in this unorthodox manner. As a matter of fact, when one has a picture in one’s mind, and one wants some particular type of face for which one might wait for ever, and not find a professional model to suit it, the temptation is often irresistible to try and get to know the girl you come across who is just the model you have been looking for. ‘‘You have just the face I want for a picture I am going to paint,” may sound to the layman a very thin excuse for an introduction, but it is gener- ally founded on fact. It was well known that Bastien Lepage made the acquaintance of the most distinguished living actress in this way, and his name was made through the picture he painted from her. Mrs Grundy may turn up her eyes at such uncon- ventionality ; but it exists nevertheless, and always will exist, however much she may condemn it. But to return to the subject of amateur models. My experience has generally led me to the con- clusion that if a “ friend ” takes sufficient interest in you or the picture, as the case might be, she will generally do her best to help you make it a success — whereas the average model looks upon the artist as merely her employer, and there her 50 JUST THE MODEL YOU HAVE BEEN LOOKING FOR. From the original drawing in the Collection of M. E. de Rossi. MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON concern ends. There may, of course, be models who are not quite as indifferent, but I imagine they are few and far between ; their one anxiety is to get the sitting over and be off. Of course it is not every amateur model, however good-natured and willing, can keep a pose for any length of time, especially if it is at all difficult, so in that case one is bound to engage a professional. I have had many funny experiences of the diffi- culties that crop up when painting from amateur models — and doubtless many artists could also relate curious adventures on this subject. A friend of mine told me of one which was very amusing. He wanted a particular type of little girl, and after searching for some time in vain he mentioned it to his charwoman, and she got a “lady friend” of hers to let her youngster come and sit to him for the usual fee he paid. The child was just what the artist wanted for his picture, and came to him one Saturday for a sitting — but he soon found to attempt to paint anything from her was useless ; she couldn’t keep still for a moment, and chatted away the whole time, till she nearly drove him crazy. After several unsuccessful endeavours he gave it up as a bad job, and paying for the sitting he told her to go home, and he should not require her services again. To his surprise the child turned up on the Monday morning. “ I thought I said you were not to come any more,” he exclaimed angrily on seeing her enter the studio. “Yes,” was the reply ; “and you better not do it again. I told my mother about it, and she was wild ! ” I remember one of my own experiences with a would-be model. A pretty girl came to me one day just as I was going out, and said a friend of hers had given her my address, and told her she could probably earn some money by sitting for me. 5i MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON She was so nice that I asked her to call on me the next day, and I would make a sketch from her. This she did, and in the course of conversa- tion I gathered that she was not absolutely a prude, and might perhaps be induced to sit for the figure ; so I suggested that if she would I would paint her as a nymph, or something equally appropriate. To my surprise she said, “ No, I won’t sit to you for the figure.” Laying such emphasis on the “ you ” I naturally asked why she objected so particularly to me — as I had not said a word to her that could by any chance be construed wrongly. “ Oh, nothing,” she replied ambiguously ; “ except that I have heard you lived in Paris.” I didn’t pursue the subject, but often wondered what on earth she meant. There was a girl who used to come and sit for me sometimes ; she was quite respectable in so much as she lived with her people, who were fairly well to do. She sat for me purely for the fun of the thing she said, and would not let me pay anything for it, although I had suggested treating it as a matter of business. After a little persuasion I got her to sit for the “ altogether,” as she had a beautiful figure ; but she had a peculiar perception of modesty ; she didn’t mind my sketching her legs and feet bare when she had all her clothes on, but nothing would induce her to take her shoes and stockings off when she was otherwise quite naked. I never could make out why, but I suppose she thought she wasn’t entirely nude so long as she kept them on. One ran a certain amount of risk in asking girls one knew nothing about to sit for you, as I realised on one occasion when an incident of unpleasant nature occurred in consequence. I met a very pretty woman one evening whilst strolling near the studio, and when she found out I was an artist she offered of her own accord to come and sit for me if I would paint her. As I was about 52 By permission of L. Soudier BUT NOTHING WOULD INDUCE HER TO TAKE HER SHOES AND STOCKINGS OFF.” From the original drawing in the Collection of M. E. de Rossi. MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON to suggest this myself I was delighted when it came from her. The following day she came up, and I commenced a sketch of her in deshabille as she had no prejudices on the subject, and we soon became rather more than friends. I may mention she had on her first visit given me an address at Hampstead where I might write her, as she could not receive letters at her home. Well, one day she turned up at the appointed time, and we were getting on with the painting when there came a violent ring at the bell — one of those hard, unsympathetic rings that betoken no friendly feeling. My model, as I will call her, to my astonishment jumped up with a whispered exclamation of alarm. “ Who can it be ? ” she queried. “ Most likely only a bill,” said I nonchalantly ; but I smelt a rat, all the same — “ I will see ” — and going over to a sort of peep-hole I had contrived in the door in order to see who my visitors were, I looked out and saw a stranger, a big, heavy man, waiting by the bell. “ Let me see who it is,” said my friend, who had suddenly become strangely excited, and, pushing me aside, she peeped through. “ It’s my husband. I thought it would be. My God ! what shall I do ? ” she gasped out. “ Your husband ! ” I exclaimed ; “ you never told me you were married.” “ Well, I am, and if he catches me here with you he’ll kill me. Where can I go? What shall I do? Think of something quick, there’s no time to lose,” she continued hysterically as the bell rang out again stridently, and she began putting on her clothes in feverish haste. Here was a pretty predicament for, as may be imagined, I didn’t want a scandal in the studio. Suddenly I remembered the back exit through the garden. Hastily I told her of it, and explained I would ask her husband into the studio ; that she 53 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON would have to make her escape as noiselessly as possible at the moment she heard him enter. Of course she agreed to do this. So pushing her hat and cloak into her hand, and without a word of good-bye, I let her out and bolted the door, and then hid the picture I was painting from her. The bell rang out again, and I heard footsteps coming up the pathway, and there was a loud knock as though with a stick at the studio door. An idea occurred to me to explain my delay in opening. Pulling off my coat and waistcoat I went into the lavatory, and wetting my face and hands and rough- ing my hair I called out, “ All right, whoever it is, I won’t be a minute,” and then after a pause I went to open the door, towel in hand, as though I had been disturbed whilst having a wash. “Oh, I thought it was a lady friend of mine,” I said, as though surprised at seeing a stranger, adding, “ And what can I do for you, sir?” “ I want to know what you are doing with my wife in your studio,” he yelled out. “Your wife ! ” I repeated. “ Are you mad ? I haven’t got your wife in my studio.” “ Oh, haven’t you ? Well, I know better, and I have had her followed, so let me in,” and before I could stop him — he was, as I said, a big, heavy man — he pushed me aside and rushed into the studio like a raving maniac. By Jove it was lucky he didn’t find her there, for I really believe there would have been murder done. A glance round was sufficient to prove to him there was no lady in the place, as the curtains across the alcove were drawn back and the inner door wide open. He stood still, looking round in amazement. I heard a faint sound as of footsteps hurrying down the pathway towards the street. I had to give her time to get away, so pretended to work myself up into a violent rage. “ Are you mad or drunk, coming here like this ? 54 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON Who are you and what do you mean by it? What’s the game?” “ So she’s not here,” he said half to himself ; then turning to me, “ There must be some mistake. I hope, sir, you will accept my apologies for intruding on you like this, but I was informed that my wife had been seen coming to your studio, and I determined to catch her — and you too,” he added with a grim laugh. “ However, I am very glad indeed it is not true. I hope you will accept my sincere apologies, and I am very sorry if I have caused you any annoyance.” I could see that he was overjoyed at not finding her in the place, so I pretended to be mollified, and told him I quite understood his feelings in the matter. He turned to make his way out — at the door he offered me his hand, and with a tremble in his voice he said, “ We’ve only been married a couple of years, and I love her more than anything in the world, and the meri thought of any one fooling about with her drives me positively mad, and I could kill her.” Then after a pause he added, “ You understand, I am sure.” He seemed a jolly, good, honest fellow, the very chap to deserve a good wife ; but he had had no luck in the lottery, and I felt very sorry for him. She never came to see me again, but curiously enough about a year later, when I had almost forgotten the incident, I had a letter from her ; it had a black border to it. In it she told me I would “ be sorry to hear ” she was a widow, that her husband had died suddenly, and that she was going to live with a sister in Canada. 55 CHAPTER VI My good luck in Marlboro’ Hill — Commissions — Portraits — A beautiful sitter — Trying work — I fall in love — Symptoms of the disease — Keeping the postman busy — Top-hatted respectability — Bohemianism versus conventionality — “A talk with papa” — Ignominious retreat — I go to Gorleston — Painting en plein air — Tender recollections — I go to Paris to paint portrait — La vie du Grand Monde — Leaving Marlboro’ Hill — Search for another studio — io Blenheim Place — The “ Eyre Arms ” and its habituts — The Belsize Boxing Club — The dances in the Assembly Rooms — The coffee-room — The dignified waiter — The private bar — Pony Moore — Amusing episode — Practical joking in the wood — I spend a week-end in a haunted house — The family ghost — Thrilling incident. The year I spent in the studio in Marlboro’ Hill was pleasant enough from start to finish, and I never had reason to regret having risked taking it. I had nothing but good fortune, and although I didn’t make enough money to be able to save anything, I had no occasion to draw on my slender capital the whole time, which meant that I managed to make a living, such as it was, out of my work ; no mean achievement con- sidering I was only just starting professionally. Luck of course had a deal to do with it, like it always has, and in my case it took the form of several com- missions for small paintings of genre subjects for a London dealer, and three or four portraits. One of the latter was particularly interesting, not only because it was of a very beautiful woman, but by reason of the quite unusual circumstances attend- ing it. I feel bound to recount them, as they had a distinct bearing on my life for some time afterwards. 56 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON My sitter was the wife of a rich Englishman, who lived in England during the summer, and in Paris and the South of France during the rest of the year. It was late in the season when I commenced the work, so there wasn’t too much time to get on with it before they left town, so it was arranged I should go over and finish it in Paris if necessary, as they particularly desired that it should be exhibited at the Salon . It would have been difficult to imagine a pleasanter commission, and I started on it with an enthusiasm which was augmented by the impression the beauty of my sitter had made on me. The next few weeks, therefore, I was at her beck and call, so to speak, and I soon discovered how trying it must be to one’s patience to be a society portrait painter, for I can still recall those weary waits in the studio, and the telegrams putting off sitting at the last moment, and all the little worries incidental to painting the portrait of a fashionable beauty. They seemed so important at the time, but when I look back on them after all these years, I realise what a lot of concern one attaches to what really only amount to trifles after all is said and done. With all the best will possible, and my sitter turned out to be as charming as she was beautiful, it was utterly impossible to finish the picture before she left town, so I gladly agreed to go over and spend a month in Paris in the autumn and work on it there. As may be imagined, I was not sorry for the excuse, and the more especially as a friend had offered to lend me his studio to work in. In the meantime I had plenty to occupy my time in London outside painting, as I had an adventure that landed me as near matrimony as I have ever ventured — it was only my want of pluck that saved me. It came about in this wise. I was something of a dancing man then, and on one occasion I met at a ball what I thought was absolutely the loveliest creature I had ever cast eyes on, and I 57 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON told her I was an artist and would love to paint her, and she said she’d love to sit to me — and I went home and lay awake and thought of her and fell asleep and dreamed of her. The next day I dis- covered I was madly in love, so, as the symptoms brooked no delay, I sought some one who knew her people, and in a short time I had got not only an introduction, but was invited to a dance at their house. From that moment I was non composs and passed most of my time when I could not see her in writing her lengthy letters, which she promptly answered ; so between us we kept the postman busy, for on one day alone I remember, no less than eight communica- tions reached us respectively. I believe it is admitted that a first attack of love- sickness, like influenza, is always severer than subse- quent attacks, so no doubt this was my case, for I can well recollect the dreadful time of alternating suspense and elation I passed through during that period of the disease immediately following on the incubation stage, and I had every reason to believe the object of my adoration was similarly afflicted. One particularly uncomfortable result of the state of mind in which I found myself was that any original assurance with which Nature had endowed me wholly deserted me at that time, and I believe I found myself realising that if that was one of the consequences of falling seriously in love, it were better to be without it. Perhaps it was because hitherto my experience in this respect had been of but a light-hearted, transient nature — a Bohemian state of affairs which had been, as it were, a result of feeling lonely, and therefore with no deep motive to sustain it. This time I knew somehow it was quite a different matter, and I hardly recognised myself in my new role of top-hatted respectability — paying afternoon calls, going to social functions, dinner parties, and what not, for the sake of meeting my divinity. 58 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON It was indeed a new experience for me, and, with the recollection of my boisterous days in Paris still fresh in my memory, a somewhat startling and un- expected one. It was to be a struggle in my mind between Bohemianism and conventionality, and for the moment I felt like a swimmer on a high diving board, who cannot make up his mind for the plunge because he fears the water is cold. In the meantime I was getting more and more enraptured, and at length we both decided that I ought to have a “talk with papa.” I had been in my heart hoping to be able to defer the interview, for we had been having such lovely times together that the step I was about to take would, I felt, put an end to all the delightful secrecy of the romance and settle it once and for all on a matter-of-fact basis, which somehow didn’t seem to have entered into my ideas up till then, nor did it appeal to me. Still there was no help for it; that relentless task-mistress, Mrs Grundy, had to be reckoned with, and even my love’s bosom friend, a jolly girl who had good-naturedly acted as chaperon and played gooseberry for us since the commence- ment of our rhapsody, had laughingly though signifi- cantly thrown out the suggestion that “ something ought to be done.” I felt she was right, and that I ought not to have required the hint, so after a sleepless night I got up one morning feeling very much as I imagine a man would when going to his execution, and made up my mind suddenly to go and face the music. Imagine my sensations when the dreaded moment arrived for bearding the stern parent, a hard-hearted merchant of much worldly goods and possessions, whose sympathies I felt only too well would not be entirely in favour of a struggling artist as the husband of his only child ; still one could not tell without asking, and it was this I was about to risk. Although I kept saying to myself “ faint heart 59 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON never won fair lady” (by the way, she was dark), when the time came, and I was alone with him in his study, in spite of his being quite a small man, and not in the least an individual of terrifying appear- ance, I found I had no heart left at all, and the inter- view (the only one of its kind in my adventurous career) ended in my ignominious retreat without a shot fired on either side ; and to the day of his death the old gentleman could never have known to what he owed the honour of my visit on that beautiful spring morning. What my lady-love thought of it all I hardly care to reflect upon. Perhaps, as she is now a grandmother, time has softened the blow. I returned to my work a somewhat chastened youth, although somehow I had the satisfactory conviction that I had just escaped making an arrant fool of myself. I didn’t want to look like running away when it occurred to me the best thing to do was to get out of London for a time. I decided, therefore, to carry out a pet idea, and paint some- thing large for the Salon — so got an artist friend to accompany me, and we went down to Gorleston, then a tiny little fishing village close to Yarmouth, and here in quiet seclusion I started a six - foot canvas, and we both of us painted and sketched for several weeks. I worked from my models out on the old pier with the very background and composi- tion I wanted, a delightful experience, and one that doesn’t always present itself. We put up at a dear old Dickens-sort of inn called the “ Anchor,” if I remember rightly, which was on the pier itself and within a stone’s-throw of the sea, and it was all so quiet and primitive that one might have been in Holland. I have never been to Gorleston since, but I learn it is now quite an important town, and I should not recognise it. The village then only consisted of a few fishermen’s cottages, and if we wanted any mild excitement we would go into Yarmouth at night. But I had not 60 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON got over my love affair yet; it had made too deep an impression to be easily effaced, and I generally preferred to wander about at night by myself and think over again and again what might have been. It is curious how at times one positively enjoys feeling miserable and unhappy all by oneself, nursing one’s grief as it were. Several times I recollect I was on the point of making up my mind to return to town and see her again — if she would see me ; but, fortunately, and especially for her as I feel bound to admit, better sense I am now convinced prevailed, and I managed to stick to my painting, and thus divert my thoughts; and so time, the great healer, went by, and gradually I recovered, and when we got back to town in the late autumn I brought a large completely finished picture with me, and I found myself quite looking forward to my forthcoming visit to Paris to continue the portrait. It is almost unnecessary to mention how delighted I was at the prospect of seeing all my French friends again and revisiting my old haunts. It seemed but a few months since I had left, but so much had happened in the meantime. Little had I thought I should be back again in so short a time with my expenses all paid and a commission for a portrait as well. I had good reason to be satisfied, and things could not have looked rosier. My client lived in the Avenue d’Jena in a beautiful house, but he had suggested I would be freer if I lived out, so I decided to put up at a maison meubUe I had been recommended opposite the Embassy in the Faubourg St Honore, which was not far away, as I naturally had to be near my client since I was his guest. My friend was as good as his word and lent me his studio, so I was once more installed in Paris. I spent a delightful month over there. My sitter gave me as much of her time as she could spare from her social engagements, and when she didn’t feel 61 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON equal to coming to the studio and preferred going into the Bois, I would accompany her either on horseback or in her victoria, which was one of the best appointed in Paris. Her husband drove a very smartly turned out tandem, and a whole party of friends used to meet of a day for tea at the restaurant at the Cascade, which was then the rendezvous of the fashionable set. It was quite a different aspect of the life of Paris to what I have been accustomed to when living there as a student, and I enjoyed it immensely. The vie de Boheme has its charms, but so also has the vie du grand monde , and it certainly is easier to get used to luxuries that wealth alone can provide than to roughing it as I had been accustomed to. In spite, however, of so much diversion I managed to get on with my work, and it would have been quite com- pleted within the time limit I had given myself had it not been that my sitter was suddenly taken ill and had to leave at a few hours’ notice for the South. It was disappointing, but there was no help for it, so I had to pack up and return to London ; before my departure, however, she exacted a promise from me that I would accept an invitation from them to go down to Mentone later on and finish the portrait there. The idea of doing so much travelling and having so good a time for the sake of a portrait was not distasteful to me, as may be imagined, so I readily promised to do what she asked. My tenancy of the studio in Marlboro’ Hill had now nearly expired, so I had to set about looking for another place. To find another furnished studio was almost impossible, so I decided, on the strength of my luck, to take an unfurnished one and gradually fit it up. Within a few hours of commencing my search I hit upon a little place that suited my ideas and means admirably. It was at No. io Blenheim Place, and consisted of a nice studio — small bedroom, kitchen and an entrance yard (or yard of entrance, 62 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON for there was little more) which would be useful for open air painting in. It was newly built and had not yet been occupied, and this probably explained its cheapness. When the time came for leaving the studio I had passed so pleasant a year in, I really felt quite regretful, and more especially, perhaps, because I was practically starting a new venture, and was moving into premises which I should have to furnish entirely myself. I well recollect my feelings after having moved in when I surveyed my scanty belongings. I had become so accustomed to the comparative luxury of Marlboro’ Hill, that it became a positive shock to realise what a lot I had to buy to make the place look even habitable. Although I had been doing so well during the year that was past, it almost seemed like having to commence all over again. All I had got was an old easel that had belonged to my mother (who was a clever amateur artist), my painting materials, canvases, etc., a couple of wooden boxes containing books and so forth and my personal belongings. It was a very scanty lot indeed, and appeared a very hopeless beginning to setting up dans ses nieubles , as they say in France. Of course had I had plenty of money to lay out it would not have taken very long to fit the place up, but I had to be careful, so there was naught for it but to pick up gradually here and there absolute necessities, trusting to luck to be able to buy luxuries later on. Fortunately, the place lent itself to easy arrangement, as there were plenty of commodious nooks and corners. I had a good deal of work in hand for my dealer client, so my time promised to be fully occupied. I found my new quarters very conveniently situated, as they were close to the High Street, which was the only shopping quarter of the neighbourhood, and opposite the “ Eyre Arms,” which was the only place round about where one could get a decent 63 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON meal at night. It may be of interest to mention that all that now remains of Blenheim Place has since been absorbed into Grove End Road. No. io was exactly opposite Waverley Place. The “ Eyre Arms ” and Assembly Rooms, though only a sort of glorified public house, merits more than passing notice at this juncture. Of course it is very different now to what it was in the days of which I am writing ; it was then to all intents and purposes the village inn and the centre of the life of the district, in fact, it was a sort of club where one met the same men every day, either in the billiard room, where a mild game of pool was played every evening, in the coffee room at dinner, or in the modestly appointed private bar, for saloon bars were unknown then. In the large Assembly Rooms dances were frequently given, for in those days, before the Portman Rooms and the big hotel ballrooms came into existence, there was no large dancing-hall in London except at “ Freemasons’ Tavern,” which did an enormous business in consequence. Up at the “Eyre Arms” nearly all the big drapery establish- ments gave their annual dances, but the principal event of the year was the Ash Wednesday theatrical ball. Theatres were then closed on that day, so every one on the stage would be there, and all the prettiest women in town. It was always a wonderful sight and most difficult to get tickets for. The Belsize Boxing Club held their meetings on the first floor also, at the back. This was quite one of the best known of the boxing clubs, and had a lot of good men in it. Bettinson (Peggy), the light- weight amateur champion, was the leading spirit, and Dewhurst was the Secretary. Amongst its members whose names I particularly recall were D’Arcy Bacon (Streakey), Charlie Reeson (who was the single stick amateur champion), Ganger Wills, Jack Hare, King-Trotman, and last but not least, Rufus Isaacs 64 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON (the present Lord Chief Justice), who was a very excellent boxer and certainly one of the best men in the Club. On the Club big nights there was always a large gathering of sportsmen from all parts of London. Eugene Corri usually acted as judge in the competitions, and it would have been difficult then as it is now to find a more respected or popular referee. It was a very mixed crowd one met at the “ Eyre Arms,” for it was but a sort of glorified inn, as I have said, but there was always a good sprinkling of artists, and often in the coffee-room after dinner there would be impromptu gatherings and discussions on painting or art generally which recalled dimly to my mind the students’ meeting places in the Latin Quarter, though of course it was a much older crowd, and whisky and soda was more frequently asked for than coffee, although I remember some of us did try to introduce mazagrans> i.e., black coffee served in tumblers, but with no success, as coffee was not a strong feature at the “ Eyre Arms.” We were a cheery lot of young fellows who frequented the place, generally ready for any sort of fun, and one gradually got to know all the habitues , who were mostly residents in the immediate neighbourhood. The coffee-room was one of the most interesting of its kind I have come across in London ; one might have fancied oneself in some old country inn. It was fitted up with dark mahogany and horsehair, which still further conveyed this impression. William, the waiter, was quite a character in himself, and gave additional “tone” to the room. He was quite the best man of his class I ever came across, and was far too good for the humble position of coffee-room waiter ; he ought to have been butler or major-domo in a ducal mansion. I always fancied there was some mystery in his being at the “ Eyre Arms” at all, for he had all the courteous respect 65 E MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON of the high-class retainer. One’s appetite had to be very jaded indeed for one to be able to resist his eloquent and almost pictorial description of the bill of fare, although it never once varied in the evening all the years I went there. Chops or steaks ; pressed beef, ham, salad, cold tart and Chedder cheese, simple English provender, verily, but when enunciated by William it seemed to appeal to one so irresistibly that the difficulty only lay in your choice, though you were generally helped in this by William himself. “ I advise you to have a steak, sir,” he would perhaps remark. “ They’re excellent business to-day. What shall I say — a good point and some fried potatoes, sir?” There was nothing more to be said. Even if you had come in with the idea of regaling yourself on cold meat and salad, you felt somehow that William knew better than you did what was best for your constitution. If it was a wet evening there was generally quite a little crowd in the private bar, and often some good joke on. I remember on one occasion, when Pony Moore (of Moore and Burgess fame) was in there. Several fellows were gassing about athletic feats they could accomplish. Suddenly Pony chipped in with “ I like to hear you young chaps talking about what you can do. I’m an old ’un, but I’ll bet any one of you a quid that I can do something not one of you can do.” “ Oh, and what’s that ? ” said some one, who evi- dently fancied himself, and saw a chance of picking up a sovereign easily. “ Take my big toe between my teeth. Do that if you can, you’re a bit of an athlete.” We all crowded round amused at the novelty of the bet. “ Done with you,” said the young fellow, and seating himself on a chair, he took off his boot, and 66 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON then, raising his leg and stooping forward, he attempted to bend his foot back towards his head. It looks a very simple operation, as it is one that babies accomplish without effort, but in a grown-up person, unless a professional contortionist, it becomes an extremely difficult matter after a certain point, as the movement attempted is diametrically opposed to the laws of anatomy. Try as he could the fellow could not manage it, although with much straining he got within a couple of inches of the goal, which was his wide open mouth. Meanwhile every one was egging him on and encouraging him to exert himself to his utmost. At last he had to acknowledge that he could not do it. “ Now let’s see you,” he said, as he put on his boot again, turning to Pony. “ All right, you shall, but it’s a shame to take your money,” replied the old man, cocking up his leg and removing his boot. Then to the intense astonishment and amusement of us all he put his fingers in his mouth and calmly took out an entire set of false teeth, and bending forward he clasped his big toe with them. There were roars of laughter, for nothing could have been simpler, and the funny part of it was that no one had thought it was a “catch.” He was an amusing old chap at times was Pony, and when he was in the mood would tell us interesting reminiscences of his early days as a showman in America. He lived in a large house in Finchley Road, surrounded by a fine garden, in which on the 4th July he always gave a grand display of fireworks, much to the amusement of the neighbourhood. Whether it was the atmosphere of St John’s Wood, or the fact that most of us were comparatively young men in those days, I cannot explain, but there is no doubt we were all inclined to be more or less light- hearted. Looking back, one fancies that life was less strenuous than it is now. Perhaps it wasn’t, 67 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON but judging from the lively times one had, one did not worry so much as nowadays. I have recollec- tions even of practical joking which could scarcely be practised now ; it would probably be considered bad form. Here, for instance, is a specimen of an amusing prank played on me. There were, as I have explained, two entrances to my place at No. io — first a door in the wall flush with the street ; this led to a small yard, and across this was the studio door. One beastly wet night I had been dining out, and was hurrying home very late and without an umbrella. I had my latch-key in my hand in readiness. Imagine my astonishment when I found that some farceurs had conceived the brilliant idea of glueing or pasting up my door with auctioneers’ sale bills 1 It looked as though I was going to be sold up “ by order of the trustees.” Every inch of the woodwork was so thickly covered that it was hopeless to attempt getting the paper off that night, as it meant an hour’s work at least. The difficulty was to locate the keyhole, and evidently this had been the idea of the jokers. A friendly policeman coming along gave me a hand, and between us, after considerable trouble, we managed to discover it. It took the whole of the next morning to get the paper off the door, so effectually had it been put on. It is surprising the amount of trouble practical jokers will often put themselves to for the successful accomplishment of their purpose. I remember on another occasion I had been in bed some time, and it must have been about half - past one in the morning, when I was awakened by an uncanny noise outside the door. I must explain that my bedroom communicated with a corridor which led to the studio, which, by the way, was quite isolated from the adjoining houses. 1 am not naturally a nervous man, but I must confess it is startling to say the least of it to be awakened suddenly in the dead of night by weird 68 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON sounds. There was no electric light to switch on in those days, so I groped for the matches and lit the gas by my bed, and then remained quite still and waited and listened. The noise which had recommenced sounded like ghostly footsteps coming along the corridor, and stopped just outside the bedroom door. I was not sorry I had locked the door, as is my usual wont. It gave me time to think of what was best to be done, for unless I could help it I didn’t want to rouse the neighbourhood by opening the window and calling police. The sounds proceeded inter- mittently. “ It must be some one trying to break in,” I thought, so, picking up a thick heavy stick, I opened the door cautiously and then peeped quietly out. The corridor was deserted, and the studio door closed as usual. There was no sign of a nocturnal visitor. Suddenly I heard the mysterious sound again, this time so close by that it gave me quite a turn ; I looked up in the direction from which it came from, it was apparently above my head. In an instant I saw it was a joke being played on me ; hung over the bell wire was a clothes brush I had missed for some days ; attached to it was a thin string which was carried along the wire and over the top of the street door, and so outside, where the jokers were evidently stationed pulling it, doubtless enjoying the idea of the fright they were giving me. How they had managed to fix it up without my knowing was a mystery, for it was quite cleverly arranged. I was not long making up my mind what to do, and determined to be equal with them. Fetching a large pail of cold water I opened the street door as quietly as possible and peered outside. The string went over the low wall dividing my little yard from the adjoining garden, and was being vigorously pulled. I could hear suppressed laughter and whispering, the conspirators were just the other side. I did not hesitate, and without the slightest 69 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON warning I threw the contents of the pail over the wall. They must have been drenched, for the yell they gave could have been heard in Wellington Road. I gave the string a sharp pull and it came away in my hand, and I went back to bed again. Curiously enough, the recollection of this practical joke stood me in good stead shortly after. I was invited to a week-end shooting party at a big country house some distance from London, and had looked forward with much delight to going, as the place is considered one of the finest specimens of the old Tudor mansions in England, and has several ghosts, as every well-ordered place of its class should have. I well remember how impressed I was by the first view one obtained of the hall, as we drove up to it through the park. It was a moonlight night in late autumn, and the stately pile, which reminded one curiously of Hampton Court Palace, stood out in weird relief against the sky. It looked like a haunted castle from the outside, but the gloomy interior conveyed a still further impression of the supernatural. One entered by a vestibule which led into a vast white marble hall, in which were statues and busts of past noble owners of the place ; a gallery ran round this hall, out of which many dark panelled doors led, and it was but faintly illumined by candles placed here and there. It would have been impossible to imagine anything more ghost-like. Even the white-haired old butler seemed quite in keeping with his surroundings. I was received by my host in the library, where a huge fire helped to liven up the otherwise gloomy apart- ment, and I was introduced to my fellow guests. We were a small bachelor party, only six in all, but it was a cheery crew, and one felt at home at once. Shortly after we were told where our respective rooms were, and separated to dress for dinner. I went upstairs to my room, piloted by a young officer, who had stayed in the house before. 70 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON The broad staircase leading to the upper part of the building was magnificent, and appeared still more so in the flickering candle-light, which cast curious effects on the family portraits lining the walls. We passed a gloomy corridor on one of the landings. “ Of course you’ve heard the place is haunted,” whispered my companion. “Well, this is where one of the ghosts is usually seen, they say.” “ It’s just the sort of place one would expect such things,” I replied, peering into the shadows ; and I felt as though a draught of air suddenly went down my back. “ That’s why,” he continued, “ it’s so difficult to get servants to stop here ; they hear all the talk about it in the village and get jumpy. There’s a young footman in the County Asylum now who went raving mad at what he saw, or thought he saw, on this very spot one night a little while ago. Cheery sort of place, isn’t it ? ” he remarked with a laugh as we went on — and I agreed with him. My bedroom was quite in keeping with the house, and although there was a bright fire in the hearth the four-post bedstead and old furniture looked very gaunt and sepulchral, and the walls were covered with gloomy portraits. It was a very big room, and had four doors in it. My friend came in when I was dressed to lead the way downstairs to the library again, in case I missed my way. Dinner was quite a lively affair considering the smallness of the party as compared with the size of the room, Our host had an excellent chef \ and the wine was perfect. Afterwards we adjourned to the smoking-room and settled ourselves down to our coffee and cigars, and I found myself chatting with my host. He was anxious to hear my first impres- sions as an artist of the house, of which he seemed very proud, as well he might have been, so he suggested later to have the place lighted up and 7i MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON to show us all round that night — a sort of personally conducted tour. Off, then, we all went through inter- minable suites of rooms with magnificent pictures and furniture and endless corridors, looking very weird in the subdued light of the candles in the old-fashioned chandeliers. Kings and queens of England had stayed in the place, and every corner seemed to have a history. There were no less than forty guests’ bedrooms, we were told, and nothing had been altered for generations. Since then the place with all its contents has been sold, and it is now completely transformed, and in the possession of a well-known alien financier. When we returned to the smoking-room the con- versation somehow turned on the supernatural, which was scarcely to be wondered at, considering the surroundings. Most of the company affected to smile at such superstition, and there was quite a psychical discussion on the pros and cons of the subject, in the course of which the dreaded spectres of the house we were in were mentioned. Still the sceptics prevailed, whereat an elderly, hard-headed barrister declared that in his opinion men had been hanged on far less evidence than there was in favour of the existence of ghosts. All this was very cheerful, as may be imagined, in a haunted house at midnight. “Well, ghosts or no ghosts, I’m off to bed since we’ve got to be up early,” said some one, taking up his candlestick. The others followed, and although I wanted to go also, I found myself engaged in conversation with my host just at the moment, so we were left alone. A few minutes after the clock struck twelve, and he suddenly jumped up, saying he had no idea it was so late, and that if I wanted to have a read and didn’t want to go to bed yet there was no hurry, I could easily find my way upstairs to my room by myself, as his was in the other wing, and with a pleasant 72 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON good-night he left me. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the hall, then all was silent save for the moaning of the wind through the corridors. I am not superstitious as a rule, but after the conversation I felt just a bit “ nervy.” The candles were burning low in the sconces, so there was naught for it but to go to bed. Picking up my candlestick, I carefully extinguished all the lights in the room, and made my way across the marble hall and up the grand staircase. As I gradually approached the corridor where the footman had seen the apparition, I admit I felt a creepy sensation down my back, and my hair appeared to become rigid — but there was nothing for it but to continue going upstairs. At this moment the moaning of the wind seemed to increase till it was almost a shriek. Suddenly on looking over my hand which was shading the candle, I distinctly saw something going up the stairs just ahead of me, and turn down the corridor. I had no time to distinguish what it was, for at that moment my candle blew out. I stood in the dark rooted to the spot with horror. My heart jumped into my mouth. I was about to shriek out, when, as though with a flash, the thought crossed my mind, “ Perhaps they are having a practical joke on me, and I am being watched. I mustn’t show the white feather.” It was only an idea, but it brought me back to my senses, and in an instant I felt as cool as a cucumber. Taking out a match I calmly relighted my candle and then a cigarette, and proceeded upstairs to my room slowly. Once there, I had a good look round to prepare against possible surprises during the night. It was ghostly looking enough in all conscience sake, but that no longer perturbed me. As I have explained, there were four doors in the room ; these I proceeded to examine. On opening them I discovered a recess formed by the thickness of the wall, then another door leading into the adjoining 73 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON rooms, all of which were unoccupied. None of the doors had keys or bolts and I didn’t like to barricade them, when I thought of something that would effectu- ally prevent any one entering my room unawares. On the floor in front of each door I placed some object — a chair lying down, the washhand jug, the basin with water in it, and the coal-scuttle. I then went to bed, and although the firelight worried me a bit at first I soon fell asleep. I was awakened by a loud crash and lusty swearing. I sat up in bed in affright for a moment, trying to collect my wits and remember where I was, for it was pitch dark. Then I heard the intruder groping his way across the room. Something was unfastened, and the next instant a flood of sunshine came through the window. It was morning, and a man-servant had come in with my tea. He had fallen over the chair and barked his shins and broken the tea things, and was standing gazing with blank astonishment at the extraordinary arrangement of the room. I tried to explain to him the reason for it all, but I had a notion after he went out that he had his own ideas on the subject. 74 CHAPTER VII My first visit to the office of the Illustrated London News — The office- boy and my drawing — Mr Mason Jackson, the Art Editor — I meet Mr William Ingram — His encouragement and acceptance of my drawing — A fateful morning for me — Engaging personality of Mr William Ingram and his brother Mr Charles Ingram — Their remarkable ability — Fascination of the office — A private club — Interesting men there — Lunching places in the neighbourhood — Carrs — The Devereux — Wilkinson’s d. la mode beef shop — Illustrated Journalism in those days — Drawing on the wood — The art of the wood engraver — The “Special Artist” — An amusing anecdote. I had not been long in my new studio when some- thing came to pass which had a very important bearing on my ultimate career. One fine morning when 1 felt it would do me no harm to have a few hours off, it suddenly occurred to me to try my luck and submit a black and white drawing to one of the illustrated papers, so selecting a specimen of my work that I had given special care to, I put on my best suit of clothes, made myself look as smart as possible, and went down to the office of the Illustrated London News. In those days the editorial office was in an old building in Milford Lane, almost opposite the present one, and known as Milford House. I had anticipated no difficulty whatever in seeing the Editor, for it was the first time I had ever called on one, and therefore did not know of the obstacles to be surmounted before admittance to an editorial sanctum could be obtained, if one was quite unknown ; — so I was a bit disappointed when a mere office boy 75 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON informed me that if I gave him my drawing he would take it in to the Art Editor, Mr Mason Jackson, and I could wait if I liked, but that he did not think he would see me, as he was very busy, or something to that effect. This was scarcely what I had expected, but there was no help for it, I felt it was the usual procedure, so I took the drawing out of its paper and the youth picked it up with bored carelessness and left me standing in the passage. I shall never forget my first impression of the office of the News , and even now, after all these years, the smell of printers’ ink always recalls it. George Augustus Sala used to say that a mere glimpse of the interior of Charing Cross Station when he passed by in the Strand was sufficient to always remind him of Italy and the Sunny South, and make him long to be catching a train and going abroad. How it came about with me I do not know, but I recollect that whilst waiting in the dingy office visions rose in my mind of wars — of perilous travel in far-away lands — of glorious adventure, and all the exciting and arduous work of the “ Special Artist” or correspondent of a big paper, and in the few moments I was kept waiting I had made up my mind what my career should be henceforth if I could have any say in it. No humdrum studio life for me, I would see the world — and if needs be exchange the brush for pen and pencil. I was aroused from my train of thought by the return of the office boy, who informed me to my delight that the Editor would see me, and I was forthwith ushered into Mr Mason Jackson’s room. If I had been impressed with the outer office, it may be imagined what my feelings were now. I felt like a child in a toy shop. The room was littered with copies of the paper — photographs and black and white drawings, wood blocks were every- where — on shelves, in open cupboards, and on the floor. At a table in the centre sat a benevolent- 76 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON looking elderly gentleman with a grey beard ; this was the Art Editor. Standing by his side was a young man to whom he was giving instructions with reference to a print he had before him. “ Mr Price, sir,” introduced the boy. Mr Jackson looked up, and said did I mind wait- ing a moment — of course I didn’t. His table was covered with war sketches evidently just received from Melton Prior who was at the time in Egypt, and there was, as it were, I thought an atmosphere of the battlefield, strangely out of keep- ing with the room, about these thin sheets of paper lying carelessly about. After a few moments the young fellow left the room, and Mr Jackson rising from his seat came towards me with my drawing in his hand. In kindly tones he expressed his regret that he could not make use of it, but if I had any- thing else at any other time to show him he would be glad to see it — mere polite platitudes, I thought — so I felt very mortified and dejected as my hopes had gone up on the strength of his seeing me, for I was young then, and unused to disappointments. There was nothing to be said, so I started wrapping up the drawing again. As I was doing so a gentle- man came bustling into the room — a breezy cheerful looking man of about thirty-five years of age, he held a proof sheet of a picture in his hand, and from his manner was evidently some one of importance. It was Mr William Ingram, the present baronet, and one of the proprietors of the paper. If he had come in two minutes later I should have been gone. He saw me tying up my parcel. “What have you got there — a drawing? Let me see it.” I took it out again, and he went with it to the window, where he examined it critically, and then turning to me asked about my work and where I had studied. He seemed interested, and after a pause said, “ I’ll use this drawing ; come and see me when 77 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON you’ve got some more to show. You might do some work for me.” I felt too delighted and excited to say more than to express my thanks. In the light of my subsequent travels and campaigns for the paper that meeting with Mr William Ingram that morning was indeed fateful. From that day I got on most friendly terms with him and his brother Charles, whom I subsequently met. Scarcely a week passed without my going down to the office and submitting a drawing or a suggestion for work — of course with varying success. I found the Ingrams’ charming personalities, and I always felt flattered to be reckoned amongst their friends. William Ingram was then Editor in chief, manager, and, in fact, every thing in the office, al though he was ably seconded by his brother. I was not long in realising that underlying their remarkable unconventionality, and almost boyish impetuosity, was a wonderful faculty for grasping in an instant the possibilities of any suggestion laid before them. If they said “no” to anything it was practically certain there was “nothing in it.” It was the personal magnetism of the two brothers that some- how made me stick to the News , for, curiously enough, although there was never anything of a binding nature between me and the paper, yet I should not have dreamed of offering my black and white work elsewhere, and I never had cause to regret it. There was to me an indescribable fascination about “the office” which I should have found it difficult to explain, though perhaps it was because I was always hoping, Micawber-like, that something would turn up, and at any moment I might get “ marching orders,” and be off somewhere across the seas. I realised that there was within me a latent fire of restless activity which impelled me to go down to the office. Meanwhile I soon found out that once one had one’s entree at 73 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON the News you could drop in whenever you chose. There was no necessity to send in your name ; it was almost like a private club where they were pleased to see you, and you were pretty sure of meeting a friend to have a yarn with, and hear all the gossip of the paper in which we all felt we had an interest. Such a delightfully free and easy state of affairs could not exist in a news- paper office nowadays. I realise more than ever the march of time when I go down to the palatial offices of the paper now and try and recall the building as it was twenty- five years ago, when I used to go there as a youth — for all is so changed now that it is unrecognisable. What an interesting crowd of men it was, too, that one met there. Old William Simpson, the veteran of War Artists (who was out in the Franco-German War); Melton Prior, the ubiquitous “ Special,” seldom in London for long ; Caton Woodville ; Forestier, with his delightful pen'and ink work, newly arrived from Paris ; Montbard, the communist, another clever French draughtsman ; Seppings Wright, the News authority on warships, and dear old John Latey, the popular editor of the Penny Illustrated. Perhaps, though, one of the most important men at the office in our eyes, after the Ingrams, was the genial cashier, Lister Goodacre, because he could hurry the cheques through, and many an I.O.U. would he cash on his own responsibility ; but this was years before the paper was turned into a big company, and in the palmy days of the newspaper artist. Several of us would often go out and lunch together, either across the road to Carrs, where many well- known journalists used to gather, or round to the “ Devereux,” a quiet little old-fashioned place where you got perhaps the best chop or steak and boiled potatoes in the neighbourhood, or else, if we wanted to do it on the cheap, to Wilkinson’s a la mode beef 79 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON shop in Fleet Street, where for less than a shilling you could have quite a good feed if you did not mind the crowd, which was pretty rough. And after lunch, if Melton Prior was in town, we would perhaps go up and have a smoke in his room in the building in the Strand before returning to our work. Those were the days of drawing on the wood and the wood engraver, and to be of any real use to an illustrated paper one had to be proficient in this particular branch, which was almost an art in itself. It took some little time to get accustomed to draw- ing on the block itself, as, of course, everything had to be reversed. Art reproduction has made such vast strides since those days that it may possibly be of interest to recall the tedious methods by which a newspaper drawing was then reproduced by wood engraving before the advent of mechanical reproduction. The wood block was made up of several pieces of box- wood keyed together so perfectly as to form a smooth surface on the front. When the drawing, which was either in wash or pencil, was finished, the block was handed to the wood engraver, and if it was required urgently it would be un - keyed and the pieces given to several men to work on, the head engraver having previously marked his suggestion for the general direction of the lines, so that all tallied ultimately. When the engravers had finished, the pieces would be re-keyed, and an “electro” made from the block for the Press, as the printing was not often made from the wood direct as in olden times, for fear of damaging the block. In these days, when a picture can be reproduced in a few minutes practically, the tedium therefore of wood engraving may be realised. Still it was a wonderful art in itself, and some fine results were often obtained if time were no object, and it seems almost a pity it should have completely died out. 80 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON Of course a successful reproduction of one’s drawing was largely dependent on the engraver’s intelligence, who apparently would often, if embarrassed, follow out Punch’s famous advice to bad spellers, “When in doubt make a blot.” Photography in those days had not yet even commenced to oust the draughtsman, and the “ Special Artist ” still had it all his own way when any war or big event was on the tapis , for the rich amateur correspondent with a camera had not yet put in his appearance, fortunately, so the work was entirely confined to a few men who had made re- putations by their pencils in many arduous campaigns and expeditions. Now and again, of course, a new aspirant would come forward when something un- expected happened, and if the regular men were abroad would get his chance of distinguishing him- self ; but it was seldom they achieved honours, for “ Special Artists,” like war correspondents, are born, not made. There was a story of an artist who was sent out to a war by one of the illustrated papers. It was his first experience, and he made a failure. The sketches he sent home being very poor and at times quite unintelligible. One day on his return he was in the Editor’s room, and endeavouring to explain that it was not quite his fault if his work had been unsuccessful, as there was no time to draw carefully under the circum- stances. The Editor agreed with him in that respect ; but pointed out that if he had not time to make a recognisable sketch of anything it would have been better to have indicated in writing what it was intended to represent, and picking up one of the artist’s sketches, he continued: “Take this one, for instance — since you say you were in such a hurry that you had not time to draw it more carefully, why not have written above it ‘ This is a windmill ’? Then our artist here would have known what it 81 F MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON was intended for, instead of which he had to guess.” “ But it isn’t a windmill ; it’s a man on horseback,” replied the artist. My ambition was to become one of the small group of “ Specials,” and I never missed an oppor- tunity of bringing this idea of mine before the Ingrams. My chance was to come later ; but for the moment I had to be content with the peaceful atmosphere of a London studio. 82 CHAPTER VIII Off to the South of France to finish portrait — Adventure en route — Mentone vid Elysium — On the Riviera — A funny incident on return journey — The Frenchman and the luggage — Painting at the docks, an episode — Curio-hunting in the wood — Tea-parties in studio — A good joke — The British workman — Re-arranging the drawing-room — Summer in the Scilly Isles — A large painting. Early in the following year I received an invitation from my friends in Mentone asking me to go down there and spend a few weeks with them to finish the portrait. So one miserably cold night, when it was sleeting and raining, and all London shivering, I started for the South and the sunshine of the Riviera. I was bound on a pleasant mission, with a jolly holiday in front of me and all my expenses paid, so it naturally happened that I was in the highest of spirits, and filled with the romantic ideas of a young man. Such being my enviable state of mind, it is not to be wondered at that a little occurrence at the station took to itself the proportion of an adventure. Doubtless most young fellows have had similar ones at different times of their youth, but when I recall this particular event I remember I felt that the gods had me in their especial good graces. There were not many people going by the train. I had arrived in good time, and as I sauntered idly about on the platform before we started, in that aimless but enjoyable fashion which I always fancy is part and parcel of the commencement of a journey 83 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON one has been looking forward to, my eyes became riveted on something in a heavy travelling coat that seemed to me the very embodiment of feminine charm. She was wearing a thick veil, so it was only just possible to guess what her face was like ; but from the glimpse one got of it under the gas- light there was not much doubt that she was an exceedingly good-looking young woman. She was alone, judging from her attire evidently going abroad, and when my discreet glances were rewarded by a faint but none the less bewitching little smile, I felt there was all the material for a very delight- ful journey, if only she were going South also. The carriage she was in was fully occupied, so there was no chance of a tete-il-tete as far as Dover ; but I looked forward to an opportunity during the crossing, and that glance at the railway station haunted me all the way down to the Coast. On the boat she must have disappeared into a private cabin, as I could not find her. At Calais still no sign of her, and I began to think she must have taken the Basle train, and looked upon the whole thing as an opportunity missed. But at the Gare de Lyon, while I was waiting for breakfast, my attention was drawn to a group of waiters apparently quarrelling for the possession of a lady traveller who had entered just in front of me, and to my delight I recognised my charmeuse of the previous evening. Now or never was the moment, and as an inspira- tion I decided on a bold move. Keeping well in the background, I marked down the waiter who had captured her, and as he passed me I told him to lay my breakfast at the table next to hers, and then sauntered up and took my seat nonchalantly, and without appearing to see her. When she raised her veil I saw that she was positively beautiful (otherwise, of course, the story would not be worth relating). Well ! She was going south as far as Cannes. There were no corridor carriages in those 84 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON days, and we got a compartment to ourselves, and my journey to Mentone was vid Elysium, so it seemed to me, I remember. But it was a romance with one chapter only, as I never saw her again, nor did I ever discover who or what she was. I had one of the jolliest times I ever spent whilst on the Riviera, although I was supposed to be there for work, for in the intervals of my painting I managed to see everything, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Of course I went everywhere, Monte Carlo, Nice, and back along the Coast into Italy, and enjoyed myself as I believe only a young man can on his first visit to the Sunny South. There were dances every night at one or other of the big hotels, no end of pretty girls, lots of pleasant excursions, and so what more could an artist want? Painting under such delightful conditions, it is not to be wondered at that I did my very best, so the portrait was at length finished, not a little to my regret, and packed and sent off to Paris en route for the Salo?i. I would gladly have com- menced it all over again, as it had been a pleasurable task from the very start. My experiences of portrait painting since then have not always left such happy memories — rather the contrary, in fact. I should have liked to have prolonged my stay in the South, for it seemed a pity to leave the lovely warm sunshine and return to England, where from all accounts they were having nothing but cold and wretched weather. Still there was no help for it, and I recollect that the day I left it seemed finer and warmer than ever, and an ideal spring morning. Three very decent young Englishmen, whose acquaintance I had made at Mentone, were returning to England also, so we agreed to travel together and have a mild game of cards en route. Naturally we wanted a compartment to ourselves. It is an Englishman’s weakness to desire to be 85 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON isolated when travelling. There were a lot of people going by the train, so it looked like a difficult matter keeping out intruders on our privacy ; however, we successfully accomplished this at Mentone. The question was could we manage it further on at Monte Carlo, where there was bound to be a crowd ? Suddenly a brilliant idea occurred to one of us — and we immediately carried it out. We had a lot of hand baggage with us in the carriage — rugs, holdalls, hand bags — the usual paraphernalia with- out which Englishmen seem unable to travel, so we set to work and made up what looked like a figure of a man lying full length on one of the seats, and when it was completed I must say it was really wonderfully realistic, as we had even put a pair of slippers sticking out where the feet were supposed to be, and a cloth cap on the head, which was made of a waistcoat rolled up. Of course it was facing towards the wall. It was splendid, but it had a drawback — it took up too much room, so we were a bit cramped ; but it had to be life-size, and we had made a giant while we were about it. However, we started our game of cards, and I am ashamed to say that we played practically the whole way to Marseilles, and the lovely coast scenery we were going through passed unheeded. The dummy figure answered its purpose admirably, and looked so much like a very sick man that a mere glance at it was sufficient to deter any one from getting in — people don’t like travelling with a malade. At one station there was such a crowd on the plat- form that we felt sure that some one would at last get into our compartment, and sure enough, several people made quite a determined rush for it, and for a moment it looked like being taken by storm — but we had forgotten our dummy friend. They didn’t take long making up their minds to crush into another carriage rather than come into ours when they caught sight of the huge mass on the seat. 86 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON Just before we reached Marseilles, officials suddenly came along to examine the tickets, and before we had time to do anything the door was opened and one of them appeared. We passed him our tickets, which he clipped and returned to us. Then to our horror, for we were hoping, I think, that he had seen through our “dummy” joke, he tapped it on the back and said gruffly, “Your ticket, sir, if you please,” with an accent on the “if.” We all pretended to be absorbed in our game, though we had the utmost difficulty in keeping our countenances. As there was no reply he re- peated his request more gruffly this time, then losing his patience at the continued silence he exclaimed, “ I can’t wait here all day — kindly wake up and let’s have your ticket,” at the same time emphasising his remark by shaking the sleeping figure vigorously. The result was obvious — the whole arrangement of and rugs came apart, and the head rolled on to the floor. The official started back with a scared, “Norn de D de D ” and we lost all control over ourselves and burst into fits of laughter. For a moment the ticket-collecter hesitated what to do, then, as he was evidently a good fellow, and with a sense of humour, he joined in our hilarity, and laughed so heartily that other officials and several people came to see what all the merriment was caused by. “ Ah, ces Anglais comme ils ont des idees droles” was expressed on all sides, and it was lucky for us it was treated as a joke. Talking of trying to keep a carriage to oneself reminds me of an amusing incident that a friend of mine told us happened to him one day when he was starting from Paris for London. He was leaving by an early train, and as he had had a pretty thick night, and scarcely been to bed, he wanted if possible to have a carriage to himself as 87 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON far as Calais, so he bethought himself of the time- honoured trick of placing various articles of personal luggage on all the seats of the first-class smoking compartment he had selected, so as to make it appear the carriage was fully occupied. Then he settled himself down in a corner, and made himself comfortable. Many people came along and were effectually deterred from getting into the carriage on seeing all the luggage spread over the seats. To his annoyance, just at the very last minute, as the train was about to start a Frenchman hurriedly got into the compartment. My friend muttered something in his execrable French that the seats were all engaged, but he naturally could not say much as all this luggage was not supposed to be his; but the intruder was evidently too pleased to have caught his train to notice what he said. Suddenly, just as the whistle of the engine was heard, and the train was about to move, to my friend’s amazement the Frenchmen leaned out of the window and called out excitedly to a porter to come to the door, and then began rapidly to hand out to him the baggage from the seats, telling him that some passangers had evidently lost their train, so it was no use their luggage going on without them. One can imagine the denouement , and more especially as my man could only speak a few words of French ; to rush to the window and arrest the exodus of his belongings was the work of an instant, as the train was actually in motion ; but it was a very close shave indeed, and he almost lost his Gladstone bag in the scurry. As he sank exhausted into his seat his fellow-passenger, who by the way had good- naturedly helped him, looked at him drily, and, with a twinkle in his eye, said that it was a bit of luck he had not lost his things. My friend made no reply, as he somehow felt that the Frenchmen had had a good joke at his expense. 88 HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FLIRTING WITH HER AND CARRIED OUT THE IDEA SO CONSCIENTIOUSLY.” MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON My life for the next few months presented no incidents of a particularly exciting character. Black and white work, alternating with painting, occupied my time pretty fully. I had always had a penchant for anything connected with ships and the sea, which is rather curious, for it is not that I ever had any inclination for a sailor’s life, as I am a bad sailor and loath to be on the sea except in a dead calm. My actual bent was for soldiering ; but the sight of the sea and big ships always carried me in my mind to far distant lands and travels and adventures in the wilds. In those days the South West India Docks pre- sented busy and animated scenes, as the Australian sailing clippers berthed there. So I used to spend happy days sketching amidst the big ships, whilst conjuring up in my fancy dreams of journeys I so longed to be starting on, and which were eventually to be realised beyond my wildest hopes. Many a picture did I sketch in the grimy docks, and usually with success, as they appeared to be my particular line, and I always managed to sell them. I took a pretty girl down on one occasion, and painted her on board the Rodney , one of the largest of the Australian ships. I had a romantic composition in my mind (I was nothing if not romantic then), and one of the ship’s officers, a good-looking fellow with whom I had got friendly, kindly offered to pose for me. The picture was to be entitled, “ It may be for years.” He was supposed to be in love with her, and carried out the idea so conscientiously whilst I was working that at last I got quite jealous of him, and the girl and I had a tiff on the subject in the train going back, and she told me she couldn’t help it, she adored sailors. I didn’t take her down to the docks again ; as I felt instinctively that I was running the risk of her being carried off to Australia if I did, and I wanted to finish that picture. My studio meanwhile was gradually becoming 89 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON more habitable, by that I mean more furnished, and I was able to resume the charming little lunches and tea-parties which had been so enjoyable in Marlboro’ Hill. Tea, in particular, was always great fun, the studio was so conveniently situated that friends would frequently turn up uninvited in the afternoon on the chance of my being in, and when, as often happened, there were not enough cups to go round, the most extraordinary make- shifts, such as are only found in a studio, had to be utilised. Talking of tea reminds me of a funny incident. I was always supposed (I say “ supposed ” advisedly) to be a bit of a ventriloquist. WeJJ, Jeph was with me one afternoon when two nice girls arrived just as we had put the kettle on, so it turned out a lively little tea-party. It was the first time they had met him, and they found him very entertaining, for he was quite a ladies’ man, as are most men who have lived long in the Far East. Suddenly it occurred to him to draw me out and get me to startle them with a little ventriloquism, as they did not know of my talent. Nothing whatever had led up to it, he had not hinted at it to me, so imagine their stupefaction when in a pause of the conversation he turned to me, a propos of nothing, and remarked casually, “ There’s some one up the chimney, Jules.” Of course I knew at once what he was driving at, but I didn’t feel in the mood just at that particular moment to give an entertainment, so I pretended not to hear him. After a pause he repeated his remark, this time with emphasis ; I saw the ladies now look at each other enquiringly, as indeed they might, for it was certainly a curious statement for him to make, as there was, I forgot to mention, a fire in the grate. Again I ignored his observation. Nothing daunted he persisted, and even went so far as to ask our friends if they hadn’t also heard some one up there. They were now completely bewildered, and began 90 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON to look nervous. Turning to Jeph I said with mock gravity, “ Look here, old man, are you suddenly dreaming or what? How can there be anybody up the chimney ? ” Seeing then that it hadn’t come off, he agreed with me, and that perhaps after all he was mistaken. The two ladies took their departure somewhat hurriedly, I thought. Shortly after I saw them again. They referred to our tea-party, and mentioned Jeph. “ What a nice fellow he seems ; but has he had sunstroke out in the East that he behaves in such a peculiar manner ? ” “ Peculiar manner ! in what way ? ” I asked, having completely forgotten the incident. “ Oh, when he talked of hearing a man up the chimney ! ” Of course one could not very well expect dainty little ladies to sit on packing cases and drink tea out of thick china cups, and really enjoy themselves. Bohemianism was all very well, and they might do it once or twice, but they had to like you very much to come often and rough it, so I spent all my spare cash fixing myself up comfortably, and it was really surprising how far a few pounds would go when judiciously expended in an old furniture shop, and one could really pick up bargains in those days. I have a fine old grandfather’s clock, for which I only gave twelve shillings in Henry Street. The dealer wouldn’t actually guarantee it was in working order, but he put the quaint word “ go-able ” on the receipt, and strange to relate it has kept splendid time all these years. It is remarkable what a lot of rubbish in the guise of bargains one buys when one has a few shillings to spare. Things that would under ordinary circum- stances be consigned to the dust heap seem to acquire artistic value when on sale in the “ antique ” shop, in the neighbourhood of a studio. They become “ decorative,” and that means a good deal in a dusty 9i MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON atelier , so I became bitten with curio - collecting mania, and have had it ever since, with results which would probably be very disappointing if I am ever forced to dispose of my “ collection.” I soon found that if one could pick up odds and ends cheap, it often cost as much as they were worth to put them right. A cracked plate would want rivets, a cupboard a hinge or a key — in fact there was always something wanting that had made them cheap, and this reminds me of an experience I had of the genus British workman, which, trivial as it was, I always recollect when I want anything in the least out of the way done. I had bought a cupboard with a rather peculiar handle to the door ; something had gone wrong with it and it wouldn’t turn properly, so I got a locksmith from Cochrane Street to come and put it right. He came and looked at it meditatively and went away and fetched his tool bag ; then he took off his coat, put on his spectacles, unscrewed the lock, and proceeded to remove the works — informing me they wanted oiling. He then remembered he had no oil with him, so I had to give him some of mine. It now seemed pretty plain sailing, and with the remark that I should find it work all right when he’d got it back in its place, he started putting it together again. But his fingers now seemed to have suddenly become all thumbs ; as fast as he put in one little screw another dropped out, and he was busy looking for them and picking them up from the floor. Thinking I was making him nervous by standing looking on, I moved away and pretended to be working. I could hear him muttering to himself as he kept dropping bits of the lock. Then he suddenly asked me if I could lend him a screw-driver as his was no good — it was too large or something. I happened to have one to suit him — so off he started again. It must have been hot work, for he kept taking off his spectacles and mopping his forehead whilst he was 92 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON groping for odd bits and screws he had let fall on the floor. I continued to appear to be absorbed in my work. After many efforts and much reviling at himself and his Maker he at length succeeded in getting the lock into its position again, when suddenly in an extraordinary attempt to hold it in its place with his right hand, whilst with his left he extracted the last screw from the back of his mouth, where he had placed it for safety, the whole thing fell to the ground and came to pieces again. To my surprise he made absolutely no comment this time, but set to work again and apparently replaced it. Then he got up and put on his coat. . “ Have you done it?” I ventured to enquire. “No, I give it best, guv’nor,” was his laconic reply, and picking up his tool bag he walked out. It was about this time that I became aware of the existence of that most irritating of personalities, the souvenir collector. Perhaps it was because I was beginning to “get on,” but anyhow I recollect how it would jar on my nerves when I discovered that I was generally expected to make a sketch portrait or contribute a drawing to my hostess’s collection or album if I accepted a week-end invitation. At first I was inclined to look on such a request as a very charming compliment, till on one occasion I had placed before me an album which was nothing more or less than a sketch book of extra large size, and in which were already several highly finished drawings. “ Do please draw something in my book — anything — no matter how rough.” Then it flashed across my mind that I was expected to “work my passage” as it were, and at least to contribute something as important as what was already in the book. It was an extremely ingenious method of getting together a collection. Doubtless my experiences are similar to those of other artists, so I feel sure they will agree with me that to give something of one’s own accord is one thing, but to be asked pointedly for it, 93 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON whether it be a sketch, a song, or an entertainment, is quite another matter. I have often thought how curious would be the impression of, say, a doctor or a solicitor if they found they were being asked for professional advice gratis, on the strength of being invited to a dinner or a week-end party. My experiences in this direction were not always confined to making a drawing. I remember on one occasion spending a week-end with some friends. I had already done sundry sketches in their “ album ” so might have reasonably imagined myself immune from further taxation in the souvenir line. To my surprise my hostess remarked to me during dinner, “ I am going to ask you to help me re-arrange my drawing-room before you go, Mr Price. You’ve got such taste in these matters, so I know it won’t worry you, etc.” It was very complimentary on her part no doubt, but it was merely a variation of the album trick, and I felt irritated beyond measure at the idea that I had been invited with an object, and was expected to be busy. Then suddenly an inspiration for a practical joke occurred to me, and I determined to carry it out and have my revenge. In the drawing- room she broached the subject again, but I adroitly managed to postpone doing anything till the follow- ing evening. The drawing-room, I may mention, was a very large and well-furnished apartment with full-sized grand piano and numerous sofas, cabinets, pictures, and the usual paraphernalia. After dinner my host and hostess were so insistent on my carrying out my promise to re - arrange everything that I had no compunction in following up my scheme. The guests were sent into another room in order to more fully appreciate the change later, then seating myself in a corner I persuaded my host to remove his coat and waistcoat as “ there was work to be done.” “ We must make a thorough alteration, so will shift the rugs first,” I said ; “ they had better be rolled up for 94 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON the moment, and, of course, the piano cannot be left where it is. It is far too suburban placed that way ; you had better get some one to help you move it.” So an obliging guest volunteered his services. Well, to cut a long story short, in less time than it takes to relate, the room which had looked very cheerful before, was now a complete wreck, and had the appearance of being packed up ready for removal. Everything was stacked in the centre of the room, even to the pictures, ornaments, and curtains. I should never have believed that so great a trans- formation could have been accomplished so quickly. My hostess looked on meanwhile with a bewildered expression on her face ; but she said nothing. When all was complete my host and his friend mopped their foreheads and waited for the next development. I pretended to be absorbed in thought. “ What do you want us to do now ? ” they at length said. “ Don’t disturb me, I am thinking it out,” I replied. “ I want to fix up something really original.” There was silence for a few moments, then I started up and said dramatically to my hostess, “ I’m awfully sorry, but my mind is a complete blank, and I can’t for the life of me remember how I intended to arrange the room, so I suppose the best thing to do is to put the furniture back as it was.” The look on her face was a study. Without a word she went out, leaving me with the two men. “ Shall I lend you a hand to put things straight again ? ” I asked with a laugh. “ Not much,” said my host ; “ I’ve had enough of furniture shifting for one night.” When I got down the next morning every- thing had been replaced in its original position. That year I was consumed with the ambition to paint something important for the Royal Academy, so I made a careful sketch of a subject I had thought out, and decided to paint it on a very large canvas. I forget the dimensions, but I remember I showed the sketch to Sir Frederick Leighton, who expressed 95 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON his approval of the subject, and as a sort of further encouragement to me to have a shot at it, said he thought that if I put it in a very narrow frame it might have a chance of getting hung. So I went off in the summer holidays to the Scilly Islands and painted it in the open air. It represented a stirring life- saving episode, and I got coastguards as models, and being nothing if not conscientious then, I painted it all on the rocks and on the very edge of the sea, many times risking my life in my determination to get the effect I wanted. The Scilly Islands in those days were very quiet and primitive. It was eternal Sunday there, and so few visitors that it was possible to work anywhere in comparative solitude, and when not painting there was excellent deep sea fishing and wild bird shooting to give one distraction, added to which the curiously tropical character of the vegetation made one almost feel in the South of France. So I put in a very jolly holiday as well as a lot of hard work on the picture. 96 CHAPTER IX Unconventionality of Bohemianism — Evening dress — “Going to have a bloater for tea ? ” — A week-end visit to my friend’s ‘ ‘ cottage ” — The impromptu fancy dress dinner party — The denouement — Amusing story of a fancy dress ball — The story of the bugler and the barman — Bacchanalian entertainments — The mysterious drink — Stories of Bohemianism. I CAN recall nothing of a wildly exciting nature as having occurred during the three years I spent at No. io Blenheim Place, although there were many interesting incidents which at the time became magnified into events, but only by reason of their comparative significance, as a hillock on a straight level plain from the distance assumes the importance of a mountain. I remember that I worked hard and played hard, and I had plenty of time and oppor- tunity for both, for one had one’s life before one, and no cares beyond getting sufficient to pay one’s rent, firing, and occasionally something to eat. This may sound like a solecism ; but I really fancy it conveys the placid state of mind I was in during those years. It was too early in one’s career to be hide-bound by conventionality ; if one chose even to go out without a collar or tie it didn’t matter a jot. One’s circle of influential acquaintances had hardly yet come into being. Those folk, whose opinion of our- selves we attach so much importance to in later life, did not worry us then. As a man I knew remarked, if he chose to go out in his shirt sleeves the people who knew him didn’t 97 G MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON care, and he didn’t care about those he didn’t know. Conventionality in every form was laughed at in the set I used to frequent. Most of my artist friends had studied abroad, so were imbued with my ideas of what Bohemianism meant, and there was no humbug about us. It was not “pose” in any sense of the word, I am convinced. We had not a lot of money to spend, so why try and ape those who had it? “ Going to have a bloater for tea, old man ? ” asked one of my pals of me one evening, as he ran across me in the street as I was hurrying along to a dinner-party without the slightest idea of putting on “ side.” Of course I was in evening dress, which afforded him the opportunity for his really funny remark, but which at the same time echoed his notion on the subject. The mention of dress clothes in connection with Bohemianism recalls an amusing episode of this kind. A friend of mine, a distinguished author and play- wright, had invited me to spend a week-end at what he called his “cottage” in the country. It was some little distance from town ; but as I happened to have enough money to pay the railway fare I gladly accepted. The invitation was one of those that are first given casually, and which are never accepted right away off — you must really come and spend a week-end with us, old chap, sort of thing — no date mentioned. Well this time he fixed it up, and I said I would go. My prospective host, I must mention, was apparently as typical a Bohemian as myself, and although I knew he made a good income out of his work, it never entered my head that he was in any sense a society man, and I had looked forward to a couple of days at his " cottage,” in our usual unconventional go-as-you-please style. With this idea in my head I simply bundled a country knickerbocker suit, a couple of flannel shirts, a dressing-gown, and a few necessary odds and ends into a hand-bag, jumped 98 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON into a ’bus, and caught the train from Paddington I had been told I should be expected to come by. When I arrived at my destination I did not find my host waiting for me as I expected, which some- what surprised me, and I was obliged to make enquiries as to the best way to get to the house, which I knew from what I had been told was three miles away from the tiny little country station, when a porter came up, and touching his hat respectfully asked me if I was going to Mr So-and-so’s, because if so they had sent the dog-cart over to fetch me. Outside the station I found a very dapper turn-out waiting for me, so smart a conveyance, in fact, that I remember I felt ashamed of my particularly shabby and unpretentious “ Gladstone ” as it was hoisted up behind. After a drive through lovely country we reached the entrance to a park with a lodge and big gates ; into this we turned, and drew up at last at a delightful old country house. So this was my friend’s “cottage” ! I realised he had been pulling my leg. A footman in livery ushered me into a spacious inner hall where tea was in progress, and I found a large party assembled. A glance round was sufficient to prove to me that this was not Bohemia at all, but smart society, and I felt hot at the thought that I had not come prepared as to toilet for such surround- ings. I had not even brought my dress suit with me. I was then struck with quite a brilliant idea, as will be seen, which, if I could arrange it, would save me having to dress for dinner. My host and his wife received me in most genial fashion, and I was introduced to the house party, which included several people I knew already, so I lost no time in putting my idea into execution, and at once explained that I had been almost on the point of having to say that I couldn’t come, that some important work had turned up from the Paper. I should therefore have to get them to excuse me 99 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON and get back to town after lunch the following day at the latest. My friends very kindly said they would be sorry to lose me, but if I must go, of course I must. During tea, which was very lively, I managed somehow to spring my idea on them. It makes me smile even now to think how they all caught on. Had they heard, I asked, of the latest craze at week- end country house parties of having impromptu fancy dress dinners. Of course no one had heard of it since I had only imagined it half an hour previously. They thought it ought to be splendid fun, why not have one to-night, suggested one of the guests — almost taking the words out of my mouth, for that was what I was driving at. What a capital idea ! the rest chimed in. Well, to cut a long story short, after a lot of talk our host promised to give a prize for the most original costume. It was agreed that every one would appear for dinner in fancy dress of some description, no matter how ridiculous and incongruous, so long as it was not the orthodox evening attire. So on that under- standing, and with much laughter, we all separated at once, as there was no time to lose, and every one seemed imbued with the idea of evolving something strikingly novel. It may be imagined how delighted I was at the success of my ruse. Fortunately I had brought with me a real Japanese dressing-gownand slippers, which were quite curiosities in their way, so I had no need to worry about a costume. Mine was ready, and had the additional advantage of being delightfully cool and comfortable and easily put on ; as a matter of fact I had nothing but my pyjama trousers under it. Well, as arranged, we all assembled in the hall before dinner, and although each arrival was received with roars of laughter, it was positively amazing how ingeniously and wonderfully most of the party had managed to fix up fancy costumes out of the most ioo MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON extraordinary things, and at such short notice. One would have expected ludicrous results, instead of which the general effect was quite remarkable. I remember I took in to dinner a lady who was got up as a pierrette, with powdered hair, a hat made out of an ordinary white conical jelly bag from the kitchen, with black pompoms on it, black pompoms, too, on the white bodice and short skirt, while black silk stockings and shoes quite completed a fancy costume that would have held its own anywhere. One of the men looked like a Mexican with the tails of his evening dress turned up, low collar, big black bow, no waistcoat, red sash tied round his waist, and white duck trousers. Nothing could have looked more effective. Every one had done his or her best to look attractive, and it was a huge success. I won’t mention what was said about my “ costume,” except that it held its own well with the others. After dinner we finished up a delightful evening with a dance, and all agreed that I deserved a medal for my happy suggestion. The next day I returned to town “ to get on with my work.” Shortly after I received from my hostess a copy of a weekly paper in which was a story written by her, almost exactly describing my impromptu fancy dress dinner, and making the hero of the piece also an artist ; but it finished up somewhat differently to my episode. It told how the artist suggested the party, and how he had to return to town the follow- ing day, but she had sacrificed accuracy to effect in the denouement which she had made distinctly funny. “ I am writing ” said the hostess, “ to thank you for your brilliant suggestion last Saturday. We enjoyed the fancy dress dinner immensely. Come and liven us up again soon. Yours, etc. P.S. The enclosed was picked up in your bedroom after you had left.” The “ enclosed ” was a pawn ticket for a suit of dress clothes. IOI MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON It is odd how one story recalls another. The mention of fancy dress reminds me of a curious experience which a friend told me he had in connec- tion with a big fancy dress ball. He was very keen on these dances, and put himself to no end of trouble and expense in getting himself up in costume. On this particular occasion he fancied himself as Charles II., and on the eventful evening a dresser came from the costumiers to help him don the costume, as it was a very elaborate and difficult one to get into, unless one was accustomed to making oneself up, and besides which he had to wear a special wig of flowing hair and a false moustache and eye- brows. It took him over an hour to complete his toilet, and when at last he was quite ready, and to his satis- faction, he looked at the clock and discovered he was much too early. So having had a tiring day in the city, he thought the best thing to do was to have a little rest before going, in order to be in better form for dancing and an all-night’s enjoyment. I forgot to mention that he had been looking forward to this ball for a long time, as he expected a very special lady friend of his to meet him there. Well, he got the dresser before he left him to help him settle himself comfortably in front of the fire in his large arm-chair in such a way that he should not disarrange his wig or crush his lace, then telling his man to turn down the gas, and that he was not to be disturbed, prepared himself for a little doze. His description of the way he was spread out in the chair, like a lay figure, was screamingly funny. The next thing he knew was waking up with a start, aghast — feeling very cold and stiff. The fire had gone out, and the pale grey of dawn was visible through the curtains. For the moment he could not recollect where he was or what he was doing, then suddenly he remembered the fancy dress ball. Up he jumped to see the time. To his horror he dis- 102 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON covered it was five o’clock in the morning — he had slept peacefully in the arm-chair since nine o’clock the previous evening. His language may be imagined as he divested himself of his regal apparel and went to bed. Whether or not unconventional ideas help one to get on or make anything so far as one’s work was concerned, is a matter which I will not pretend to discuss, although I have my own ideas on the subject now. I am simply recalling my impressions of those days when I was well on the right side of thirty. I loved the life then. The Bohemianism which existed in St John’s Wood in my time would not be possible nowadays ; everything is so changed, and possibly for the better, although there are doubtless many men like myself who regret the transition. It is not that we would care to live again in that happy-go-lucky fashion, but the thought that it would no longer be con- doned in these days of taxi-cabs and motor cars. Much that took place in St John’s Wood studios that I knew savoured of Montmartre anglicised, with the exception that there was a good deal of hard drinking — in the shape of whisky especially — that was non-existent among the artists in Paris. In this con- nection I recall an amusing and typical instance of this particular form of English Bohemianism. On Queen’s Terrace there was a small public-house called “ The Knights of St John’s,” where several of us used to meet for lunch, as they provided a really excellent shilling ordinary, as I have said. The bar- man was an Army Reservist. He had been a bugler in some cavalry regiment, the 5th Dragoon Guards, if I remember rightly. Opposite the “ pub ” is a narrow, gravelled alley leading to Finchley Road. In this passage were several studios, and the one nearest to the “ Knights of St John’s” was occupied by two artists, one of whom was rather a clever amateur musician as well. 103 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON They were neither of them exactly teetotallers — rather the contrary, in fact — and as they were fairly well-to-do, they dispensed liquid hospitality with a lavish hand. This was well known, and they had many visitors at all times, the result being that it frequently would happen that their stock of whisky or other refreshment would run out. As they kept no servant, living as they did in the studio in thorough Bohemian fashion, they would take it in turn to go out and across to “ The Knights ” to fetch what was required. Suddenly a really brilliant idea occurred to the musical one. He was rather good on the cornet, so he got the barman to teach him a few military bugle calls, and it was arranged that they were to have certain meanings when sounded from the door of the studio — as, for instance, if he gave the “ reveille ,” it meant that they wanted a bottle of whisky ; the “ last post,” a bottle of gin ; “ stables,” a quart of bitter, and so forth — and the barman would send it over. The scheme answered admirably, and, as may be imagined, caused much amusement in the vicinity. The open-handed hospitality of this particular studio was well known, and one heard of wild orgies there at times ; but these festivities invariably took the form of drinking bouts, to which no women were ever invited. I remember a model telling me that on one occasion on the morning after one of these Bac- chanalian entertainments, on arriving at the studio at io o’clock for a sitting, she found the whole floor of the place covered with sleeping revellers lying just where they had fallen on being overcome by the effects of the carousing. She described the scene as an extraordinary one, as it doubtless was. In those days the first thing a man did when you went to see him was to ask you to have a drink, and the bottle was handy at all times. A pal of mine told me of an amusing practical 104 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON joke he played late one night on an acquaintance he had met on his way home, and on whom he had taken compassion and offered a drink at his studio. Of course he did not refuse ; but on the way my friend suddenly remembered that he hadn’t a drop of whisky left in the place. He didn’t know what to do, so when they reached the studio he pretended he hadn’t got a match on him to light the gas, so started hunting around for a box in order to gain time and think out how to break the dreadful news. “ Don’t bother about lighting up on my account,” said his guest. “ I can manage to find the way to my mouth in the dark ; let’s have the drink and I’ll be off.” Then an idea occurred to my friend. An empty bottle and a jug of water were on the table. Picking up the glass he said he would give him something very special, and pretended to pour from the bottle into it, and taking up the jug, put the time-honoured question, “ Say when ? ” “ Oh, full up, I haven’t had a drink for nearly a hour, and I’m as parched as a limekiln,” was the reply. So up it was filled to the brim. “ Well, here’s luck, old man,” said he, and drank off the glass of water in one gulp without even stopping to take breath. “ That was fine,” he said, as he put down the glass. “ I wanted it badly. No, I won’t have another — thanks awfully, good-night.” The next day they happened to meet again, and the visitor of the previous night remarked to my friend, “ That was a stunning drink you gave me yesterday. What was it ? ” Of stories of Bohemianism of this type there were no end ; one could probably fill a volume with them alone. Here are some more sufficiently funny to bear telling. One of the most distinguished of the younger artists, whose name I won’t give for obvious reasons, was married and lived with his wife in a sort of studio suite. Their married bliss was only marred with one thing, and that was the weakness of the 105 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON artist for boon companions and whisky. Otherwise he was a model husband, and the couple were devoted to each other. The curious part of this was that he would leave off the drink for days at a time, and to all appearances have turned over a new leaf, and then suddenly by an uncontrollable impulse he would break out again. To his credit it must be said that he always regretted it afterwards, and felt heartily ashamed of himself. On the occasion I am about to describe he had been exceptionally “ good ” for quite a long time, and had been quite a model Benedict, so much so, in fact, that his wife one Saturday evening told him that it would perhaps do him no harm to go down and spend an hour or two with his friends at the Savage Club. He did not require much per- suasion, and promised not only that he would not drink, but that he would not stay out late, and would be back again before twelve. This he said with the sure conviction that he would carry it out. The inevitable happened, as might have been expected. He was a very popular fellow, and it was nearly five o’clock when he rolled home. He was very fuddled, but still had enough intelligence left to realise he had broken his word with his wife. It was a lovely summer morning, and the sun was shining brilliantly. I forgot to mention that their bedroom led out of the studio. Taking off his boots as quietly as possible, he crept into the room. He was in luck’s way ; his wife was fast asleep and had not heard him come in, so he undressed and tried to climb into the bed without disturbing her ; but he was very unsteady, and of course woke her. To his surprise she turned round drowsily and asked him why he was “ getting up so early.” He had not the heart to tell her he was only just coming to bed, when an inspiration occurred to him, and he told her that he could not sleep any longer, and it was such a fine morning he was going to take his sketch 1 06 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON book and the dog and go for a stroll up to Hamp- stead. And he actually dressed again, tired though he was, and walked up to the Heath. The other story, which is also humorous, was of a somewhat similar character. Another friend of mine, also a married man, burst out now and then. He had on this particular occasion been to a card part)’, and when at last he made his way homeward he had no idea whatever of the time, and he was so knocked up that he fell asleep in the cab. The cabman woke him up when he reached his destination. With unsteady steps he made his way to his street door, when, much to his astonishment, he saw it was unde open. The discovery had the effect of instantly pulling him together. His first impulse was to get into a violent rage at the carelessness of his servant ; then it struck him that burglars must have broken in. Yes, there was no doubt about it He thought it best not to alarm the house- hold, so he decided to wait where he was until a policeman came along before he did anything. Whilst he was standing, or rather leaning, against the railing, the cook came out with a pail of water to clean the steps ; she had left the door open while she went to sweep out the hall. It w r as a quarter to eight in the morning ! There was another story of a somewhat similar character they used to tell of a distinguished music hall artiste who also lived in the neighbourhood. He w~as a very late bird, and seldom got home until well on in the small hours. On one occasion he drove up to his house at 9 o’clock in the morning. A policeman who w^as passing, and who knew’ him well, called out cheerily, "Good-night, sir.” In the quaint little alley I have referred to, w’hich led from Queen’s Terrace to Finchley Road, there w’ere only studios, and I never pass through it with- out remembering a funny occurrence there one day. Yeend King had one of the studios, and I often used 107 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON to go round and have a smoke with him. One Sunday morning I strolled round and found a typical top - hatted bourgeois waiting outside the door — a picture - dealer probably. He was evidently in a great state of irritation, and glad of an opportunity to air his grievance, and although I was quite a stranger to him, and was about to ring the bell, he said testily, “ It isn’t any use doing that, I have been waiting here for over an hour, and he hasn’t come back yet. Disgusting making an appointment and keeping one waiting like this ! I have a good mind to go away and not trouble about seeing his damned picture at all ! ” I then saw that pinned on the door was a card on which was written “Back in ten minutes.” Almost mechanically, whilst we were speaking, I rang the bell, and to our surprise King, palette and brushes in hand, opened the door immediately. He nodded to me, then turned to the top-hatted gentleman and said, “ I like your idea of keeping an appointment, I have been waiting in for you since eleven o’clock and now it’s past twelve.” I thought I would act as peacemaker and pointed to the notice on the door. It then appeared that King had gone out for a few minutes and forgotten to take the notice off on his return. 108 CHAPTER X In Paris again for the “Vernissage” — Amusing incident on return journey — Keeping a carriage to oneself — I meet Captain Hargreaves — The Mount, Bishopstoke — Delightful hospitality — His yacht Iattira — A particularly pleasing souvenir. I join the “Artists’” Volunteers — Sir Frederick Leighton, Colonel the South London Brigade — The grey - uniformed regiments — Distinguished men amongst the officers of the Corps — My first march out — Easter Review at Brighton — Fun out with the girls — A practical joke — Easter Monday Field Day — Leighton, an ideal Colonel — An instance of his indefatigability. That year I exhibited two pictures at the Salon y the portrait I had painted at Mentone and the large canvas which I had painted at Gorleston. I went over to Paris for the “Vernissage,” and was delighted to find I had been very well treated, and was “ on the line ” with both pictures ; whilst, judging from the press notices, I had been “ spotted ” also. On my way back to London I had a some- what curious experience, which ended in a most pleasant way. I was leaving by an early train, and as I had had somewhat of a wild time the previous night, and had not got to bed until an advanced hour in the morning, I determined to try and keep a com- partment to myself on the train, so as to be able to have a good sleep as far as Boulogne. With this idea I got to the station in good time, and having found an empty carriage proceeded to occupy all the seats by placing articles of baggage every- where. Whilst doing so I noticed an elderly gentle- man, of very distinguished presence, with a grey 109 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON beard, who had apparently already secured his seat, strolling up and down the platform. Just as the train was about to start, and I was settling myself in my corner, congratulating myself on the success of my ruse, he appeared at the door followed by a valet carrying a valise and hat box, and in the coolest manner got up into the com- partment in spite of its “full” appearance. His man having placed his baggage on the rack and left, the gentleman then turned to me, and in the most affable way enquired if I should require all the corners, because if not, he wouldn’t mind having one himself. Of course I had no option but to remove my things, which I did, feeling rather small at being bowled out so neatly. As he sat down he remarked with a genial laugh that he was an old traveller, and had often tried on the same plan himself. The idea seemed to tickle him, and we soon got into conversation, when I found him so sympathetic and entertaining that by the time we reached Boulogne we were almost like old friends. My newly - found acquaintance was a Captain Hargreaves, and when we separated at our arrival at Charing Cross, he had given me his card and a cordial invitation to go and spend a few days with him at his place at Bishopstoke near Southampton ; he had also promised to come and see my studio. It is often remarkable how chance meetings such as this lead to lasting friendships, and so it was in this case. Captain Hargreaves was quite a character in his way, and his place, “The Mount,” was a charming sort of Liberty Hall, as he called it, where one received a most hearty welcome. He had been a great whip in his time, and I believe was said to be the only man who had ever driven a four-in-hand at full trot down the High Street of Southampton and into the courtyard of the “ Dolphin Hotel,” with- out having to draw rein — somewhat a daring feat. i io MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON When I met him, however, his heart had gone wrong, so he had had to give up such mad pranks. Fishing and yachting were then his sole amusements, and there were several miles of good trout fishing on a stream which ran through his estate. I remember that at intervals along the bank there were seats with lockers to them in which were to be found refreshments for his guests at all times — a very thoughtful and hospitable notion indeed. His yacht, The Ianira , was a very fine schooner of about 375 tons, with auxiliary speed, and perhaps one of the best of its class in those days. As Hargreaves was a captain in the Naval Reserve, all the crew were in uniform. We would drive from the house in great style in the four-in-hand down to the jetty, and be taken off to where the yacht lay in Southampton water in a steam pinnace, in quite man-o’-war fashion. There was a large billiard-room and picture gallery built on to the house, which was full of modern pictures and statuary. One evening we were seated there smoking, when Hargreaves remarked that my large picture from the Paris Salon would look very well on the end wall, and if I didn’t want the earth for it he would buy it. Needless to say it ended by its being sent down, and I went and spent a week- end to superintend the hanging. Now comes a particularly pleasing souvenir of what was otherwise an ordinary deal. He was delighted with the effect of the picture, and after dinner that evening wrote me out a cheque for half as much again as he had agreed to give for it, saying that he felt it was really worth it. I imagine there are not many artists who have had a similar experience. It was about this time several of us developed tendencies of martial taste. I may possibly have had something to do with this, for, as I have said, I always had a decided leaning towards “soldiering.” hi MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON I fancy it must have been the band and the uniform that attracted me. However, I induced two cousins of mine, and a particular chum, an old fellow student from Paris, to join the “Artists’” Volunteers, then the 20th Middlesex. And for the next two months we were all as keen as mustard on drilling, in order to be able to take part in the manoeuvres at Brighton — in those days the great event of the year for the Volunteer Army. Sir Frederick Leighton was the colonel of the regiment, which mustered about 750, and was con- sidered then, as it is still, one of the “class” corps of London, that is, typical corps which attract a certain class. There were other regiments which shared with the “ Artists ” the honour of being thus distinguished. The London Scottish, The Queen’s Westminster, The Inns of Court, and the Civil Service, and as all five wore grey uniforms and were always grouped together, they were known as The South London Brigade. There was a friendly form of rivalry in consequence, which helped con- siderably to keep a healthy esprit de corps. Although known as the “Artists,” it was not absolutely necessary to be an artist. When the corps was founded membership was confined to painters, sculptors, musicians, and so forth, and for many years the tradition was unbroken. Though, of course, there were many distinguished young artists in the ranks, there were several companies without any painters at all in them ; while, on the other hand, there were one or two mainly composed of this fraternity. We joined one of these, H Company, commanded by D. W. Wynfield, a painter of some repute at the time. The distinguishing character of all the five grey- uniformed regiments was, I believe, that they were not what was known as “Working Men’s” corps. The “ Artists ” certainly was very much to the contrary, and the charm of it was that every 112 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON recruit on joining knew that if he stuck to it, and lived long enough, he had the chance one day of commanding the regiment. For the “ Artists ” “ grow ” their officers, as it is quaintly expressed. From the very day one was enrolled you realised that slackness was taboo. And it was strange to note how soon one got to like the work, hard and monotonous though it was at first, of learning the elements of drill and military discipline. I remember it was a positive eye-opener to me to see the way my brother recruits unfailingly turned up of an evening — w r et or fine. Of course, the enthusiasm of the “ Artists ” still exists, for the corps is undoubtedly a popular one on account of its old associations, chiefly. But it can never again be the same as it was in the days of which I am writing, for the whole character of the regiment is changed. Although it is still known as the “ Artists,” there are scarcely any artists in it now, and I believe no one deplores this state of affairs more than Colonel May himself, who has gradually seen this transformation coming about. Whether it is that the young painters of nowadays have not that sense of patriotism that animated their predecessors, or that the new school of artists that has sprung up considers it infra dig. to go in for anything of so manly a character as soldiering, it is hard to tell. But the fact remains, the “Artists’” corps, smart and efficient though it be, is only “ Artists ” in name now. This retrocession, for one can call it nothing else, is still more remarkable when one recalls only a few of the men who made big names for themselves, and who in their early days passed through the ranks. Sir Frederick Leighton, Sir Edward Poynter, Sir A. E. Waterlow, George Frederick Ross, Walter Severn, Edwin Long, Thomas Brock, Val Prinsep, Sir Victor Horsley, Sir J. Forbes- Robertson, Dr 1 13 H MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON Jameson (the late Premier of the Cape), Sir Edward Busk, Sir Joseph Barnby, Colonel R. W. Edis Colonel Walter C. Horsley — the last two successively com- manded the regiment after Sir Frederick Leighton. These names will be sufficient to convey some idea of the men who helped to make the “ Artists ” what it always has been — one of the crack regiments within the Metropolis. When I joined, and it is of interest to mention that the present colonel of the regiment was a brother recruit, the headquarters were at Fitzroy Square, and we were drilled in the grounds of the University College in Gower Street. It was tedious and uninteresting work at the beginning, but it all had to be gone through, for until you were passed by the sergeant - major you could not go and get your uniform. I shall always remember the first outing we had with the regiment We only managed to get our uniforms just in time ; in fact, we were down at the tailors’ on the Thursday night before Good Friday. At the last moment my trousers were not ready, so they lent me a pair, which were miles too large for me, as the waistband came up under my arm-pits, so it may be imagined how nice and warm and comfortable I felt, what with my tight tunic, belt and pouch and haversack, and overcoat rolled up like a horse collar across my chest, and wearing a helmet for the first time. But it was all so delightful and novel, and when I “ fell in ” with my company when the regiment mustered and the band struck up and we marched off, I had the feeling that if this were soldiering it was very pleasant indeed. I often remembered this first impression in after years when I saw soldiering in real earnest, and when there was no music to liven it up. The regiment, when the Easter manoeuvres took place near Brighton, would send the baggage on 114 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON ahead two days before under a baggage-guard of half a company, and then entrain as far as, perhaps. Three Bridges, on the Good Friday, and march the rest of the way with other regiments, and there was generally a small sham fight en route. We would billet at a village that night, and it was a delightful experience when after the hard day’s work we turned in, and slept in sweet-smelling hay and straw in barns and outbuildings. On the Saturday the march would be resumed with more sham fighting, until Brighton was reached, when all the various regiments would march into the town with bands playing amidst great enthusiasm. That night we were quartered in some public build- ing. After being dismissed to quarters and having tea and a wash and brush up, we would invade the front and the pier and give the girls a chance. In those days one could have a lot of fun with the girls when you were in uniform, and we generally ' managed to find something to pair off with. Talking of fun with the girls when in uniform reminds me of a laughable practical joke played on me at one of these Easter outings. It seems funny now, but it didn’t amuse me a tiny bit at the time, I recollect. I picked up a jolly nice girl on the Saturday evening and fixed an appointment with her for the Sunday afternoon. It was rather difficult to get away from one’s pals, as there seemed to be some unwritten law that we should stick together when in uniform either on or off duty. I managed, however, to elude the crowd, and found my lady-love waiting at the try sting- place. I had made discreet enquiries beforehand as to the best way to get to the most picturesque and retired walk in the neighbourhood, and learned that there was one that was known locally as “ Lovers’ Lane ” on account of its seclusion. I therefore suggested MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON our wending our footsteps thither, and to my delight she consented, so we thithered. She knew the way, it appeared — but she told me she had only been there once before just to have a look at the place. Once outside the town and away from prying eyes, I let myself go unreservedly, and with forage cap cocked jauntily over my right ear, and with my manly arm encircling her wasp-like waist, I felt I was indeed acting the “Tommy” to the very life — and I believe the young lady really liked it — so we must have made a picturesque and loving couple as we strolled through the leafy lane, whilst stopping at intervals for mutual regalement in the shape of unrestrained caresses of the most amatory nature. At length we reached “ Lovers’ Lane,” and I found it quite came up to its reputation, for it would have been difficult to find anything more adapted to the requirements of young and ardent sylvan lovers. A high straggling hedge shut it in completely from vulgar gaze, whilst overhead the trees formed a natural and charming bower, which effectually tempered the hot rays of the afternoon sun. A mossy bank of most alluring appearance seemed to invite us to tarry awhile. My lady fair was not unwilling, and we were soon lying clasped in each other’s arms in rapturous bliss, lost to the world and all its sordid pursuits, whilst the little birds sang in their sweetness around us. The next few minutes passed by unheeded as though in a dream. Suddenly my companion gave a little startled exclamation and whispered in my ear : “ Did you hear that noise ? What is it ? ” I sat up and listened intently, then my attention was drawn to something quite close by. I thought at first it must be a snake in the hedge — or a big rat. I watched it carefully, fascinated, as it were, when it gradually dawned upon me that it was a pair of human eyes peering through the hedge at us, and 116 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON not far away yet another pair, and yet another, and here and there on either side quite a number of glistening eyes and laughing mouths and gleaming white teeth. We were surrounded by lookers-on. At that moment I caught a glimpse of something of a familiar grey hue with a row of buttons on it, and in an instant I realised that I had been stalked by some of my own comrades, and that there had been an interested group of spectators of the whole of the tender episode ! I was of course furious, but thought it was best not to let them know I had seen them, as it would have upset my lady - love tremendously had she known of it, so I turned to her and said that I thought that there were snakes about, and that it would be advisable to go somewhere else. She didn’t want much telling, so up we scrambled and walked rapidly away. As we did so I heard a suppressed titter of merriment from the other side of the hedge, and what sounded like a discreetly suppressed cough. Some little distance on my com- panion said suddenly and anxiously : “ I don’t think that was really a snake we heard, do you ? ” “I don’t think it really was,” I replied truthfully. However, to return to the serious side of our volunteer duties at the Easter Reviews. Sunday there was Church Parade, and then we were free for the day. Monday, Bank Holiday, we were out betimes, for it was a field day on the downs — with a big march past to finish up with. All Brighton used to turn out to see this, and the most ludicrous incidents would often occur, for we always had a generous supply of blank cartridge and took the most daring risks, dashing right up and blazing away at the enemy at close quarters, the crowds of men, women, and children looking on, and when the “cease fire” sounded it would be like a fair all round, every one lying on the ii 7 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON grass if it were a fine afternoon, with hawkers selling fruit, nuts, ginger beer, and what not. It was indeed a brave scene. Wanting in serious- ness though it may have been, there is no doubt that it appealed tremendously to the people, and it was that that made the Volunteer Movement, and these Reviews in particular, so popular at the time, whether they took place at Brighton, or Southsea, or Portsmouth. It must not, however, be inferred that it was all pomp and circumstance, for we did a good deal of hard work when there was no audience, at Aldershot in the summer, on Wimbledon Common, and else- where. Leighton made an ideal colonel — in fact, he was probably more strenuous in his work than many a commander of regulars. If, as it has been described, genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains, then Leighton was indeed one, for in everything he undertook efficiency was his object, as, for instance, in his volunteer work, and, moreover, he expected every one around him to be as fully in earnest. I remember one occasion at Wimbledon towards the end of an extremely tiring afternoon, he had given the command for some particularly compli- cated battalion manoeuvre to be carried out. Some- how it was not done to his liking, and he ordered it to be repeated ; this was done again and again without success, then Leighton, who had been gradually showing signs of considerable irritation at what he probably considered the want of in- telligence of us all, called a halt, and seating him- self firmly in his saddle, facing the regiment, he bawled out: “Well, gentlemen, Pm in no hurry, and I’m going to have this done properly if I stop out here all night.” I don’t know whether this little speech had any effect, but anyhow we did not stop out all that night. This zeal on his part, so far from being 1 1 8 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON resented, only served to make him liked still more by the regiment, and it is safe to assert there was no more popular colonel of volunteers at that time than Sir Frederick Leighton. By his personality and quite remarkable assiduity he gave a brilliant example of what thoroughness and zeal can effect, the result of which is seen in the corps until this day. He gave up the actual command of the regiment to become the Honorary Colonel soon after he had been elected President of the Royal Academy, and then only on account of the increasing number of other duties thrown upon him in consequence. He was succeeded by Colonel R. W. Edis, also an officer of exceptional aptitude and presence, for his commanding figure and fine physique drew attention everywhere. Walter Horsley, the artist, succeeded him and maintained the great success and the old traditions of the famous corps, but, as I have said, painters have gradually ceased to take interest in volunteering, for reasons difficult to explain, and the corps is only “ Artists ” in name now. CHAPTER XI “Show Sunday” — Then a great event — Importance of exhibiting at the Royal Academy — Not a hall mark of talent — Significance of Show Sunday — The dealers’ visits — The social crowd — Critics — What the artist has to put up with — Doubtful praise — Success in art not judged by financial results — Show Sunday stories — I send in my large picture — Sir Frederick Leighton’s encouragement — I have no luck — Not hung “for want of space” — My dejection — Thoughts of enlisting — My girl pal — A real comforter — I gradually recover — Picture purchased by Walker Art Gallery — Katie’s illness — Sad ending. “ Show Sunday,” as the day before sending in one’s pictures to the Royal Academy was called, was one of the great events of the year amongst artists, and every one who had anything like a studio, who was going to try his luck, would send out invitations to his friends to come and see his pictures before they went in. This was done to avoid disappointment to the friends, in case the works were not accepted, and they had no opportunity of seeing them out- side the studio. St John’s Wood, which on Sunday afternoons usually presented an air of unruffled sanctimonious calm, was invaded by visitors “going the round of the studios,” as it was called, and every one who happened to have a friend who knew a friend who knew an artist would try and get an invitation to one or other of the studios. From the artist’s point of view, the importance at that time of exhibiting at the Royal Academy was incalculable, for it was the principal exhibition of the year, the mere fact of having one’s name in the 120 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON catalogue carried weight and seemed to entitle the artist at once to a certain consideration which he did not receive otherwise. “ He exhibits at the Royal Academy” was the highest encomium the ordinary bourgeois could think of when describing an artist friend. In fact, at one time it was thought in certain suburban sets that a painter was entitled to put F.R.A. after his name if he had ever exhibited at Burlington House. How many lives, which might have been otherwise profitably employed in commerce or elsewhere, have been wasted by the mere chance of being once hung at the Royal Academy, for it is needless to insist on the fact that the catalogue of that august institution does not necessarily convey the hall-mark of talent. “Show Sunday” nowadays has lost most of its significance in consequence of the number of out- side societies that have come into existence, and the reluctance of many painters to run the risk of not being “hung” if they send their chief works to the Royal Academy. But at the time of which I am writing it was almost a social function, and the big men especially had to be prepared for numbers of visitors, most of whom were complete strangers to them. Carriages and cabs and streams of well- dressed people woke up the echoes of quiet streets where not a soul would be seen on Sunday at other times of the year, and gave an importance to certain artists of those days which in many instances was not merited by the works they exhibited. Still all this movement and popular interest was a healthy sign, and there was no doubt that “ Show Sunday ” was, perhaps, the one day of the year when one could almost be sure of receiving a visit from one of the big dealers if you had something important to show him, for the reason that they knew they were certain to find their man at home all day. Dealers and publishers would generally endeavour to pay 12 1 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON their visits before the arrival of the social crowd, and I knew many an artist who would reckon to sell every picture he had on show, before the first ring at the bell after lunch. Those were indeed the good times for modern artists. Of course, it was not all honey, and sometimes it happened that a man had “ spread ” himself on some special subject all the year, only to be told by the dealer he was hoping to sell it to that it was not what he wanted after all ; for the dealers were purely commercial, and only looked on the material side. I remember Yeend King used to tell a funny story of a buyer coming to see his Academy pictures one day. They all represented Spring and Summer scenes up the river. He just glanced at them, then walked round the studio three times and turned to go out, saying to King as he did so: “ I’m sorry I can’t do a deal with you this time, but we have a growing demand for autumn tints, so these are no good to me. Good afternoon.” But if the candid criticisms of the dealers were hard to bear by reason of the fact that they repre- sented an opinion of success or failure, what the poor artist had to put up with from amateur critics who came on the pretext of a friendly visit was maddening at times. Not the least irritating was often the ambiguous character of the praise one received. A friend told me of a very influential person coming on one of his “ Show Sundays,” when he had quite an important picture on view. As he left he went up to the artist, and shaking him warmly by the hand, said : “ I like your picture very much, it is so different from the work you usually do.” As a rule enthusiasm and praise were the order of the day, for Society folk are indulgent, and it costs so little to say nice things, never mind what one thinks. There were, however, some people who didn’t attempt to disguise their feelings ; one man in 122 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON particular, he was so outspoken that he was quite a terror, but his opinion was the more valued in consequence. On one occasion he had been invited particularly to go and see some pictures. He arrived, had a glance round, then said tersely : “ What a beastly lot ! Good afternoon,” and walked out. I think it will be conceded that the artist’s is the only one of the professions where success cannot be measured by financial result. Many of the cleverest painters and sculptors I have known were as poor as church mice, yet they had made names for them- selves, their work was highly spoken of in the Press, but their studios were full of unsold pictures, all of which had attracted much notice when on exhibition. In other professions, as, for instance, that of medi- cine or the law, success is gauged by banking accounts and the position a man can afford to keep up, and what his will is proved at, at his death. A poor doctor, or a poor solicitor, however clever, can never be considered to have been successful, as success in their case is always paid for in solid coin of the realm. It has been said that an artist may not make a deal of money out of painting a picture, but the pleasure he derives whilst painting it is compensa- tion far beyond gold. This may be so, but it doesn’t pay his rent or relieve him of all the petty worries after the picture is painted. With this idea continually in one’s mind, it may be imagined with what anxiety one wanted to know the result of months of hard work ; as it often meant comparative affluence or dans la puree — anglicised, “ stony-broke ” for some time to come. I always thought that this explained the peculiar condition of Bohemianism that is always associated with Art, and is always more or less condoned. Amusing stories occur to me in connection with “ Show Sunday.” One in particular of a landscape 123 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON painter, who married a very vulgar, jealous, but good- looking woman. He never dared to have a “ Show Sunday” in consequence, but on one occasion quite a lot of friends, several ladies included, turned up during the afternoon. His wife happened to be out at the time, but the visitors were still in the studio when she returned. In she walked and stood with her arms akimbo, as though transfixed at the sight of so many people in the place. Her husband, a mild little man, was about to introduce her, when she rapped out in her coarse voice : “ What’s the meanin’ of this? What are all these devils doin’ ’ere ? ” Needless to add the visitors did not stay on ! A great many of the people who went round the studios of that day did it more because it was the thing to do rather than from any particular interest in painting, which reminds me of a remark made by a fashionable beauty to her attendant cavalier, as they came out of one of the studios, “ I like water- colour drawings better than oil paintings.” “ Why ? ” was the natural query. “ Because one can see one- self so nicely in the glass ! ” Here’s something that happened to me. A man whose opinion I particularly wanted to have on a picture came and saw it, and after looking at it for some minutes whilst I stood by expectantly, he turned to me and said : “ That’s the best frame, Price, I’ve ever seen in your studio.” “ Show Sunday ” was from 3 till 6 o’clock, but it would generally last till dark. In some studios they gave tea, but not often, too many uninvited guests would turn up with one’s own friends for this to be possible. As a rule, you were generally glad when you saw the last of your visitors, as it would frequently happen that some useful suggestion in regard to an alteration had been made to you during the afternoon, and you were in feverish haste to carry it out before the van came in the morning to fetch the picture away. 124 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON The studio always seemed terribly empty for the next few days after the pictures had gone, they had almost got to be part and parcel of the furniture, and there seemed to be no excuse for starting on another canvas at once, so one would often have a bit of a holiday in the shape of a saunter round the neighbourhood, smoking one’s pipe and looking up one’s friends, which was rather a fascinating way of passing a fine spring morning, when St John’s Wood was looking its very best. One was full of hope for one’s pictures during the first week of sending them in, for you had had so many compliments paid you. Then came the inevitable reaction, and gradually you worked yourself into a state of nervous tension waiting for the result, and every postman’s knock sent a thrill through you, till at last your whole future career and welfare seemed to be absolutely dependent on the decision of the Hanging Committee at the Royal Academy. It seems very puerile when one looks back on it all through the mist of time. That year I was having my first shot at getting “hung,” and a very big and ambitious shot too. I had sent in the large io-feet canvas I had painted in the Scilly Islands, as Leighton had come up to the studio to see it and had given me encouragement for risking it, by expressing the opinion that “it stood a chance.” But although he was ipso facto always on the Hanging Committee, his friendship for one was not of much avail, the President only exercising the casting vote when necessary. Well ! my lucky star was not in the ascendant that year so far as the Academy was concerned, for my great work was not hung “ for want of space,” and I felt very dejected about it, and thought the world was coming to an end in consequence. I went and saw Leighton, and he was very sympathetic, but I fancy he was surprised that I should take it so much to heart, for I was so young then! He 125 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON said he had put in a good word for it, but its size was against it, and advised me to try it again the following year, since it had not been actually rejected. But to me it was a distinction without a difference, and I was in no mood to think of resuming painting yet awhile, and so depressed was I by this temporary set-back, that I brooded over it to such an extent that I actually had serious thought of throwing up art and enlisting, and went and had a chat with a recruiting sergeant with a view to joining a cavalry regiment. It was at this time I first realised what a comfort it was to have a girl pal. I was somehow on a different footing with the petites amies I had had when living in Paris, for the reason, perhaps, that I was not then working for my living, and had a little income coming in regularly, so there was nothing to worry about. Here in London all was changed, and it was a pretty serious matter if I could not make things go right every time ; at least, so I thought, for to employ an Irishism, everything seemed to appear black when I was in one of my blue moods, and this is where the female element came in as against the masculine. Men friends, as I have always found, must generally have some sort of compensating self - satisfaction for their sympathy and help, however much they are with you in your trouble. There generally crop up time-worn platitudes which often help to undo the good feel- ing. “If you had only taken my advice,” they will probably ejaculate, or, “ I am very sorry for you, old man, but I warned you what would happen,” and so forth. Little nothings, perhaps, but the fly in the ointment, all the same. Curiously enough, in Bohemia, if a woman of the right sort is really fond of a man, there is none of this ; there is nothing to temper her sympathy with him when trouble comes. Anyhow, that has been my experience, as doubtless it is that of many other 126 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON men. In studio life one realises this perhaps more than elsewhere, for in spite of the apparent light- heartedness and absence of family cares, the bachelor artist Bohemian often lives a wretchedly isolated and solitary existence. Of course, the artistic tempera- ment may have a deal to do with this, but this is no fault of the individual, as will be admitted. So it happened, fortunately for me as it turned out, that I had a dear little girl friend at the time, and she proved the very embodiment of all that was sweet and human and sensible, when I was in the depths of despair. I have often thought over those days when, had it not been for her, I should have probably done something foolish ; and with it all, her affection and her sympathy were absolutely disinterested, for she knew I was not in affluent circumstances ; that was the charm of it, and made me appreciate her the more. It was then that I first realised that in the uncon- ventional life of Bohemia one can find attachments every whit as sincere, and often more so, from what I have seen since, than those which are made binding by the law. However, enough of moralising. Katie was employed in one of the big shops, so could only see me after she left business. We would then, perhaps, if it was a fine evening, stroll up to Hampstead and wander about the Heath, which we had all to ourselves at that hour ; and I could be as miserable as I liked, for I felt she was heart and soul with me, and if I laughed she would laugh, and if I cried she would cry also, so we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Gradually, as may be imagined, it dawned on me that my life was not ended simply because this beastly picture had not been hung, and I actually found myself after a time coming to the conclusion that perhaps it was all for the best, because it must have been a poor work after all, and wouldn’t have done me any good even if it had been hung, and my 127 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON little friend agreed with me in this, as, in fact, she would have done in anything I might have advanced. And it came about that one morning I woke up with the feeling that the clouds had lifted and that I had to pull myself together, so I went down to the Illustrated and was lucky enough to catch Mr Ingram in. He seemed pleased to see me, and I sold him a drawing, and as I came out into the Strand things seemed to me to look different and brighter. Although it had commenced to rain, and I hadn’t got an umbrella, somehow I didn’t mind if I did get wet, and I met a friend and he asked me to go into Short’s, where we had a couple of glasses of port, and — well ! that was the last of my attack of the blues. What a jolly evening Katie and I spent together ; I sent her a wire, I remember, and we went to a little Italian restaurant just off the Edgware Road, and had quite a feast on the strength of my good luck at the office. It may be of interest to mention here that the picture which had caused me so much heartburning was eventually purchased for the Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, where it now hangs. I had taken the studio at No. io on a three years’ agreement and my time was nearly up, so I started looking around, as I wanted something more con- venient in the way of accommodation, when Katie, who had been out of sorts for some time and not at all strong, was taken ill and had to give up business and go home to her people in Somersetshire. There was to me a certain mystery as to the nature of her ailment, so when she came to see me to say good-bye the morning she left, I plied her with questions, when at last she burst into tears and I elicited the truth. The doctor had told her that one of her lungs was affected — her father, it appeared, had died of consumption — and that she must get away at once from the crowded workroom and 128 PICTURE WHICH HAD CAUSED ME SO MUCH HEARTBURNING WAS EVENTUALLY PURCHASED FOR THE WALKER ART GALLERY, LIVERPOOL.” ' . . ■ MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON vitiated atmosphere and go to live in the open air as much as possible, which meant, of course, she must not come back to London for a long, long time. ‘‘Very hard luck, isn’t it?” she added plaintively. I need scarcely say how affected I was. The sadness of it all struck me as being too terrible, for she was so young and so full of the joie de vivre , but I did my best to disguise my feelings and cheer her up. “If every one believed what the doctor said, we should be dead long ago,” I told her, with an attempt at hilarity I little felt. It was “only a slight cold” on her chest she had got, and a few days in the country would no doubt put her right — “right as rain,” and so forth, but I’m afraid my voice belied my words. However, she tried bravely to curb her tears and said that she had made up her mind to do exactly what the doctor said she had to, and take all the nasty medicine he ordered, and then she would get well very quickly and come back to London, and we should be ever so happy together once more. Poor little Katie, I never saw her again. Her sister called on me some time afterwards and told me that from the first it was more serious than the doctor had said, how she had wasted away and gradually got weaker and weaker until she was a mere shadow of her old self, and then the end came — mercifully, no doubt. They say that “those that the gods love die young,” but this is but poor con- solation to those who mourn their loss. 129 I V CHAPTER XII My first campaign for the Illustrated London News — The Bechuana- land expedition — Its origin — I see Mr Ingram and offer to go out for the News — He agrees — First impressions as an accredited representative of a Paper — Interview with Colonel the Hon. Paul Methuen — The 1st Mounted Rifles, “Methuen’s Horse” — The recruiting office — A bit of a set-back — Sir Charles Warren and newspapers correspondents — Suggestion that I join “Methuen’s” — In dual capacity as artist and soldier — Mr Ingram agrees — I pass medical examination — Sign on as trooper — Serious reflections — Enthusiasm prevails — getting ready to leave England for a year — The departure of the Pembroke Castle for South Africa — Composition of the regiment and pay of troopers. I HAVE always been a firm believer in the truth of the old French adage Tout vient a point d qui sait attendre , and in remarkably few instances have I found my confidence in it shaken. My perseverance in going down so often to the Illustrated Londo?i News office on the off-chance of a travelling commission coming my way was at last to be rewarded, and at the end of the following year I left London for South Africa on my first expedition for the paper as War- Artist Correspondent with the Bechuanaland Field Force, and trooper in the 1st Mounted Rifles, otherwise known as “ Methuen’s Horse.” The combination of War Correspondent and trooper was so uncommon, and the whole of the circumstances leading up to it so unusual, that I feel it may be perhaps of interest to give a short account of how it came about. Trouble had been brewing for some months in South Africa, a con- siderable body of Boer freebooters had entered the Bechuanaland Protectorate, forcibly annexed a large 130 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON tract of territory, murdered the British representative, and actually proclaimed two new Boer states which they had named Stellaland and Goshen. Such a flagrant defiance of the Convention could not be tolerated, so it was decided to drive them out by force — hence the Bechuanaland Expedition, which was under the command of Sir Charles Warren. Now was my opportunity. Melton Prior was in the Sudan, not expected back for a long while, and there was no one else at hand, so down I went to the office and offered to go out with the expedition if they would commission me. Mr Ingram liked the idea, and told me to go and find out all about it and let him know what arrangements could be made. I remember I left the office in such a state of elation that I felt as if walking on air. One must have represented a Paper to realise the feeling of importance one’s first big travelling commission conveys. As a matter of fact, I don’t think one ever loses this impression. It is, I suppose, in a meaure a sense of gratification at the confidence one feels is reposed in one. I walked along the Strand pondering what was the next step to take. Mr Ingram had made no suggestions, assuming, presumably, that a man offering his services as War Correspondent did not require his editor to tell him what to do. I realised at once that one was entirely dependent upon one’s own initiative when acting as the representative of a newspaper. I was cogitating whether the proper course was to present myself at the War Office and make enquiries, when an idea suddenly flashed in my mind. It had been announced that in addition to the troops to be used, there was to be a strong force of mounted infantry, and an irregular cavalry regiment was to be raised in England for service in South Africa. A call had been made for volunteers who were good riders and good shots. The regiment was to be 131 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON under the command of Colonel The Hon. Paul Methuen. I recollected that there had been a notice in the Daily Telegraph that morning, in which it gave particulars where to apply for all information. So to buy the paper and then to make my way to 50 Leicester Square, where was the Recruiting Office, did not take long. I remember that it was with a certain amount of perhaps pardonable self-confidence I made my way upstairs through the crowd of men waiting to present themselves, and sent in my name to Captain Harell, who was the recruiting officer. It was the first time I had authority to state that I represented the Illustrated London News , and I then at once realised what an “ open sesame ” this meant, for I was ushered in immediately, and on explaining my business, the Captain said he would take me in to Colonel Methuen, who alone could deal with the matter. I was taken in to an inner room, where the Hon. Paul Methuen received me with much cordiality, but on explaining the object of my call, he informed me without hesitation that he much regretted he could do nothing for me. It appeared that Sir Charles Warren had given it distinctly to be understood before he left England that he would have no “ travelling gentlemen,” as he humorously termed War Correspondents, with him on this expedition. In vain did I urge that an artist could scarcely come under this category, the colonel shrugged his shoulders and replied : “ Those are my instructions, and I must carry them out.” I was naturally very disappointed, and I must have shown it ; however, there was nothing for it but to give up the idea of going, and I was leaving the room, when Colonel Methuen stopped me, and asked somewhat abruptly, as though an idea had occurred to him : “ Are you in the volunteers ? ” I told him I was a corporal in the “ Artists’ ” Corps. “ Are you 132 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON a good rider?” “Yes,” I replied, wondering what on earth he was driving at. “ A good shot with the rifle?” “Fairly,” I answered, still more perplexed. “Well, then,” he continued, “ the best thing you can do is to join my regiment and come out with me as a trooper, and I will use my influence so that you will be able to go about, see, and sketch everything, and at the same time you will no doubt find your military experiences extremely interesting. Besides which,” he added, with a laugh, and as an extra inducement, “ you will get a medal when it is all over — if you are not killed. ” The suggestion was a tempting one to me, but it was so unexpected that I naturally hesitated ; more- over, it quite altered my programme, so I replied that I thought I had better go and see Mr Ingram and ask what he thought of it first. “Well, you’ll have to decide quickly, because we’re nearly full up,” he told me. I said I would be back during the afternoon, and hurried off. I felt I must have a few minutes to myself quietly to think it over, so went into the Square, lit my pipe, and had a walk round and turned it over carefully in my mind. Whilst thus cogitating, I recollected how one of my old schoolfellows, Walter Sullivan, had enlisted in South Africa under some- what similar circumstances, and had gone through a recent campaign, and how this had fired my imagination at the time. Now was my opportunity, and before I had smoked my pipe out, I had come to the conclusion to try and take advantage of it. Moreover, my time was up at the studio and I had absolutely not a tie in the world. No one could have been freer than I was just then, so I decided, therefore, to join if Mr Ingram approved of it. Without further hesitation I jumped into a cab and was fortunate in catching him still at the office. Although somewhat surprised, he thought Colonel 133 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON Methuen’s suggestion a capital one, and in a few moments it was all settled that I should go, and I received my credentials signed by him. Within an hour I was back again in Leicester Square, passed by the doctor, entered as a trooper in “ D Troop” of “ Methuen’s Horse ” for one year certain, and informed that I was in the first detachment that was leaving in the Pembroke Castle ten days later. Nothing could have been quicker. I had scarcely had breathing time, yet all this had happened since I left home in the morning. As I made my way back to St John’s Wood it gradually dawned on me the seriousness of the step I had taken. What would my people say to it? Probably they would call me an arrant fool, but that did not trouble me, for I was a free agent. I felt there was no going back, anyhow. The die was cast, and I was no longer my own master, but a soldier, and at the call of my commanding officer. It was indeed a strange transformation, and I must admit that for a short time I felt a pang of regret at my impetuosity. The thought, I remember, flashed through my mind that I was giving up painting, and that all the pleasant times of my studio life and so forth were at an end for many months — perhaps for ever — for I might get bowled over and never come back. My heart beat wildly for a moment at the thought. But I was young and enthusiastic, the love of adventure, so characteristic a trait of my tem- perament, asserted itself, and I soon recovered my equanimity, for there was no time to lose, only ten days to make all my preparations for leaving England, giving up my studio, storing my furniture, etc., getting my kit together, and the hundred and one things that my long absence would necessitate. The next week was spent in feverish preparation, and I was at length glad when the time approached for my departure. The excitement of it all was so wearying. 134 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON At last the eventful day arrived, and on a typically gloomy November day I left for South Africa with the first detachment of the “ ist Mounted Rifles.” It may be of interest to add that of the unique regiment raised by Colonel Methuen for the Expedi- tion, two hundred were gentlemen volunteers who had served in the Militia, and who had competed for, and failed to obtain, commissions in the regular Army. Another three hundred were selected from the Volunteer Force, and from gentlemen who had unsuccessfully competed for admission to the Military College, Sandhurst, and about one hundred men of the Army Reserve. The pay for troopers was 4s. per day, with is. deferred pay— the horses and accoutrements being found by the Government. My experiences whilst serving as a trooper in Bechuanaland, interesting as they were, can scarcely be considered as coming within the scope of a narrative of “ One’s Bohemian Days in London,” so the year I was away must therefore form a hiatus in my life of that time. Suffice it to add that I was fortunate in going through the campaign without any serious mishap, and returned to England the following year all the better physically for my strenuous life out on the veldt. 135 CHAPTER XIII I return to England from South Africa — The call of the wild — Finding a new studio— 3 Blenheim Place — My cousin Harris — A sporting arrangement — Alone once more — The female element again — A pleasant adventure — My new friend — I restart painting — The demure Gaiety girl and the diaphanous drapery — Painting from the nude — Bad times — Living on the cheap — Sententious platitudes — The artists’ money-lender — Cycling in those days — The Army Cycling Corps — Our tricycle — Cycling Club costume — The “ Spider,” the “ Kangaroo” — Ludicrous adventure — The new dollar piece — Cycling in France — Le Portel — The “ Grosvenor ” and Sir Coutts Lindsay — “Varnishing Day ” at the Royal Academy — The “Private View” — London Hosts and Hostesses — Lady Seton — Social life — Card parties — Funny experience — Result of a foraging expedition — “When the moon,” etc., curious sequel to the sale of a picture — Keeley Halswelle and the Sketching Club. I FELT very much like a fish out of water for some time after my return to England, and I was almost wondering if I should ever be able to settle down again to the quiet humdrum I had been leading before I went away. When one has got accustomed to the free-and-easy camp life of the veldt, and the days spent in the saddle, with no cares or worries to trouble one, it may be imagined how difficult it is to return to the cramped quarters of a London studio. Although I had often been longing when out in South Africa for the day to come when I should find myself back in London, the recollection of the adventurous existence I had been living for the past year kept continually recurring to my memory, and at times I found myself wishing it would all come over again. Those dreary wastes, which had so 136 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON depressed one when wearily trekking across them, would now appear to my mind’s eye, as I recalled them, as a sort of boundless parkland, and I would have given anything to be across a horse again galloping towards the distant horizon of blue hills. The call of the wild had got hold of me, and has held me ever since. Settle down as I may, I still feel that indescribable yearning at times for the solitude of the plains. St John’s Wood seemed strangely small now, and every one I met appeared to me as though suffering from lack of fresh air, and I almost felt sorry for them having had to stay at home, as it were, midst bricks and mortar, whilst I had been seeing the world. However, my wanderings were over for the time, so it now meant my finding a new studio. I wished to remain in the old neighbourhood, as I had got accustomed to it, and had many friends round about. After only a few days’ search, I came across a place that suited me admirably at No. 3 Blenheim Place, quite close, therefore, to my old one. It was part of a double house, immediately facing the “ Eyre Arms,” with an entrance to itself, two rooms on the street level, and a large room on the first floor, which the landlord agreed to convert into a studio by putting in a large top light. The house itself was also “To Let,” and a cousin of mine “Leily” Harris, a very jolly fellow, with whom I was on a footing of the greatest friendship, decided to take it, so we started, as it were, en manage together. The house, I may mention, communicated with the studio through the back garden, which was of quite appreciable dimensions. This garden gave a sort of comparative isolation to us both, which was very useful, seeing we were bachelors. We therefore never attempted to intrude on each other’s privacy. If the back doors were closed it was understood we were “ engaged.” This sporting 137 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON arrangement answered admirably, for “Leily” was “one of the best,” and during the several years we lived together there was never a hitch or a wry word of any sort between us. It was with a peculiar sort of feeling of com- mencing all over again that I arranged my furniture in the studio, and unpacked my belongings. So much had happened to me since I had last seen them all a year ago, that it seemed almost strange to sit in front of a canvas and make a start at a picture, whilst particularly there was a sense of freedom which was almost impressive after my year of military subordination. Although I had made no fortune by my work in South Africa, I had come back with sufficient money to enable me if I so wished to devote all my time during the next few months to painting only. I had been looking forward to this moment with a joyous expectancy which the long period of “ rough- ing it” had accentuated. I recall how particularly delightful it was to be alone once more in a place of my own, for what had been to me the most trying part of my soldier life was the entire absence at any time of privacy, the constant and unavoidable association with com- panions who were not invariably congenial. Though one made good and lasting chums amongst one’s comrades, there were many unpleasant characters you would have gladly got away from, could it have been managed. It was this promiscuous association rather than the actual soldiering that made one so glad to get away from it. Apart, however, from this feeling of liberty that I now enjoyed, there was the knowledge that the female element would once more become an integrant part of one’s life, for whilst it is common knowledge that Venus and Mars have often united, such a combination is hardly possible when on “ active service.” Therefore for the past twelve months practically I had been willy-nilly 138 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON living the life of an ascetic, which, as a Bohemian of the Paris school, I feel constrained to confess is not at all in my line. Somewhat curiously I had a very pleasant adventure on the very night of my return to England. I had put up at lodgings I already knew of in St Ann’s Terrace, and she happened to live within a few yards of me. I cannot quite exactly remember how we became acquainted ; but if I remember rightly she was going to post a letter. I was finishing a pipe before going into bed. It was one of those rencontres dn hasard which frequently, and strangely enough, lead to lasting friendship, and so it turned out in this instance. One would scarcely have expected to make the acquaintance of a charming woman in a St John’s Wood street at 11.30 at night. One would be apt to be somewhat sceptical when she told you she was not what you took her for, especially when the acquaintanceship was made in so un- orthodox a manner. But I was in a particularly happy state of mind at the time, and when she told me she was a governess with a family in the neighbourhood, instead of smiling to myself at the old, old story as I should probably have thought it otherwise, I believed her at once, and not only did it turn out to be quite true, but we eventually became the closest of friends, and she sat to me quite a number of times. I may here mention a curious and interesting fact that some of my most successful and popular pictures were painted from “friends” I had met under similarly casual circumstances. The fact of my only having just got back from a long campaign seemed to interest her, and we strolled round the quiet neighbourhood until long after the hour when respectable folk are supposed to be in bed. There was a fascination to me in being once more with a delightful woman after months of rough camp life, that made me feel still more elated at having got through my twelve months’ experience 139 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON of soldiering safely and being back again, free to continue my own bent once more. It may be imagined with what eagerness I was looking forward to an early renewal of the pleasant times my studio life had hitherto procured me. It took some few days after I had moved in to get into the way of the place and to make it ship-shape ; and when I had done this, I felt that this was the most delightfully convenient place I had had so far, and as will be seen, it turned out to be the luckiest place also. It may perhaps appear strange that after a year’s campaigning when sketching only military subjects, I should on my return to painting at once revert to myold loves — shipping and the sea. But such was the case, and as soon as my studio was ready I made a start on an idea I had had in my mind before I went away. It represented the deck of one of the old Woolwich steamers, and was, of course, a composition with many figures. My newly - found friend, who was really very good-looking, managed to come and sit for me at times, and evinced an intelligent interest in the progress of the picture that conduced not a little to its ultimate success. I went several times down the river in order to get the local colouring and grouping accurately ; whilst for my models, I trusted to chance to find them, since it was necessary to have distinct types in a picture of this description. The average model is too self-conscious and professional, I therefore got any one I happened to come across to sit for me, if they would. One day, for instance, it was a lifeguardsman, on another occasion there was a labouring man with his tool bag, then an old work- house man I saw passing the studio one Sunday morning. I remember him in particular, because he was quite a curiosity in his way. He couldn’t make out what I wanted with him at first ; when he realised that I meant him no harm he became as talkative as a child, and was willing to come and sit for me 140 TUB DECK OF ONE OF THE OLD WOOLWICH STEAMERS . . “then an old workhouse man.” I GOT A FLOWER GIRL TO COME TO THE STUDIO MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON every day of the year had I wanted him. These sittings were red-letter days for him evidently. Then I got a flower girl to come to the studio. In fact this picture provided a good excuse for having all sorts and conditions of everyday folk to sit for me, and making character studies which were extremely inter- esting. I eventually exhibited this picture at the Paris Salon , and it was sent afterwards to Australia, where it was bought by one of the Art Galleries. In a comparatively short time, therefore, I quite dropped back into my old groove and found plenty of work to keep me busy, and although it was not highly remunerative, I managed somehow to make a living by it. It was, however, often highly entertaining as well as interesting to be able to paint exactly what you felt inclined to, and there was a certain compensa- tion even if it didn’t bring in a lot of money. I remember one little instance, which is, perhaps, worth relating in this connection. I had been look- ing out for a type of face I had in my mind for a subject, and I was introduced to a very pretty girl, who was, at the time, at the “ Gaiety,” and who not only had the face I wanted but apparently the figure also. She willingly agreed to sit for me, but waxed most indignant when she saw the sketch for the picture, as the subject was an “altogether” one, and she expressed herself very emphatically on the indecency of any girl sitting in that state. I somehow had an idea that she was not so demure as she wished me to think ; but I said nothing in reply to her tirade, as I thought there was a chance of getting her to alter her views, and so it turned out. She came and sat for me, and we gradually became friendly, and she got less and less prudish, or, rather, more and more natural, till one afternoon she sug- gested to me of her own accord that she would don a diaphanous drapery, if it would help me at all. Of course I fell in with her views, and the next time 141 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON she came she brought some soft material to drape herself in. “ The drapery,” which was merely a very thin sort of chiffon, was difficult to keep in place and kept slipping off, until at last there was really no excuse for her continuing to wear it at all as there was nothing further to hide, so I painted her as a nymph after all. It had taken her about a fortnight to alter her views. Now came the sequel, which was quite curious. Once she had overcome her scruples as to sitting for the nude, she actually seemed to enjoy being about the studio in puris naturalibus , and it ended by my often having to persuade her to don her attire when I had finished work. She even went so far, one day, as to express the opinion that “ clothes were a nuisance ” ; and I agreed with her that they were, when they disguised so beautiful a form as hers, but not otherwise. Perhaps, however, not the least amusing part of of it all was that she brought several girl friends of hers from the theatre to see the picture as it progressed, and one or two of them made no compli- ments about offering to sit for me also for a similar subject, if ever I wanted some one else with an equally good figure, so I could have had as many amateur models as I wished for on the strength of it. Painting from the nude, however, was a luxury which one could not always permit oneself, much as one would have liked to be always at it. One had to keep the main chance in view at all times, and that was whether the picture would sell, for buyers of such subjects are few and far between in England. Outside the studio one managed also to have amusements, for it was seldom you had dull times unless you happened to be hard up, which condi- tion of affairs happened now and again, for one’s expenses were seldom commensurate with one’s earnings. 142 By permission of the Photographic Co., the owners of the Copyright SO I PAINTED HER AS A NYMPH AFTER ALL.” I ONCE SHE HAD OVERCOME HER SCRUPLES.” From the original drawing in the Collection of M. E. de Rossi. * , MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON In looking back on these days, I am forced to the conclusion that one got used to the recurrence of bad times. It is said that eels get used to being skinned ; and, I suppose, artists get reconciled to what has always been considered inevitable in the most precarious of the professions. It is when things are not looking bright that Bohemianism in London is so utterly depressing, whereas in Paris, when one is dans la dfohe, there are many little places where one can live cheaply and without loss of dignity. In this vast metro- polis, if one is on one’s “uppers,” as it used to be picturesquely called, there are no haunts corre- sponding with what one could find in the Quartier Latin or Montmatre, where for a few sous you could get an ample meal, with a merry crowd of students as hard up as yourself, to keep you company. There were cheap places round about Lisson Grove and Edgware Road ; but the mere look of them was sufficient to decide one that a crust of bread and a piece of cheese in the privacy of the studio was preferable to rubbing shoulders with the unwashed loafers and casual labourers who frequented them. Most artists probably have had similar experiences at some time or other, for I fancy that snobbishness is not one of the weaknesses of the profession. I have often heard it advanced by people who love to air sententious platitudes on subjects they know little about, that the charm of art as against other professions is that an artist need never be hard up, he can always occupy himself even when he has no work on order. He can paint pictures instead of sitting idle. That is so, for, of course, a doctor cannot make cases any more than a solicitor would occupy his spare time, whilst waiting for clients, writing legal documents on spec. But whilst it is easy to manufacture pictures, they necessitate actual disbursement from the time one gets one’s canvas till the frame is ordered, and then there 143 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON is no certainty of effecting a sale and getting back one’s outlay. The speculative character of making a living by art is generally overlooked when it is considered sufficiently compensated for by the pleasurable and comparatively easy nature of the work. In the days of which I am writing there was a nice, kind, old gentleman, who conceived the quixotic idea of lending money to artists on their pictures or prospective work. You had to be introduced to him through a client, and if he had confidence in you or your talent he would generously help you out of your temporary embarrassment for a certain consideration, and many a lame dog did he help over the stile. He was the only one, I think, in London who would advance cash to artists on note of hand. He could scarcely have been considered a money-lender in the accepted sense of the term, for, although, the interest he charged often worked out at a very high rate, the risks he took were generally quite out of proportion to the security he was given, and his office was always full of pictures on which he had advanced money which he had little chance of ever getting back. Still it was evidently a profitable business, or he would not have carried it on, I suppose. I got introduced to him, of course, as indeed did most of us, for it was often very useful if you wanted to go away suddenly to be able to discount an account owing to you. He got to know his clients, and was never hard on those who kept their word with him, and I was almost sorry to learn that when he died he left quite a collection of unsaleable pictures, which, of course, represented errors of judgment, but I believe he left quite a respectable fortune also. In these days of depreciation of modern art such a business could not exist, for the average artist has no security to offer so far as his paintings are concerned, I fancy. 144 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON But let us revert to the lighter side of artistic Bohemianism which, after all, makes more interesting reading. The eternal feminine never monopolised the same attention in London artistic life as it did in the Quartier in Paris, where it is part and parcel of the life of the student, and although many of us, especially those who had studied abroad, had acquired a continental proclivity for always being on the look-out for pretty girls, we generally made our recreations coincide with British ideas. These recreations at this time took the form of bicycling, which was then in a state of transition. It makes me smile when I recall what grotesque looking objects could be seen about at that time. Quadricycles, tricycles, in all shapes and sizes, every one of which claimed to be more efficacious than the rest, some with huge wheels, others with small ones. The Army had just began to adopt them, and a cycling corps established, which had some machines constructed to carry as many as eight men. Eccentricity was the prevailing feature in all makes. I recollect a tricycle a friend and I used to ride, which had two large wheels on either side and a very small one at the back, and there were two sets of pedals which we both worked. I sat on a little seat in front, and my friend behind was responsible for the steering and the brake, and if he stopped the machine too suddenly, I was shot out of my seat like from a catapult, and would find myself sitting in the road. The tyres were, of course, solid, as pneumatics were not invented then, and one was always having trouble with them as they were fixed on the rim of the wheel with a sort of glue. The most ludicrous results would often ensue if, as would often happen, the rubber got warped or stretched or the glue would not hold. On one 145 K MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON occasion I remember we had to tear up a hand- kerchief into strips to tie the tyre on, with an effect that may be imagined — and we rode the whole day in this quaint fashion. Not the least curious feature of cycling in those days was the peculiar fact that most of the cycling clubs would adopt uniforms of weird designs. My cousin Harris, who rode a high machine, I remember, belonged to a club in which all the members were dressed in a sort of compromise between a military officer and a foreign postman, with black, short, heavily - braided tunic, tight-fitting knee - breeches, stockings and shoes, and a peak cap. Yet he fancied himself no end in this motley garb. In my particular set we were not so fastidious as to our get-up, in fact rather the other way about, and often looked veritable tramps on wheels in our scratch costumes. The “Spider” with its immense front wheel and little tiny back one was being gradually ousted by the small “ Safety ” or “ Kangaroo ” — a most grotesque looking object, something like a miniature tall machine, and which was the forerunner of the present bicycle. It was driven by a horizontal chain. Every one was going mad on them, and I, together with several of my friends, succumbed to the craze as they were far lighter than the tricycle, and many a pleasant week-end in the country did we have. We would set off with only the bare necessities in the shape of luggage and a parcel attached to the handle-bars, and make for the Coast. How peaceful the country roads were in those pre- motor days, when almost one’s only risk was getting run in by the police if you were caught “ scorching,” i.e. y going at a “ furious pace,” which, of course, could scarcely mean more than twelve miles an hour ! It seems almost inconceivable that so great a change could have come over the country in twenty-five years only. What would hardly be considered as incidents 146 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON nowadays were looked upon as “adventures” then. This was easily understood, as one seldom went any distance without a breakdown of some sort, for the machines were faultily constructed. If this happened at a distance from a town or village it usually meant a long and wearisome walk whilst trundling one’s crippled machine, and not infrequently losing one’s way into the bargain. I remember a ludicrous incident on one occasion of which I was the cause. A party of five of us had started for a trip to the East Coast one hot, summer day, intending to put up for the first night at a little place named Goldhanger. We had not got many miles from London when my “ Kangaroo ” began to give me trouble. In vain did we pull up and overhaul it, the trouble continued, until we had at last to stop, and the mechanical genius of our party took the chain off and eased it, and tried by every means to get the beastly thing to work properly — but to no purpose — so there was no help for it but to get along as well as I could and endeavour to reach our destination somehow. But the chain would not work, and I could scarcely get the wheels to move. Night came on and we were hardly making any progress ; I was gradually becoming exhausted. At last the chain became completely jammed and I could go no further, whilst to make matters worse, we had not the slightest idea where we were, and it was pitch dark. We found ourselves on an apparently new bridge over a railroad, the roadway was of soft rubble, so I placed my bicycle against the parapet and literally dropped with fatigue on the ground alongside it. My friends realised that there was nothing for it but to keep me company, and decided that the best thing to do was to remain where we were until daybreak, before attempting to find out where we were. There was no help for it. We should 147 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON have to go without supper and bed, so they made themselves as comfortable as possible on the soft ground. It was an unpleasant ending to the excursion, and we were all too annoyed to speak much. Our only consolation was that it was a beautifully warm night. Quarter of an hour or so passed, and we were dozing off when a church clock chimed out quite close by — only a short distance away. Up we jumped and went across the bridge towards it, when to our utter amaze- ment we found we were actually in a village, and not a hundred yards from an old - fashioned, comfortable looking inn. All was in darkness, for it was late, but it did not take long to arouse the landlord, and soon we were all ensconced in a cosy parlour with the pleasant prospect of supper and bed. It was, in- deed, an instance of “ All’s well that ends well,” and, as may be imagined, we laughed heartily over the curious adventure. The adventures of our cycling days would indeed almost make up a volume for themselves. In fact, when one started on a tour, it was almost with the idea of seeking them, for it was very delightful exploring wild parts of the country, and discovering, as it were, out-of-the-world villages. I recall one little incident which will convey some idea of the primitive conditions which still prevailed in outlying districts and within comparatively easy distance of London. It was shortly after the new coinage had been introduced. I forget where we were going, but anyhow we stopped to lunch at a wayside inn on a big road some fifty miles from town. On finishing our humble meal of bread and cheese, and pickles and shandygaff, one of the party who was paymaster tendered a brand new 4s. piece to the landlady, in payment. I well remember the look of indignation on her face. Holding it in 148 . ‘ HUNG IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY THE FOLLOWING YEAR.’ MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON the palm of her outstretched hand she exclaimed coarsely, “ What are you trying on ? ’Ere, wot’s this?” Our friend told her that it was one of the new dollar pieces ; but she wouldn’t listen to him. “ Don’t you come any of your larks on me,” she vociferated contemptuously. “ I want paying for what I sell ; I don’t want medals ! ” Of course it was no use arguing with her, so paid she had to be in coin of the realm she recognised. The advent of the motor has done away with all the rural simplicity that then existed. Of course one’s sketching materials were always indispensable adjuncts on these tours, for you could never tell when you would come across something that would tempt you to stop and work. I went over to France one summer with a par- ticular pal, and whilst riding round on our bicycles, we lighted on a delightfully quaint little fishing village named Le Portel, near Boulogne, a perfect Paradise for artists. We were so smitten with it that we remained there for weeks, and I painted several pictures in the open, so quiet was it, and returned there on several successive years. The quondam fishing village has now developed into quite a smart little bourgeois plage , and has long been abandoned by artists. Two of the pictures which I painted in Le Portel were hung in the Royal Academy the following year. This was the first time I had exhibited there, so I was very pleased, especially as one of them was six feet long. They were very w r ell placed, one being “on the line,” and, w r hat was of still more importance to me, for, after all, I was out for the shekels, was that I sold them both, one of my purchasers being Arthur Collins, at that time stage manager to Sir Augustus Harris at Drury Lane, then and ever since a good pal of mine, but whom I had not hitherto suspected of being a patron of Art. That particular bicycle tour brought me luck, 149 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON as another picture I had painted at the same time was “on the line” at the Grosvenor Gallery, and was also sold. At that time the “ Grosvenor ” was a very serious rival to the Academy, and many of the best known men exhibited there in preference to Burlington House, as the galleries were very spacious, and the pictures not crowded together. It was run by Sir Coutts Lindsay, and his idea was to encourage painters who showed an inclination to break away from the hide-bound traditions of mid - Victorian Art — and one exhibited by invitations from him only. For many years the Grosvenor Gallery Summer Exhibition was looked upon as of almost equal importance to that at the Royal Academy, and to be invited to exhibit there was a compliment eagerly sought after. During the exhibition, which was held in the height of the London season, Sir Coutts would give evening receptions which were chiefly remarkable, I recollect, for the weird artistic attire and plainness of the ladies present, whilst another feature was the invariable notice that met your eyes — “ Chablis and oysters downstairs.” “ Downstairs,” therefore, was usually the most crowded part of the reception. The strawberries and cream of the ordinary Royal Academy recep- tions paled into insignificance against Sir Coutts’ hospitality. “Varnishing Day” at the Academy was then, as it is now, a very tame affair compared with the “ Vernissage ” at the Paris Salon , which, as is well known, is practically the Private View as well, and one of the fashionable events of the year. In London the galleries at Burlington House on that day are entirely given up to the exhibitors, who are even at liberty to work on their pictures if they choose, and it is a very solemn and uninterest- ing scene as compared with that on the other side of the Channel. 150 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON The English artist is not a particularly cheerful individual as a rule, and on this occasion he gener- ally seems too much wrapped up in himself to be very communicative. Even if one’s picture is well placed, I know of few occasions more depressing than “Varnishing Day” at the Royal Academy. “ Private View,” to which the mere artists who have only painted the pictures, are never invited, is a purely social function, for which it is very difficult to get a card unless one happens to be a friend of an Academician, in the Smart Set, or a nouveau riche ; it does not therefore in any sense come within the range of Bohemianism. I say this advisedly, because I feel sure that it will be admitted that true Bohemianism and Smart Society cannot under any conceivable conditions go frankly hand in hand in London, far less indeed than in Paris, whilst the English bourgeois who has made a bit of money is often a terrible snob, and frequently more royalist than the King — the women folk especially so. I had not lived long in England on my return from France when I noticed this, and I have never seen reason to alter my opinion. Outward appearance and the style one lives in count for so much in London. The time-worn joke, “ It is not what you are but what you wear,” has indeed exceptional significance here, except in a certain very proscribed set — nowadays perhaps even more so than in the time of which I am writing. It was therefore, perhaps, all for the good of the artists that they did not receive invitations to the private view at the Royal Academy. They would have probably felt very out of it, even though in it. There were, however, several London hosts and hostesses who, without being in any sense Bohemian, yet took pleasure in having around them an artistic coterie , and at their receptions one met most of the young, rising celebrities of the day. Sir Bruce and 1 51 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON Lady Seton, for instance, were always “ At home ” on Sunday afternoons at Durham House, their delightful place in Chelsea. And one was certain to find there a distinguished and interesting crowd of people who had most of them accomplished something, or thought they had. As a friend of mine whom I used to meet there said to me once, it was somewhat disconcerting at times to be amongst such a lot of distinguished and clever people, and he always felt nervous about “opening his mouth in case he put his foot into it.” It really wasn’t quite so bad as all that, all the same, and Lady Seton was as witty as she was gracious. Of course, this social life was a great contrast to one’s unconventional studio existence, but it did one no harm to now and again get into a black coat and put on a top hat to pay visits on a Sunday afternoon. It made you feel quite a respectable member of society, even if you did have your best girl waiting for you at the corner of the next street when you came out. On Saturday evening during the winter months, we usually fixed up a mild game of poker, and went to different friends’ houses in turn. We only played for small stakes, and there was not much damage done, but it often meant a long sitting, though that didn’t matter much, as Sunday was always a day off, and unless you had some par- ticular work to get finished by Monday morning, you never got up early. Mentioning this reminds me of a rather funny experience. One Sunday I had been spending the evening with some friends when I suddenly recollected I had a drawing to get finished by nine o’clock the following morning, when they were sending from the office for it. It was already late, so there was no time to lose. I jumped up and made excuses for having to run away by explaining the reason. My host, a very good-natured fellow, wouldn’t 152 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON hear of my leaving until I had had supper. I could go away as soon as I wished afterwards. In vain did I protest that I must be off at once, otherwise the drawing would not be ready in time, and, as it was, I should have to sit up nearly all night to get it done. He would not hear of it. Then, as a last resort, I told him that supper always made me sleepy, and I hoped he would not insist on my having it. “ I know the very thing to keep you awake,” he replied heartily, “ a bit of cold pheasant and salad, a small bottle of ‘ The Boy/ something extra dry, and then a cup of strong black coffee and a liqueur of old brandy ; you will work like a Trojan, and thank me for my advice — you see if you don’t.” His genial hospitality was absolutely irresistible, and after a little further feeble resistance, during which I became weaker and weaker, I succumbed, and had a supper that I enjoyed immensely. Well, I got back to the studio, smoking a big cigar, and, sitting down in front of my drawing, started work. The next thing I remember was a startled exclama- tion from the charwoman : “ Lor, sir, you gave me quite a turn, seein’ you sittin’ there when I came in.” It was eight o’clock, and I had been fast asleep all night. The drawing was not ready by nine o’clock, and since then I have not been a believer in supper, even if followed by black coffee and old brandy, for keeping one awake, when one has work to do. But to revert to our Saturday night poker parties. I remember on one occasion we were playing at a friend’s house till well on into the small hours of the Sunday morning. Our host’s wife had provided a lot of sandwiches and bread and cheese — a sort of scratch supper which we had disposed of before mid- night. At 3 o’clock we were ravenous, and as we did not feel inclined to break up the party yet, our host said that perhaps we might find something to appease our hunger in the kitchen, but added that he 153 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON did not know his way about downstairs, and, of course, all the servants were in bed long ago. So down we all trooped on a foraging expedition, and to our joy we discovered in the larder some sausages and bacon and bread and butter, so with plates and knives and the frying pan we returned to the room where we were playing cards, cooked a succulent supper on the fire, and made an excellent impromptu meal, then went on with our game and separated about 4.30 A.M. Our host called on me on Monday morning and told me that he had had an awful shindy with his wife, and the whole household had been furious, as it appeared we had eaten up all the Sunday breakfast ! Taking it all in all, therefore, unless work was slack, one managed to put in a very pleasant time, for our tastes were not extravagant, and the tempta- tion to go down “West” of a night was not as it is now. To be able to afford a nice outing in the summer was the sum total of the ambition of most of us, I believe, and if one were lucky enough to sell a picture he had painted whilst away, the holiday appeared to have been still more delightful, and it often meant a jaunt somewhere at Christmas as well. I recollect one autumn I exhibited at the Society of British Artists a picture I painted during my summer outing. It was very well placed, and judging from the press notices attracted some attention. There would have been nothing worth mentioning about it had it not been for a somewhat curious sequel. Towards the end of the exhibition I received a letter from a distinguished baronet totally unknown to me, saying that he had taken a great fancy to the picture, and would like to present it to his wife on the anniversary of their wedding day. He went on to say he disliked bargaining with an artist, but the price I was ask- 154 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON ing for it — £125 — was more than he could afford at the moment; would I accept ^100? As it was getting near Christmas, and it meant having a good time in Paris, I accepted his offer, and in due course a cheque reached me. Now comes the funny part of an otherwise commonplace transaction. After the picture had been delivered, I received a very effusive note from Lady , saying how delighted she was with the picture, that she had always been a great admirer of my “ work generally ” and of “ When the Moon is Up, yet it is not Night” in particular. Delighted as I was to receive this flattering letter, there was, I must admit, a fly in the ointment. I had never painted a picture entitled “When the Moon is Up,” etc. Romantic though I naturally am, I regret my fancy had never attained such heights. How- ever, after the most earnest deliberation I decided that I had no moral right to shatter the good lady’s illusion, so in my very polite reply, whilst thanking her for her kind opinion of my work, I avoided all reference to her favourite picture. The following day she wrote again, this time asking if she might visit my studio with her sister, who was also a great admirer of “ When the Moon,” etc. I had no alternative but to fix a day, in fear and trembling, but, to my inexpressible relief, at the last moment I received a wire postponing her call. Although many moons have arisen since then, I have heard nothing further of Lady . During the summer months we would often make short sketching excursions into the country not far from London, and there were several Sketch Clubs formed solely for this purpose by different groups of men. It was more often than not merely a good excuse for a pleasant afternoon’s outing, as the jaunts always ended up with a little dinner at some local hostelry. I recall a laughable story in connection with one 155 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON of these excursions. The club in question consisted of a very select coterie of distinguished landscape painters, amongst them being Keely Halswelle, whose pictures, it will be remembered, were remarkable for their delightful sky effects, dappled grey clouds especially. On this particular chance, the party had gone to Goring-on-Thames. It was a blazing hot afternoon in midsummer, and on reaching their destination the friends separated, as was their wont, arranging to meet for dinner in the evening at a certain well-known inn. It was the custom of the club to hold a sort of impromptu exhibition, before sitting down to dinner, of the sketches done during the afternoon. Well, on this occasion, when they met as arranged, Keely Halswelle was somewhat late in putting in an appearance. In the meantime every one was talking about the intense glare of the sun and the heat, which had been terrific all day. The sketches were arranged round the room, and were being criticised and admired when Halswelle came in with his canvas, which represented a beautiful reach of the river painted in his inimitable style ; but to the amazement of every one it had one of his well-known cloud effects, very artistic of course, but there had not been the sign of a cloud in the sky all the afternoon, so he was asked jokingly to explain the phenomenon. To the astonishment of every one he took it quite seriously, and calmly said that he knew there had been no clouds round about there, but he had taken a boat and gone further up the river. CHAPTER XIV Aventures in St John’s Wood — A pleasant meeting at Marl- borough Road Station — My welcome visitor — Curious incident — A charming friendship — The end of the romance — An unexpected call — Painters idealising their models — “ Love’s Golden Dream ” — My search for an ideal — The stage door of Her Majesty’s Theatre —The understudy — I paint the picture — Strange finale — I am introduced to my ideal — The “material” as against the “ideal” — The nun at the fancy dress ball — She comes to the studio — The story of the confessional. There was a good deal of fun to be had in St John’s Wood in those days, if you kept your eyes open, but the aventures were usually somewhat tame when compared with what one had in Paris, as I have already pointed out. Still, they were often the more delightful because of this, and there was frequently a touch of mystery and romance which gave them additional charm. I don’t suppose I was more fortunate than other young men, or that my par- ticular experiences in this respect present any distinct novelty ; but at any rate there were a few exceptional incidents that somehow I have always remembered. One in particular, which I will relate, started in as singular a manner as it eventually ended. I was standing one afternoon outside Marlboro’ Road Station talking to a friend, when an exception- ally pretty and smart girl passed us and went into the booking office. As she did so I caught her eye, and she gave me, as I thought, a glance which sent my impressionable heart into my mouth. My friend noticed it, and remarked jocularly what a lucky fellow I was. 157 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON It did not take me an instant to make up my mind. “ It’s some one I know,” I remarked non- chalantly, without heeding his chaff. “ I must have a chat with her.” Hurrying into the station I joined her as she was taking her ticket. Raising my hat, I held out my hand as though I knew her — she gave a quick look at me, then said, “ I am so sorry but I have taken you for some one else. I thought I knew you.” “ I feel flattered at the mistake,” I replied banteringly, “ for I feel sure he must be very nice, but it is easily rectified. Every friendship must have a commencement ; this is where we start.” She gave a little laugh and said, “Well, I must hurry off, for I have a train to catch at Paddington, and shall miss it if I stop now. Please let me go.” “ But I must see you again,” I replied desperately, for she was ever so much prettier than I had at first thought, and one didn’t meet anything like that as a rule by accident. An idea occurred to me. “You have just got the face I want for a picture I’m painting,” I said ; “ do please make an appointment, and let me know where I can write you.” I could see she was really on tenterhooks to get away. “No, I can’t do that. I live with my people, and they are very strict. We are sure to meet again some day, so good-bye now, I really must go.” But I was not to be put off so easily. She was handing her ticket to be clipped, and just about to pass through the barrier ; another instant she would have gone. “ If I give you my address,” I said, “will you come and see me one day? Do, please.” My persistence seemed to amuse and interest her. “Well, give me the address of your studio quickly, and I will think it over,” she replied. There was no time to lose. I felt in my pocket for an envelope, but I hadn’t got one ; luckily I had a pencil handy, an unusual thing for an artist, but not a piece of paper to write on. She had a book covered with brown paper under her arm. To seize 158 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON it and to scrawl my name and address on it was the work of an instant. A hurried good-bye and she had disappeared. “You don’t lose much time, old man,” said my friend, as I rejoined him. He had evidently realised that this was the first occasion on which I had met the lady, and was perhaps a bit annoyed he had let me have it all my own way. For the next few days her face haunted me; I could not get it out of my mind, and the recollection of our hasty chat. What a delightful girl she was, and what a bit of luck it would be if I ever saw her again, and we should become great friends ! I had not the slightest clue as to her name or even where she lived. How stupid of me it was not to have a notebook handy, then I could have got her name and an address to write to. I determined never to go out again without one in my pocket. In the meantime, for several days I wandered round Marlboro’ Road Station of an afternoon, about the time that I had met her, on the off-chance of seeing her again, but to no purpose. One can’t bring about accidental meetings. Weeks passed, and time with its usual callousness had gradually obliterated her image, and, as may be imagined, other things gradually occupied my attention, till at last, I must confess, I completely forgot the episode. One afternoon about tea-time I was alone in the studio when there came a welcome ring at the bell. On opening the door I found that my visitor was a very pretty and smartly - dressed girl. I didn’t know her, but her face seemed somewhat familiar to me. A model, I thought. “Is Mr Price in ? ” she asked. “Yes, he is,” I said, without hesitation. “ Please walk up into the studio.” When we were there I turned round and said, “ I am Mr Price. What can I do for you?” She stared at me for an instant with a perplexed 159 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON expression on her face, and asked me in a surprised and aggrieved tone, “Don’t you remember me?” I looked at her hard, but was quite at a loss to * remember where I had seen her before. “ Please forgive me,” I replied, “if I appear rude, but I’ve a memory like a sieve, and it is continually playing me these silly tricks. I shall forget my own name some day ! Please tell me where we have met before.” “ Only fancy your forgetting me, when you said you wanted me to sit for you ! ” she said, in a surprised tone. I stood looking at her feeling very uncomfortable, and trying to wake up my memory, but in vain. Although I seemed to know her, I had not the faintest recollection who she was. Then she opened the purse she was carrying and produced a small piece of brown paper, and handed it to me, saying with a laugh, “ Perhaps that will remind you.” I looked at it, and, to my surprise, I saw written on it my name and address in my own hand- writing. Then, with a flash, it all came back to me. This was the girl I had met at Marlboro’ Road Station, and been so smitten with a couple of months before, and the piece of paper was from the cover of the book she was carrying that afternoon when I met her. I don’t think I have ever felt so lack- ing in inventive faculty as I did just at the moment ; then a happy thought to treat it as a joke came to my rescue, and I burst out laughing at my failure to find a plausible excuse for my lapse of memory. To my relief she entered into the spirit of it, and I was forgiven, so we had tea together with not a ring of the bell to disturb us, and she told me all about herself, and why she had not come to see me before. She lived at home not very far from London, but too far to get up to town as often as she would like. It was not always easy for her to find an excuse to get away, as her father was an invalid, 160 V MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON and she had to look after him ; but she had a school friend who lived near Avenue Road, and she came to see her occasionally, so if I really wanted to paint her she would be able to manage to see me now and then. She knew it was very wrong to come to my studio alone, but she was very dull at home, and she loved anything in the way of an adventure ; that was why she had kept my address, as she had never been to a studio before. So she prattled on in an ingenuous style, which was as delightful as it was fascinating, and I felt it was indeed a bit of luck my having been in and alone when she came. The time slipped away on wings, as it always does when one is young or old. We seemed to have had such a lot to talk about that it had passed unnoticed, so when she suddenly discovered how late it was, I felt as though she had only been with me a few minutes instead of nearly three hours. She had to hurry away, and I went with her to the station, and this time when we parted it was arranged that she should come and see me again during the week, when I could commence the picture. One of the most charming little friendships I ever made started thus in this unconventional manner, and lasted quite a long time. Though we could only see each other occasionally, I really believe there was as much depth in it as if we had been able to be continually together. Such an aventure in Paris would have ended in a liaison, with all its sordid worries and quarrels, but here in England it was quite different. I painted her in quite a large picture — a romantic subject as was only befitting under the circumstances, an officer bringing home his invalid young wife from India. She looked very beautiful lying back in a deck chair with her fair hair against the pillows. The particular charm of it all was, I remember, the interest she took in the picture from the very 161 L MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON start, and it was due to this that the picture turned out a success, for it was eventually published and became a well-known print at the time. There is, unfortunately, an ending to all happy times, and sooner or later my rhapsody had to finish — that I realised. My only hope was that it was not to be for a long while, but I could hardly expect to monopolise so sweet and pretty a girl for ever ; there must be some sort of dinomammL She was aware that I was a confirmed bachelor, for I had felt bound to hint as much at the com- mencement of our friendship. The picture finished, there was hardly an excuse for so many visits to the studio, and I could not fail to notice that they were falling off, so at last I made some remark to her about her getting tired of her artist pal. She said that I knew very well that that was not the case, but the truth was her people had been getting suspicious of her object in coming so often to town, and she found it was more and more difficult to find excuses to get away. Then there was an awkward pause. I felt something unlooked for was coming. “ Why don't you come down to my home and let me introduce you to father ? ” she said almost abruptly, as though a sudden thought had struck her. I was naturally taken back by the proposition, though I guessed immediately what was in her mind. Taking her by the hand I told her as gently as possible that it was better not for both of us, and she understood. The rest of the after- noon was somewhat quiet, as may be imagined. We had tea in the studio as usual, but we both of us felt constrained, and when we parted at the station, I had an intuition that this was the end, and so it turned out ! She had made an appoint- ment to come and spend a day with me shortly afterwards, but at the last moment I received a wire — “Sorry, can’t get away — will write soon." 162 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON I had had the feeling that she would not come, and it was almost word for word what I had expected. I felt a sensation of tightness in my throat as I read it, for we had indeed spent some lovely times together, and I felt I should not easily find another pal like her. I recollect that almost instinctively I turned the easel on which was the picture I painted from her to the wall. The eyes seemed to open and look at me reproachfully ! I heard no more from her until a month or so later, when I received a letter in the familiar writing. My heart leaped into my mouth, for somehow I was delighted to get it. I had been longing that she would write, but its contents gave me a bit of a shock. “ I have some big news to tell you,” she wrote, “ I am engaged to be married. He is much older than I, and I am not sure whether I am in love with him, but my people think it is a very good match for me, so I suppose I shall get used to him in time and settle down to humdrum married life,” and she concluded by wishing me all good luck. There was a touch of sadness pervading it that made me feel a pang of regret. I sat for some time with the letter in my hand, the events of the last six months racing through my mind, from the day of our first meeting till now, and I could not help thinking how differently it had ended to what it would have been in Paris, and had she been a French girl. It was indeed better as it had turned out, though it had been a bit of a wrench breaking it all off. Some weeks after I received a little box with a piece of wedding cake and a small envelope with a card in it, printed in silver, to tell me of the wedding. About six months afterwards, I was working by myself in the studio after lunch, when there was a ring at the bell, and to my intense astonishment 163 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON she was at the door. I was so taken aback that I hardly knew what to say. When I recovered my self-possession, I could only ejaculate, “ Fancy seeing you again ! ” “I thought I would take you by sur- prise,” she replied gaily, “ and I am so glad to have caught you in. Aren’t you pleased to see me ? ” " Of course I am,” I answered, although I felt I was a bit abrupt. Somehow she seemed so different. She was still as pretty as ever, but she was not the same fascinating girl who had sat for me. I could never have believed that a few months of married life could have altered any one so much ! There was a false, light-hearted manner about her, which was not in the least like her old self. “Are you alone, and may I come in?” she con- tinued. “Yes, certainly,” 1 said, immediately, though I must confess her visit gave me no pleasure. The recollection of a certain extremely unpleasant ex- perience with a married woman, which I have already narrated, flashed through my mind. “Nothing much changed in the dear old place,” she exclaimed, as she dropped into a chair and looked round. “ I am so glad to be back in it again and see you. My husband has gone away for a few days, so I have come to spend a nice long afternoon and evening with you, and I’ll make tea for you in the studio just as I used to, and then we can have a nice little dinner somewhere, and you can put me in the train and send me home again.” I had, by this time, recovered my self-possession, which for a moment had deserted me. “ Sorry, Maisie, but it can’t be done.” “ Can’t be done ! ” she exclaimed, “why not, Jules? Are you so hard up and can’t afford it?” “No, not exactly,” I replied. “ Oh, I see,” she said, “ the programme’s all right, but it happens you have already arranged it with some one else — some other woman?” I said nothing. 164 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON There was a painful little droop at the comer of her pretty mouth, then she added reproachfully, “O Jules, how could you? Well, I suppose it was too much to expect you to remain faithful to me all your life, and after I got married.” I noticed a tear tremble in her eye, then roll down her cheek. There was a tense pause, then as with a sudden resolve, she got up from her chair, and, holding out her hand, she said very softly, “Good-bye, Jules,” and went down the stairs and out, whilst I stood there, I recollect, not knowing what I ought to do under the circumstances. After she was gone, on turning it over in my mind, I came to the con- clusion it was all for the best One hears a lot about artists idealising their models, and there is undoubtedly a good deal of truth in it, for the charm of the successful picture lies, not so much in a close adherence to nature, as in the individualisation the painter puts into his work. It is this that constitutes the difference between a life-like portrait and a good picture ; in the picture it is the individuality of the painter, in the portrait that of the sitter. I can recollect how this idea was first impressed on me. When I was studying in Paris, I had occasion one day to visit the studio of my master Gerome, and I found him at work from a model posing in front of him. I was immediately struck with the subtle difference there was between the painting and the original. That he could have made an exact likeness was obvious, but then it would have been merely a portrait, whereas what he had produced was an idealised painting of his model, which evidently embodied his conception of what he wanted. The well - known axiom that you cannot make bricks without straw, almost applies to painting from the life. One cannot eliminate the model, 165 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON but the difficulty most artists have to contend with lies in finding one that approaches nearest to the realisation of their ideal. I had a very curious experience which illustrates this during my life at St John’s Wood. I had an idea for a picture which was suggested by a song that was very popular at the time, “ Love’s Golden Dream,” but in order to paint it, I had to find just the type of face I had in my mind, as otherwise it would have been very commonplace. For many weeks I was trying to find my “ ideal,” but in vain, and I had almost given up the idea of ever coming across it, when one night I was at Her Majesty’s Theatre, where a pantomime was being played, when there suddenly appeared on the stage the very embodiment of my “ ideal ” for the picture. She was one of the most lovely women I had ever seen. She was young, and had the most wonderful wavy fair hair imaginable. I could not take my eyes off her, and as soon as the piece was over I tried all I could to find some one who could give me an introduction, but in those days I had no acquaintances connected with theatre-land, so it was a very difficult matter, and I soon realised that I should have to take my chance of getting to know her with a formal presentation. I had serious thoughts of sending her a letter, but I felt, young and unknown artist as I then was, it was better not, so decided not to risk it until I had exhausted all other means of getting to know her. From that moment I haunted the stage-door at night after the piece was over, in the hope that she might perchance come out alone one day, and give me the chance of speaking to her. On several occasions I caught a glimpse of her, but she was always accompanied, and I could not even manage to catch her eye. Little did she realise how ardent an admirer was lurking in the crowd round the stage-door. 1 66 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON At last, on one occasion, I saw her coming out alone. I pushed forward with the senseless idea that I might be able to get close enough to be able to tell her how anxious I was to paint her, but she was not alone for more than a moment, and I saw her drive off in a dainty coupe with some favoured admirer. I stood watching the carriage disappear and turned round to make my way home, when I knocked up against a girl who had just left the doorway. I was going to apologise, when, on look- ing at her, my heart leaped into my mouth, for she was the very replica of my “ideal.” I uttered such an involuntary exclamation of amazement that she gave me quite a startled look, and our eyes met. That look was in itself suffi- cient introduction, so I raised my hat and apologised for speaking to her, then straight away told her what had caused me to express such audible surprise. She listened with amused interest to what I told her, then to my astonishment she informed me she was the “understudy” of the lady in question, and laugh- ingly asked me if she wouldn’t do as well as her for the picture. Nothing could have been more fortunate. I was indeed in luck’s way, so I jumped at her suggestion, and she said that if I would give her my address she would come and see me the next day ; then I could decide if she were sufficiently like my ideal for the wonderful picture I had in my mind. She lived in the opposite direction to me. She was, so she informed me, only quite a simple girl, without ex- travagant notions, so she went home by ’bus. The next day, true to her promise, she turned up at the studio, and in the bright light of day she looked even prettier than I had thought her the previous evening. It is a severe test of beauty to place it facing a big skylight, and a girl has to be very young and have a splendid complexion to stand it successfully. 167 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON I remember her laughingly waiting the result of my critical scrutiny. “Will I do?” she asked with mock seriousness, and I told her that if she would sit for the picture, I felt sure I should make a success of it. Well, she consented, and put her heart and soul into it. I never had a better or more patient model, and if the picture had not turned out trumps it was through no fault of hers. But curiously enough the whole time I was painting her, though she was just the type I had been looking for, I still had in my mind the image of the other girl whose understudy she was, and strange as it may appear, actually painted the other girl’s face from the girl who was sitting for me. This sounds somewhat Irish, but I hope I make myself understood, for this is essential, as will be seen by the curious denouement of the incident. All went without a hitch. The picture was bought by a West-End picture dealer, who had it reproduced in facsimile, and it eventually was to be seen in most of the print-sellers’ windows. Now comes the curious finale. Some months later I was at a public dance — I forget where now — and was standing by the door with a journalist friend watch- ing the people come in, when my friend remarked, “ What a lovely woman ! ” and, suddenly, who should enter with all the stately grace of a queen of beauty, but my “ ideal ” for the picture ! I turned to my com- panion and somewhat excitedly asked whether he knew who she was. “ Are you already smitten ? ” he asked with a laugh. “ No, not exactly,” I answered, “ but curious to relate I painted one of my most successful pictures from her, and she doesn’t know it.” “ Doesn’t know it ! ” he ejaculated, and then I told him all about the incident It tickled his journalistic fancy immensely, and he said it was the strangest thing he had heard for a long time, and as a proof of this the following week, I6S MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON to my amusement, he related the whole story in a paper he was connected with. Two days later I received a letter from some one who was unknown to me, written from a very smart address. In it the writer informed me that he had read with much interest the story of my picture, as the lady in question was a particular friend of his, and he went on to say that the episode interested her immensely, and that if I were still anxious to make her acquaintance he would have much pleasure in introducing her to me, if I would call the following afternoon and take tea with them. I had had many experiences of the accuracy of the adage that “Truth is often stranger than fiction,” but this was, indeed, the strangest adventure of its kind I had ever yet had. Of course I accepted the invitation, and it was not without a certain amount of excitement that I was ushered into one of the daintiest little drawing - rooms imaginable, where I was received in the most genial and unreserved fashion by the writer of the letter, a fine, soldierly-looking man. An instant after, the door opened, and in walked my “ ideal,” and I was presented as the artist of the picture. She was very merry, and made me feel quite at my ease. As we were having tea I had the opportunity for taking a good look at her. The exquisitely furnished drawing - room made, as it were, a particularly appropriate set - off for her wonderful beauty, but somehow on a closer inspection I began to find flaws in my “ ideal.” Perhaps it was that I had succeeded in accomplishing what I had intended, and was no longer seeking an “ ideal.” It is always the unobtain- able that excites the imagination, and now that I had obtained my desire I was disappointed with it. I found myself mentally comparing this smartly apparelled, up-to-date actress with the simple girl who had sat for my picture, and I confessed to 169 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON myself that in my mind my model came out best, because she was decidedly younger and fresher. Still it was quite remarkable the likeness between the two, the hair and complexion particularly. We naturally had a long chat over the incident, and I told her of my stage-door experiences, which made her laugh heartily. Then her friend remarked that she ought to sit for me for a real portrait, and she willingly agreed. So it was settled that I should start on it at once, and it was arranged that she should come to the studio for the purpose. For several weeks, therefore, I had my quondam ideal to myself in the studio, but it was only with much difficulty that I succeeded in finishing the portrait, as she was not a patient model. I was not long in realising that if she had sat for my picture I should not have made it the success that I did. She was certainly a very’ lovely creature, and de- lightful company, but she was far too “ material ” to personate even on canvas a subject so ideal as “ Love’s Golden Dream,” and I gradually found my’self thinking more and more of her understudy, and congratulated my’self on my luck in having met her. All of which went to prove to me that one’s “ ideal ” is only’ what you picture to yourself in your mind, and it is perhaps fortunate that one so seldom comes across it in reality. Whilst on the subject I recall another experience, which, however, is quite the reverse of romantic. I was introduced to a very pretty girl at a fancy dress ball. She was in a nun’s costume, and had such expressive eyes, and altogether looked so exactly the part, that it occurred to me that she was the very ideal for a picture of a religieuse. I asked her if she would come and sit to me for a picture in the costume. The idea seemed to please her immensely, and she consented, and came to the studio with the dress. In order not to destroy the illusion, and also as I thought to convince her I was serious, I suggested 170 ■ MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON her going into the privacy of my bedroom to change into the costume. She said it didn't matter, bet I insisted, for I felt that with a religious subject there must be no hints at levity. When she returned to the studio she looked so demure and innocent that you would have thought that butter wouldn't melt in her pretty mouth. I started making sketches in various poses prior to deciding how to paint her. and whilst doing so was chatting with her on ecclesiastical matters- as hearted the dress she was wearing. Whilst on the subject of religion I learned that she was a Roman Catholic, which struck me as particularly fortunate, as it accentuated, as it were, the illusion of her being a novice, so I said that I supposed she went to Mass regularly. * Go to Mass ! ” she repeated with a hearty' laugh, which seemed strangely incongruous, * I haven't been there for quite ten years, and my sister was only saying the other day that if ever I went to cocfessioc new the priest would have to take brandy after I had finished I” As may be imagined I did not feel inclined to paint her as a rdxgieust after that little avowal, so I postponed that picture and mace a black and white drawing of her as a ballet girl instead, in a costume and tights I happened to have. She looked quite as piquant in it, and. as it rumed out, it was far more appropriate 171 CHAPTER XV The “Grove of the Evangelists” — The “fastest” neighbourhood in London — Mixture of the reputable and disreputable in the Wood — The two classes of “gay” women — Streets of particularly ill- fame — Hanover Gardens — Wilton Street — A famous house of assignation — Extraordinary state of affairs — The “fast” lodging- houses — Money the fetish always — Extortionate prices — St John’s Wood “pubs” as compared with Montmartre cafis — Rural quietude of certain streets — Sequestered gardens — Secluded villas — The hansom “ cabbies ” — Fancy boys — “ Bruisers ” — The “Judas” — The “best boy” — Signals to the “best boy” — The stamp paper — Beethoven’s symphony — Luxury and sensuality — A masterpiece of voluptuousness — All sorts and conditions of tenants — An awkward embroglio — Liaisons — “Kept women” — Sordid arrangements — Calf love — Amusing incident — Story of a rich Frenchman and his mistress — The flashy, fair-haired houris of then — The “flapper” of to-day — Sunday tea parties — Drunken- ness amongst women. St John’s Wood, in the days of which I am writing, was facetiously designated the “Grove of the Evangelists” by the man about town, and certain streets in it had a very unsavoury reputa- tion ; as a matter of fact it was popularly con- sidered the “ fastest ” neighbourhood in London, and supposed to be inhabitated principally by theatre people, artists, and prostitutes. The character of the whole district is completely changed now, owing to two causes, firstly, the advent of the Great Central Railway, and secondly, the modern fashion adopted by the women of living in flats. The railway has entirely obliterated streets that in my young days were practically in the possession of loose women. They were fairly long thorough- fares then, but are merely names now, and quite 172 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON non-existent, whilst with others that were notorious five-and-twenty years ago, and still remain, their character is so altered that they are respectable roads to-day. As I have said, it was a curious anomaly, the mixture of the reputable and disreputable in St John’s Wood, and it was hard to explain. The fact, however, was indisputable, and to me, was always somewhat of a mystery. At an hour when all the good folk had long been at home and in bed, the echoes of the quiet neighbourhood would be awakened by the clatter of hansom cabs bringing these ladies of pleasure from their West End haunts, more often than not shouting and singing. Curiously enough, although certain of the streets were inhabited almost entirely by this class of woman, one would hardly have guessed the character of their houses from their prosperous, middle-class appearance outside. Had one not known of the reputation of the neighbourhood, there was little to draw one’s attention to it beyond seeing smartly dressed women driving down West at night, alone, and returning, usually accompanied, in the small hours of the morning. Tl^ere were two classes of gay women, the fortunate ones who were generally living under the protection of a well-to-do admirer, and who had dainty little detached villas in secluded gardens, and the less fortunate, who only occupied lodgings, and made their living from day to day on the streets of the West End. It was seldom one saw any of them about during the day time, so in reality there was little to offend the eye of the respectable inhabitants. Occasionally on a fine afternoon, well turned - out dog - carts, driven by flashy - looking women, and generally accompanied by very good-looking grooms, would dash past, which would cause people, if the driver were particularly attractive, to turn round and smile with a world of meaning ; but, as a rule, 173 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON no one took much notice of the goings-on of the demi-mondaines ; it was sufficient to know they lived there, and unless something drew special attention to them, they were unnoticed. When I was living in the Wood, there were several streets of particularly ill-fame : Park Road, Lodge Road, Alpha Road, Omega Place, Lome Gardens, and North and South Bank — which were so named by reason of their situation on either side of the Canal — Wellington Road, Elm Tree Road, and many others. Apart from the streets above named there were two which bore so terrible a character, even for St John’s Wood, that they require special reference — Hanover Gardens, which had been re-named Lome Gardens, and has now practically ceased to exist, and Wilton Street, which was also re-christened. It was said in those days that there had never been anything in London to equal them for down- right iniquity, and of Wilton Street in particular, that it was “the limit.” I can well remember my impression on first passing through it, and how in my mind I contrasted it with the very lowest quarters in Paris, and was forced to the conclusion that the latter had nothing to teach London in this respect. In the summer evenings one saw women of the most degraded kind, young and old, and in every Kind and stage of outrageous attire, sitting on the balconies or doorsteps, or hanging out of the windows of the three-storied houses, leering at the male passers-by, in the very sight of innocent children playing about on the pavement and in the roadway. Not the least curious feature was the way in which the authorities for many years apparently winked at this state of affairs, which was positively a dis- grace to what ought to have been a fine residential neighbourhood. In North Bank there was quite a famous house of assignation kept by a Madam J . 174 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON It was most luxuriously furnished, and it was said she had most of the best-looking girls in the town on her books, and all the “biggest swells” used to go there. Streets, which have now become quite respectable, at that time were entirely given up to harlotry of the most brazen type. As an instance of the most extraordinary state of affairs existing, I may mention that I have myself seen in broad daylight two women stripped to the waist fighting in a front garden in South Bank, with a crowd of children looking on. It is probably no exaggeration to assert that there was only a sprinkling of respectable houses in any parts of these roads in those days. The wonder was that there were any at all ; yet in one or two of them there were distinguished writers and others who lived cheek by jowl with the lowest characters, as, for instance, Wilson Barrett, and Beatty Kingston, in North Bank, Henry Herman, the author of “The Silver King,” in Alpha Road, and many others whose names I cannot recall at the moment. The lodging-houses were usually run by oldish women, who had been at the game themselves, and who, when pass/es, in their turn, started fleecing the younger generation, as they themselves had been fleeced in their time. The most fantastic prices were often extorted from women for apartments and board, anything, in fact, they might be thought able to pay, and woe betide any girl who was behindhand with her rent, especially if she showed signs of not attending to her “ business,” and often came home at night alone. The hags who were their landladies seldom had much compassion on them. Money was the fetish always — no money, no anything. Many of the women had bullies living with them, and one was continually hearing tales of blackmail and extortion. Drinks of the vilest description were sold in all the houses, but at prices that make one smile to think of — 5s. for a 175 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON brandy or whisky and soda ; two drinks, one for the man and one for the woman, always came to ios. A bottle of so-called “champagne,” fi. Food, in the shape of supper, was never to be had unless the landlady happened to have a bit of cold meat in the house, or you brought in something with you, which, of course, they didn’t object to because it meant more drinks with it. One was reminded of the unsavoury streets in certain districts in Paris where the under - world congregates, with the exception that there were no cafes or brasseries to liven up this quarter. The various large public - house private bars were fre- quented by women, but there was nothing of a light- hearted character to offer attraction to the usual casual customer ; whereas in Montmartre, even the lowest of the cafes presented some fascination to the student of life in its various aspects. These “ pubs,” however lavishly decorated and brilliantly lighted, were nothing but low drinking resorts after all, and the drunken women one saw in them made them appear still more repulsive. St John’s Wood has indeed a lot to be thankful for to the Great Central Railway, although it may have depreciated certain parts of it from the landlord’s point of view. It is a far cry from the days when, as the old “ chestnut ” had it, a “ masher ” of the period jumped into a hansom and told the man to drive him to the Bank, to be met with the query, “ North or South, sir ? ” Curiously enough there was a certain air of mystery about some of the more secluded roads, as, for instance, Elm Tree Road, which presented almost a rural aspect, more especially in the summer time. The fine old trees and the high walls which surrounded the sequestered gardens combined to impart an impression of quietude and charm one would hardly have expected in so notorious a neighbourhood. 176 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON All the houses being built in the villa style, which was so distinct a characteristic of suburban architecture in the early days, and surrounded by quite picturesque gardens, offered, therefore, a much desired privacy, which it was difficult to find else- where or in more public streets. I have often thought if these quaint little houses could speak, what stories most of them would have to relate. I am, of course, only referring now to a curious phase in the life of St John’s Wood in those days. Elm Tree Road was one of the smartest and the best frequented in the neighbourhood, and the women who lived there were generally more prosperous and less disorderly than their sisters in the other roads I have mentioned. Several nice people, and some well-known artists, as I have said, had studios here, and that, I thought, gave a certain tone to the road ; but this was only a thin veneer of respectability, for early in the evening and late at night the many hansoms and smart broughams going to the various houses would rudely dispel the feeling of rural quietude and remind one that gilded vice had its abode there. The hansom cabbies must have had good times from all accounts, for they would frequently be kept waiting all night, as was well known, and these men could have told some curious stories of the goings-on of the swells and the smart demi-mondaines . It was often hinted that several of the dapper drivers of the best turned-out cabs were really the “ fancy-boys ” of the ladies they drove down West in the day or to Richmond on Sundays, and, judging from appearance, there was probably a good deal of truth in it, as they could scarcely manage to dress themselves as they did, with their wonderfully shiny hats and smart gloves, patent boots, flower in button- hole, on their legitimate earnings. They were often also “ bruisers ” as well, if one could believe the stories one was continually hearing 1 77 M MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON of their goings-on, and woe betide the masher who tried to bilk a girl, or who did not shell out what they thought he ought to pay in the shape of fare. In the ill-lighted, deserted streets, late at night, he had a bad time of it if he could not take care of himself, though it sometimes happened that the cabby found he had caught a tartar. In these days of taxis and electric light, it is hardly con- ceivable what was possible when I lived in the Wood, and although probably a good deal of the same sort of thing still exists, though in another form, there is no doubt the entire class of men is different now. The doors in the garden walls of the villas were always jealously closed, and in many of them there was a small “Judas” through which the visitor could be scrutinised, and, if he were not known, his business ascertained before the door was opened. This appearance of secrecy made the houses still more mysterious, but the reason of it in most cases was not far to seek. With such women as inhabited these houses fidelity is not a characteristic trait, and it was probably seldom that one of them kept faith with the man who provided her with the house in which she lived and the means of satisfying her extravagant tastes. Many of the fair denizens of these secluded villas had their “ best boys,” who would profit by the absence of the owner, who was probably an elderly man, to take his place and have a good time with his lady-love. These “ fancy men ” were quite a different class, as a rule, to the low-down bullies and pimps who battened on the unfortunates in the common streets. It was in order to guard against surprise visits that the “Judas” was cut in the door, as through the narrow aperture it was easy to see in an instant who was outside and to give or receive letters or messages. Endless were the stories of ad- ventures in this connection, for it generally happened 178 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON that the “ best boy ” was a hefty youth, particularly well constituted physically for these amorous esca- pades. It may be of interest to recall that very big women were the favourites then, for the “flapper” of to-day was non-existent. No doubt bachelors of gregarious tastes had many opportunities for adven- tures of a gallant nature in these quiet by - ways. For myself I saw no charm in them. Perhaps my character tends somewhat to the sentimental side, and there must ever be for me a touch of the romantic. I am afraid, notwithstanding many shattered illusions, it is my nature always to hoist my latest “ attraction ” on to a pedestal. One did not, however, live in the midst of all this fast life with one’s eyes shut, and I recall many weird and amusing subterfuges to circumvent the precautions of the liege lord to remain in sole possession. One of the tricks struck me as being extremely ingenious in its simplicity. When Miss Kathleen De Vere (as we will call her — for all these ladies were called by aristocratic names) received an un- expected visit from her aged but wealthy admirer at a moment when she was awaiting the more congenial arrival of her best boy for the moment, her maid had instructions to stick a piece of stamp paper in a pre-arranged spot in a dark corner of the gateway. Then when Algy turned up, full of love and anticipation, he recognised the warning that the coast was not clear, and departed dis- consolate, after having removed the stamp paper as a return signal that he had kept the appointment. In many of the houses the door would not be opened unless a signal which had been preconcerted was given. This either took the form of a peculiar knock or a particular whistle. A lady who was of musical tastes had conceived the idea of getting her lover to signal his presence outside by whistling the opening bars of Beethoven’s famous No. 5 Symphony in C Minor ! 179 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON Had she, I wonder, heard the legend attaching to this symphony? — that Beethoven, lying ill in bed, in the small hours of the morning, heard a man who had lost his latchkey trying to attract the attention of his wife by repeated whistlings in this peculiar fashion, outside the street door — the reiterated whistling starting the vein of musical thought which led to a masterpiece. Many of the houses were decorated and furnished in most luxurious fashion, and not infrequently displayed evidence of artistic taste that would be somewhat unexpected. A house agent in the neighbourhood gave me an explanation of this, which was somewhat curious, though quite feasible. A lady would, on the guarantee of a gentleman who was looking after her for the time being, take a house on an agreement, and probably before moving in she would get her friend to have it thoroughly decorated and furnished. A few months after, perhaps, there would be trouble in the dovecot, and the place sold up, and probably bought by some one else who also had a Dulcinea he wanted to keep all to himself. The place might want doing up a bit, and, doubtless, would be, and so the process would continue, each successive tenant adding and perhaps improving, or otherwise, on what had been done by her predecessor, till the whole place, at last, might become quite artistic and elegant in effect. I remember on one occasion being taken to one which was the very quintessence of luxurious sensuality, if one can so describe it. Everything that was calculated to excite the jaded fancies of the blase voluptuary had evidently been carefully and thoughtfully designed, and the result could certainly not have been excelled even in Paris, where, in my time, this style of furnishing was very much in vogue, and was a sort of trade in itself, as only a few firms laid themselves out 180 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON for it. In this particular St John’s Wood retreat the decorator and the upholsterer had borrowed their ideas from the East, and had succeeded in producing quite a masterpiece of voluptuousness. From the moment one entered, a strange feeling of fascination took hold of you. The windows were all covered with musharabeyah work, which effectually screened the light, so you felt as though trespassing into a harem. The illusion was heightened by the heavy odour of a seductive perfume, and the costume — or rather the lack of costume — of the fair occupant of this abode of love, a strikingly beautiful woman. She was reclining on a low, wide Turkish divan under a tent-like awning, and half buried in big, soft cushions. She had on a semi - transparent drapery of some Persian material that disguised, without hiding, her shapely form, and here and there a tiny gold crescent scintillated, or a metal ornament rattled as she moved languidly, for it was very hot and oppressive in the house. My pal, who took me there, and was a very great friend of hers, told me that I should see something which would startle me, but this was quite a revelation, and certainly a very delightful one, for I am not a prude in any way, as may have already been surmised ; but I could not help wonder- ing whether she had donned this attire for my benefit, or if it were her usual reception dress. To my great surprise I learnt she was English, for her surroundings and tastes were evidently quite Oriental. There were no chairs, so we had to sit on the ground, which was covered with matting, whilst here and there were hassocks and cushions. Coffee was served to us by a coloured servant — Turkish fashion, in keeping with everything else, and every detail was carried out to perfection. Our hostess expressed her regret that a great friend of hers, “ a lovely girl,” she had invited to meet me, 181 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON was unable to come, as her “ gentleman friend ” had returned to town unexpectedly, but she hoped to see me another time. I had, however, already made a mental note that this was no place for me, artistically beautiful as it was, for it represented a world with which I was not in touch or ever likely to be — the world of the idle, elderly rich man — the vieux marcheur. I felt sure without seeing her that the “ lovely girl ” who had not been able to join us was of the same class as this semi-nude Venus in front of me. It was, perhaps, therefore a lucky thing for me her being otherwise engaged, and it afforded a very good excuse for not prolonging my visit. So wishing my friend a good time, I left him with his lady-love. When I found myself outside in the bright sunshine of the summer afternoon, I could not help thinking how little one would have expected, in this humdrum London of ours, to have come across anything so Eastern in its sensuality. Most of the delightful semi-rural villas, standing in their own gardens, had seen all sorts and condi- tions of tenants, and on occasions awkward embroglios arose from the inability of visitors to realise this. A case in point I recollect was of two young officers home on leave from India, feeling somewhat elated after a good dinner, wending their way to a cosy nest which they remembered before they had gone abroad, and where they felt they were sure to find a loving and ardent welcome. To all outward appearance the house was un- changed, and it took the combined arguments of two prim maid-servants and finally the persuasion of a burly policeman to convince them that Maud and Ethel had made way for more desirable tenants, and to induce them after half-an-hour’s parley to retire crestfallen. Imagine their horror when a few days later they received a letter from their Colonel’s wife inviting 182 MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON them to dine with her and her mother at the very house where they had attempted their raid, and which she had taken for the season ! As nay be imagined St John’s Wood was a perfect paradhe for house agents, and they would frequently let the same house two or three times a year, for those love affairs were very seldom of a lasting nature. There vere, however, one or two I heard of which had coitinued after cat-and-dog sort of fashion for many years, but they did so simply because the man, perhaps, was getting on in years, or was either too frightened to break it off, or else that the woman in the course of their liaison had managed to get to know something of him or his business of a private nature, and whicl ^she held as a sort of sword of Damocles over his h*ad. The seany side of this phrase of Bohemian life in those diys was, to my mind, more marked in London then in Paris, perhaps by reason of the matter-of-fact way men treated the women they took up witi. One could not help noticing this, and at timet it made one’s blood boil to watch it, whilst one ptied the woman who stood it. The “ modern girl ’ has far more spirit and independence in this respect, and would not put up with it for a moment. In those days the term “kept woman” was quite common, and though synonymous with the French maitresse , it iad scarcely the same significance, I thought. It vas rarely that there was any semblance of romance or 'ove about these sordid arrangements even from the start, and they were usually entered into in the sane manner as one would an ordinary business transaction. In Paris a nan would commence probably by delicately sendiig the object of his desire some flowers, or some dainty present to propitiate her ; in London, to pit it roughly, it was generally a question of “ Hov\ much do you want me to allow 183 ' MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON you a week? so that you don’t have to see any one else” — without any other preliminaries. With the knowledge that must have been intuitire to most “ kept ” women that they were only being made conveniences of for a time, it could aardly be wondered at that in pure self - defence, and especially if they were no longer young, that they should attempt to get a more secure hold cf their man, and this, no doubt, accounted for much of the trouble one heard of, and the large sums o! money men of means often had to “shell out” tc get rid of an irksome tie. Occasionally, however, there were cases, as it were, of sentiment intermingled with the monetary relations, but it was generally the calf-love of some youth who had lost his heart over a worran. Still, it was genuine affection on his part whils: it lasted, and it not infrequently happened that tte object of his admiration really ended by liking him very much, more especially if he combined rice presents with his love. I remember a little story a very food-looking, fair-haired woman, living in Wellingtoi Road, told me of an experience she had once had, and its amusing ending. An Eton boy wtom she had got to know somehow had fallen violently in love with her, and used to come up to tovn as often as he could to see her, and spent al his money on her — in fact more, for he ended ly borrowing so as to give her presents. Of coirse, it ended by her getting quite fond of the lai, for he was a very gentle and delightful companon. Well, this had been going on for Jome time, and she guessed he was getting deeph into debt on her account, when one day she 'eceived a visit from a stranger, an old gentlemai of most staid appearance. To her surprise he ;old her he was the father of her youthful lover, md had come to have a chat with her about his s