In Bohemia With Du Maurier Part 2

One of these seances led to a rather amusing incident. One night I was awakened from first slumbers by a sharp ring at my bell, and when, after some parleying, I opened the door, I found myself confronted by two individuals. One I recognised as an "inquirer" who had been brought to my rooms some time previously; the other was a lad I had not seen before. The inquirer, I ascertained, having carefully watched my _modus operandi_ on the occasion of his visit, had next tried experiments of his own. In this instance he had succeeded in mesmerising a lad, but had found it impossible to recall him to his normal condition. So, securing him by a leather strap fastened round his waist, he led him through the streets of Paris to my rooms.

There we both tried our powers upon him, the result being very unsatisfactory. The youth, feeling himself freed from one operator and not subjected by the other, refused allegiance to either, and, being of a pugnacious temperament, he squared up and commenced striking out at both of us. It was not without considerable difficulty that I re-mesmerised him completely, and then, having previously prepared his mind to account naturally for his presence in my rooms, I succeeded in awakening him, and all ended happily. The inquirer was duly grateful, the youth went home strapless and none the worse for the adventure, and I proceeded to do some very sound sleeping on my own account.

I would say more of my seances and all the recollections they evoke, were I not impatient to get back to du Maurier and to Malines. Once on the experiences of those days, I have much to relate--pros and cons, if you please, for that subtle magnetic fluid, which, without physical contact, one human being can transmit to another, is a ticklish one to handle. I cannot pack my pen, though, and take train of thought to the Belgian city without mentioning my friend Allonge, the well-known French artist, then a fellow-student of mine at the Ecole des Beaux Arts. A chance contact of our knees as we sat closely packed with some sixty other students put me on the track of a new subject, perhaps the most interesting one it was ever my good fortune to come across. But of him another time.

Using the privilege of a mesmerist, I elect to will the reader--that is, if natural slumber has not ere this put him beyond my control--across the frontier, into the back parlour of Mrs. L.'s tobacco store. There I am operating on a boy--such a stupid little Flemish boy that no amount of fluid could ever make him clever. How I came to treat him to pa.s.ses I don't remember; probably I used him as an object-lesson to amuse Carry. All I recollect is that I gave him a key to hold, and made him believe that it was red-hot and burnt his fingers, or that it was a piece of pudding to be eaten presently, thereby making him howl and grin alternately.

In the middle of our seance Carry is called away by a customer, one of the swells of Malines much addicted to a poetical expression of his admiration for the fair s.e.x in general and for Carry in particular.

Greatly to our edification, she was pleased to improve the occasion by leading him on, within our hearing, to make what is commonly called a fool of himself. The pleasant incident is recorded in the accompanying sketch.

But mesmerism meant more than incidental amus.e.m.e.nt or even scientific experiment to us in those Antwerp and Malines days. When one stands on the threshold of a world of mysteries one cannot but long to bridge over the chasm that separates one from the G.o.ds, the fairies, or the fiends. To be sure, we should have been glad if we could have got "light, more light" thrown on our steps, but, failing that, we tried to find our way as best we could in the mist. We loved that never-attainable Will-o'-the-Wisp, "Truth," for its own dear Bohemian sake; so, guided by Fancy and Fantasy, we made frequent inroads into the boundless land where unknown forces pick up our poor dear little conception of the Impossible, and use it as the starting-point of never-to-be-exhausted possibilities.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A MESMERIC SeANCE IN MRS. L.'S BACK PARLOUR.]

Such a land was particularly well suited to the state of our outward-bound minds and our excelsior appet.i.tes. It was on one or the other of these excursions, I feel confident, that du Maurier was inoculated with the germs that were eventually to develop into Trilbyism and Svengalism. No wonder, then, if in more than one of his letters and sketches the future delineator of those characters embodies bold dreams and fancies, or if on one occasion he depicts himself, with fixed gaze and hair erect, sitting bolt upright on my hospitable sofa, thrilled and overawed by the midnight presence of the uncanny, which I had evoked for his benefit.

"Yes, governor, it's all very well to ask a nervous fellow to Antwerp and amuse him and make him ever so jolly and comfortable--But why, when the bleak November wind sobs against the lattice and disturbs the dead ashes in the grate, when everything is d.a.m.ned queer and dark, and that sort of thing, you know--why should you make nervous fellows'

flesh creep by talk about mesmerism, and dead fellows coming to see live fellows before dying, and the Lord knows what else? Why, Gad!

it's horrid!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MIDNIGHT PRESENCE OF THE UNCANNY.]

My rooms in Antwerp were the scene of many a festive gathering. We always spoke of them in the plural; it sounded better, but in reality there was only one room with two small alcoves. Studies and sketches covered the walls or littered the floor, and the genial figure of a skeleton, in very perfect condition, stood in the corner by the piano.

At first it came with a view to instructing me in the Science of Anatomy, but soon, putting aside any didactic pretensions, my bony professor became quite a companion and friend; it was thus natural that on those occasions when guests had been convened to my rooms, he would take a leading part, generally appearing gracefully draped and appropriately illuminated, and thus forming a fitting background to the gay proceedings of the evening. We had music, recitation, and acting, mostly of an improvised, homemade character. The sounds thereof were not confined, however, to the narrow limits of home, but spread far beyond it, a fact which the neighbours, I am sure, would have been at any time ready most emphatically to attest.

In justice to myself I may say that I was primarily answerable for the magnitude of the sound waves, but I am bound to add that my example was followed and even improved upon by the more lung-gifted of my companions. Amongst the milder forms of entertainment was my impersonation of Rachel. That grand actress I had often seen in Paris, and had, more than once, shivered in my shoes as she annihilated the Tyrant, pouring forth the vials of her wrath and indignation in the cla.s.sical language of Racine and Corneille. With those accents still ringing in my ears I came to Antwerp, and there, when surrounded by sympathetic friends, the spirit would sometimes move me, and I would feel--excuse the conceit of youth--as if I too could have been a great female Tragedian, had Fate not otherwise disposed of me. In such moments I would seize the blade of the paper-knife, and use the blood of the beet-root, drape myself in the cla.s.sical folds of the bed-sheet, and go for the Tyrant, hissing fearful hexameters of scorn and vituperation into his ears, and usually winding up with a pose so magnificently triumphant that it would bring down any house which was not of the most solid construction.

Another time the cushion yonder would be my child--the orthodox long-lost one--"It is!--It is not!--It is!--Let me clasp it to my other cushion!" "Toi mon fils cheri. Ange de mon enfer, douleur de mes loisirs!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: FELIX LOOKS VERY SEEDY AFTER HIS BIRTHDAY.]

The celebration of one of my birthdays was an event rescued from oblivion by du Maurier's pencil. He ill.u.s.trates our lively doings on that day and my appearance the next morning. "Felix's mamma," he says, "had worked a very pretty cap for Felix, and Felix had it on the morning after his birthday, and Felix found that though the cap was very pretty, it made him look very seedy."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "RACHEL" AND FRIENDS CELEBRATE BOBTAIL'S BIRTHDAY.]

In the other drawing he gives striking likenesses of the friends a.s.sembled to celebrate the festive occasion. They had come together in the evening, much in the same spirit that had led them under my windows in the morning, with a bra.s.s band and an enormous bouquet of cabbages, carrots, and cauliflowers. There, on the left, is Van Lerius with his hands in his pockets, next to him du Maurier; then Heyermans, Bource, and all the other chums, and, though last not least, the proud bearer of the steaming punch-bowl. What a set of jolly good fellows!

It is quite a pleasure to pore over the sketch and contemplate du Maurier's phiz, expressing his unbounded capacity of enjoyment. I can see him taking points that fell flat with the other fellows. Quite a pleasure, too, to think of Huysmans' big nose and Van Lerius' bald head, of the tall and the short, of spindle shanks and chubby face.

Where are they all now? Some thirty-five years have elapsed, and the whirligig of time has been revolving with unfailing regularity, dropping us here and there, as caprice dictated, some to stand, some to fall. What has become of the threads of friendship, picked up at the studio or the cafe, perhaps whilst puzzling over the chess-board, or when harmonising in four-part song? Golden threads; some destined to be spun out and to become solidly intertwined; others to be hopelessly entangled or cruelly snapped asunder by the inexorable Fates. Where shall I find them now, those friends and boon companions of my Bohemian days? Here, there, and everywhere--perhaps nowhere!

Some I see trotting briskly along the high-road of life, others dragging wearily through its tangled bypaths. Yet again others resting under a big, cold stone that bears an inscription and a couple of dates, fixed just above their heads.

II.

I well remember a certain "barriere" that protected the level crossing just outside the Malines Station. It was but an ordinary piece of hinged timber, but we, that is, du Maurier and I, can never forget it; for, as we stood by its side we vowed that come what might, we would never travel along that line and past the old gate without recalling that summer evening and re-thinking the thoughts of our early days.

It was also there, one evening, that we adopted our never-to-be-forgotten aliases--Rag and Bobtail. We had chanced upon a chum of ours named Sprenk lounging across that old barriere, and some fortuitous circ.u.mstance having revealed the fact that his initials were T.A.G., we forthwith dubbed him Tag. Out of that very naturally grew the further development: Rag, Tag, and Bobtail.

T.A.G. was an Englishman, strong and hearty and considerably taller than either of us. That alone would have sufficed to secure him the friendship of du Maurier, who ever worshipped at the shrine of physical greatness. He loved to look up to the man of six-foot-something, or to sit in the shadow of the woman of commanding presence, his appreciation of size culminating in the love of "Chang,"

that dog of dogs, whom we have all learnt to admire, as we followed his career through the volumes of the immortal Weekly, presided over by Toby and his master.

I somehow a.s.sociate Tag with whisky and water; not that he took it much or often, but he gave one the impression that whatever others might do when amongst the benighted foreigner, he, for one, would not let a good old English custom drop into disuse. Looking at Tag one intuitively felt that his father before him had taken his moderate gla.s.s of W. and W., and that, if he married and had sons, they would do likewise. I do not think that he was particularly fond of art or artists, unless inasmuch as they were brother Bohemians. He was engaged, or, at least, he was generally just about to be engaged, in some business, and whilst waiting for the opportune moment to commence operations, he would settle down to an expectant present. The golden opportunity he was looking for was plainly visible on his horizon, but it had a way of remaining stationary, and as it was contrary to Tag's nature to move unless under great pressure, the two never met.

In the meanwhile Tag was one of our trio of chums; he was a good deal with us when we were out and about, bent on storming the world, or climbing Parna.s.sus; we did the climbing, he the looking on, the parts thus being distributed to our mutual satisfaction. He was always pleasantly acquiescent, and had the rare gift of making himself useless agreeably; a common bond of interest we had in the Colorado claro and oscuro, whether the fair or dark, applied to the friendly weed or the still more friendly fair s.e.x.

He describes himself pretty correctly in a letter he wrote to us from Paris, when he says:--

"Since my arrival here my notes of what I have to do represent what I have not done, and if it be true that the infernal regions are paved with good intentions, I shall be received on my arrival by a deputation of souls to thank me for my contribution to the pavement."

[Ill.u.s.tration: RAG.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: BOBTAIL.]

There are sketches in which Tag's eloquence is confined to one exclamation, "Matilda!" But whether that name was coupled with present felicity or future hopes I do not recollect. But du Maurier's lines describe him and our chumship much better than any words of mine could do. He says:--

"To BOBTAIL.

Oh, fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint All lazy beggars like me--"

"In the sunshine of April, the April of life, You and I and our Tag make three; And few will deny that for such close chums A queer set of fellows are we.

For I walk slowly, and you walk fast, And Tag lies down (not to fall); _You_ think of the Present, _I_ think of the Past, And Tag thinks of nothing at all.

Yet who shall be lucky, and who shall be rich?

Whether both, neither, one, or all three; Is a mystery which, Dame Fortune, the witch, Tells neither Tag, Bobtail, or me!

(RAG)."

The portraits of Rag and Bobtail head the page. A s.p.a.ce was left for Tag's, but never filled.

_Apropos_ of plans and prospects on Tag's distant horizon, I find a pa.s.sage in one of his letters, dated November, 1857, which is well worth recording. I quote it to give myself and my fellow Europeans an opportunity of rejoicing that Tag's scheme belonged to those that were not to be realised. It runs thus:--

"As du Maurier's eye, though better, will, most probably, not allow him to resume his profession as a painter, we have determined to try our fortune together in Australia, and mean to start from here early in February. He hopes to obtain employment by drawing sketches, caricatures, &c., for the Melbourne _Punch_, and other ill.u.s.trated papers. You know how eminently suited he is for that kind of work, and we hear that an artist of talent of that description is much wanted out there, and would be sure to do exceedingly well. I, of course, do not intend to start in that line, but hope to be able to support myself for the first few years, after which I shall establish myself in business on my own account, and I trust, with luck, I may return home in the course of from ten to fifteen years, if not with immense riches, at all events with enough to enable me to pa.s.s the remainder of my 'old age' in peace and comfort."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WHAT THE DEUCE AM I TO DO WITH THIS CONFOUNDED ROPE?

HANG MYSELF, I WONDER."]

Did Tag ever go, I wonder? Did he come back, and has he perhaps been enjoying his "old age" somewhere over here for the last thirty years?--I wish you would say what _has_ become of you, my dear Tag.

I'm sure we should be chums again, if you're anything like the dear old stick-in-the-mud of former days! Don't you recollect that sketch of Rag's? I had nearly forgotten to mention it, the one with the three ropes of life. I am climbing ahead with fiendish energy. Rag follows, steadily ascending, weighted as he is with a treasure, a box marked "Mrs. Rag, with care," and your n.o.ble form is squatting on the floor, a gla.s.s of the best blend at your feet, and a cigar you are enjoying from which rises the legend that makes you say, "What the deuce am I to do with this confounded rope? Hang myself, I wonder?" Nonsense, to be sure; but do come and tell me what you _have_ done with the rope, or say where I can find you still squatting.

That music of a certain spontaneous kind, the music within us which we were ever longing to bring to the surface, was a bond of union between du Maurier and myself, I have already mentioned; but that bond was to be greatly strengthened by the music that great musicians on more than one occasion lavished on us. First came Louis Bra.s.sin, the pianist. He had studied under Moscheles at the Conservatorio of Leipsic, the city of Bach and Mendelssohn fame; and there, from the days of his boyhood, he had belonged to the little circle of intimates who frequently gathered around the master at his house.

When, a few years later, he came to Belgium on a concert tour, he and I found no difficulty in taking up the old friendship contracted in my father's house, just where we had left it. The boy had become the man, the student had developed into the artist and thorough musician. He was the boonest of boon companions, and his jokes were so broad that they often reminded one, in their crudeness and their rudeness, of certain pa.s.sages in Mozart's early letters. To say that he spoke French with a German accent a la Svengali would be putting it very mildly; Teutonic gutturals would most unceremoniously invade the sister language; d's and t's, b's and p's would ever change places, as they are made to do in some parts of the Fatherland. With all that, he rejoiced in a delightful fluency of speech, conveying quaint and original thought. There was something decidedly interesting about Bra.s.sin's looks, but his figure gave one the impression of having been very carelessly put together; when he walked his head went back on his shoulders, and his hat went back on his head; his long arms dangled, pendulum-like, by his sides, while his lanky legs, dragging along anyhow, were ever lagging behind one another. But when he opened the piano and put hands and feet to keys and pedal, he was not the same individual. He would turn on nerve and muscle-power, and would hurl avalanches of music and torrents of notes at his audience till he, in his turn, was overwhelmed with thunders of applause. And those were the days, we must remember, when but few men could play at a greater rate than twenty to twenty-five miles an hour; when grand pianos were not yet ironclad and armour-plated, or had learnt proudly to display the maker's name on their broadside when they went forth to do battle on the concert field.

[Ill.u.s.tration: COFFEE AND BRa.s.sIN IN BOBTAIL'S ROOMS.]