In Bohemia With Du Maurier Part 3

Bra.s.sin used to draw inane caricatures of himself, which he would present to us with a triumphant laugh of immoderate calibre. I have preserved some of these, but decidedly prefer du Maurier's rendering of our common friend. In the accompanying drawing he shows him at the piano, entertaining us on "A rainy day."

"Ah! Felix, amico mio," he says, "may thy room be always as jolly, thy coffee be ever so sweet, as on that happy morning! May Bra.s.sin's fingers be ever as brilliant and inspired! May Tag be ever as lazy, and with equal satisfaction to himself, and may I never be blinder!

Amen."

That sketch admirably pourtrays the lankiness and flabbiness of Bra.s.sin's figure, contrasting as it did with the strength of the wrist and the grip of the fingers. He was certainly a fine subject for du Maurier, whom I always looked upon as a sort of vivisector of music and musicians, of their methods and their moods. A brilliant career awaited Louis Bra.s.sin, but it was to be suddenly and unexpectedly cut off. He died some ten years ago at the age of forty-four.

In 1858 my father came on a visit to Antwerp with my mother and my youngest sister, Clara. Wherever my father took up his abode, even temporarily, a grand piano would in the natural course of events gravitate towards him, and a select circle of art lovers would soon be grouped around it. Amongst the friends in the Antwerp circle were--Van Lerius, Tadema, Baron Leys, Heyermans, and Bource. My sister at that time was a bright and happy creature, not long out of her teens, full of hopes--alas! never to be realised, and of talents never to be matured. The large dark eyes--they seemed the gift of her G.o.dmother, the famous Malibran--reflected the artist's soul, and a grand soprano voice spoke its powerful language. Du Maurier and she were soon on a brother and sisterly footing, and they ever remained so.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CLARA MOSCHELES.]

Of the pleasant evenings we of the circle spent together I recall one in particular. My sister had been singing one song after another; my father was engaged in an animated conversation with Stefani, the pianist, on the relative merits of Mendelssohn and Schumann. Du Maurier and I had been sitting at the farther end of the room, talking of his eyes. At that time one doctor held out hopes; another, a great authority, had considered it his painful duty not to conceal the truth from his patient, and had, with much unction and the necessary complement of professional phraseology, prepared him for the worst.

The sight of one eye had gone, that of the other would follow. Those were anxious days, both for him and for his friends; but, whatever he felt, he could talk about his trouble with perfect equanimity, and I often wondered how quietly he took it, and how cheerfully he would tell me that he was "fearfully depressed." That evening I had been putting the chances of a speedy recovery before him, and making predictions based, I am bound to admit, on nothing more substantial than my ardent hopes. But du Maurier was too much of a philosopher to be satisfied with such encouragement as I could give, and said: "No, I had better face the enemy and be prepared for the worst. If it comes, you see, my dear fellow, there is Nature's law of compensation, and I firmly believe that one cannot lose one faculty without being compensated by some great gain elsewhere. I suppose one gets to see more inside as things grow darker outside. If one can't paint, one must do something else--write perhaps; that is, as long as one can, and then, if the steam acc.u.mulates, and one wants a safety valve to let it off, dictate." Happily, to this day he writes, and need not have recourse to dictation.

When we joined our friends we found Van Lerius and Heyermans had been pressed into the service, and were making sketches for my sister's alb.u.m. Du Maurier took up a pencil, and, with a few characteristic touches, drew that sister's eyes. "Quand je les vois," he wrote underneath, "j'oublie les miens. (Reflexion d'un futur aveugle.) When I see them I forget my own. (Reflections of a man going blind.)"

Soon the main business of the evening was resumed. Was it Beethoven's sonata for piano and violin, or a mighty improvisation on cla.s.sical themes that came first? I do not recollect; but I remember that du Maurier's rendering of Balfe's "When other lips and other hearts,"

with my scratch accompaniment, was warmly greeted by all lips and hearts present.

When these pleasant evenings had come to an end, the friendly intercourse was not allowed to drop, and so a number of sketches by her new friends found their way into Miss Clara's alb.u.m.

In the following winter, when I left on a short visit to Leipsic, he sent her a few lines through me. I quote from his letter because the wording is peculiar, and ill.u.s.trates his capacity for expressing himself in a language that he had to evolve from his inner consciousness:--

"Herr Rag schickt zu Fraulein Moscheles _sein_ empfehlung und _ihren_ bruder; es wird hoflicht gebeten das sie wird die sach reciprokiren, und in funftzen dagen _ihr_ empfehlung und _seinen_ freund zuruck schicken."

For the benefit of those whose inner consciousness is not in touch with the above, I give the English version:--

"Mr. Rag sends _his_ greeting and _her_ brother to Miss Moscheles, and kindly requests her to reciprocate the proceeding in a fortnight by returning _her_ greeting and _his_ friend."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HERR RAG SCHICKT ZU FRaULEIN MOSCHELES SEIN EMPFEHLUNG UND IHREN BRUDER."]

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

When I think how easily and spontaneously such sketches dropped from his pen, I am reminded of a pa.s.sage in one of Mendelssohn's letters to my mother; he sends her the _Mailied_ and says: "This morning a song came to me. I really must write it down for you." So, too, from the first the pen-and-ink compositions came to du Maurier. His talent manifested itself not only in a desire to ill.u.s.trate this or that incident or adventure, but also in his inexhaustible capacity for making something out of nothing, and as the nothing was never lacking, he might well say: "Dear Bobtail, I will never write without sending my compliments to thine alb.u.m." His rendering of "Cher Lix," for instance, takes the shape of a graceful monogram, or diplogram, or whatever I ought to call a combination of our two profiles and my name.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

He starts a short missive with a sketch of himself seated in his trunk, pipe in mouth, and says: "Dear Bobtail, I write to you out of sheer idleness, so as to have an excuse not to pack up for the next half-hour." Or he draws himself looking over my shoulder whilst I am writing to my sister and puts the supposed context of my letter:--

[Ill.u.s.tration: AN INDISCREET FELLOW LOOKING OVER MY ----]

"Bobtail writes (in German of course):

"I won't write any more, for there's an indiscreet fellow looking over my ----"

"_Rag_. It's not true, I swear. (For Miss Clara.)"

[Ill.u.s.tration: DU MAURIER AT WORK AGAIN.]

Another time he wants me to send him some brushes and various other painting materials he enumerates: "Oh, and a little thing like this for oil to do the thing cheesy." He depicts himself quite elated; his eyes seemed so much better that he had once more resumed work in the studio of his friend Goyers. "Gruss from maternal and self," he ends; "ganz hertzlich; come soon, or write soon, or do something soon, hang it.--Thy RAG, jusqu' a la mort."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "CLAUDIUS FELIX ET PUBLIUS BUSSO, c.u.m CENTURIONE GUIDORUM, AUDIENTES JUVENES CONSERVATORIONI."]

Monsieur Staps, Sous-Chef of the "Guides," the best military band in Brussels, was a friend of ours. He had invited us to one of the famous Concerts du Conservatoire, a treat in antic.i.p.ation of which du Maurier at once takes to the pen, and shows us in cla.s.sical garments and dignified att.i.tudes listening to the "young men of the Conservatorio."

"Sketch represents," he says "Claudius Felix et Publius Busso, c.u.m centurione Guidorum, audientes juvenes Conservatorioni, A.D. CCLVIII."

The "Busso" derived from his full name--George Louis Palmella Busson du Maurier.

In striking contrast with the last drawing is the next. Here we are decidedly anything but conventional in our attire, as he depicts us in "Double-bedded room, Brussels. Time 11 a.m. (train starts 11.20).

Bobtail's face being rather s.m.u.tty, he washes it, and Rag's boots being rather tight, he puts them on at leisure, during which process he has time to smoke three pipes. _Bobtail_. Bub-bub-bub-bub ... whew ... pouf!... _Rag_. How many?"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A favourite theme of his was his supposed inability to s.h.i.+ne on occasions when I had introduced him to friends of mine, and was particularly anxious to show him off to advantage, and then, again, the unrelenting fate that would swiftly overtake him if he ventured to put himself forward. I need not say that the inability and the discomfiture existed only in his imagination, for in all circles he was ever appreciated and admired. But he would have it otherwise, and pourtrays us side by side with the legend--

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The height of enjoyment. Rag thinking of his eyes, in a pair of tight boots, with Bobtail whispering: 'Say something clever, you stupid m.u.f.f!'"]

Another drawing shows what happened when for once in a way he presumed to accept the homages of the fair.

"One fine morninge, earlie, at ye Cafe de la Plage, Blankenberghe, ye celebrated Rag, deeming himself alone, treateth himself to a private performance of ye Padre furioso e figlia infelice, in imitatione of his ill.u.s.trious friende, Felix Bobtailo. Presentlie a voice exclaimeth behind him, 'Monsieur, permettez moi de vous feliciter,' and a ladie politelie maketh him complimente on his talente. Rag replieth that she must not be surprised thereat, as hys life has been spent among ye great musicians, and that therefore he can scarcelie helpe being a consummate musician himselfe. Shortly after as he lighteth hys cigarre at ye barre, he enquireth b.u.mptiously, 'Who might that good ladie be?'

'She is the prima-donna of the Munich Opera, Monsieur.' Whereupon ye soul of ye humiliated Rag sinketh into hys bootes, and he retireth for ever under a perpetual extinguisher.

"Ye hero of ye above unfortunate adventure presenteth hys compliments to Miss Clara Moscheles, and beggeth she will deigne to accepte ye sketche in acknowledgment of ye last box of 'acidulated lemon-flavoured droppes' entrusted to her brother's care (need he remark that they have not yet reached their destination).

"Miss Clara is invited to observe how cunninglie ye profile of Rag is made to imitate that of her talented brother."

[Ill.u.s.tration: YE CELEBRATED RAG TREATETH HIMSELF TO A PRIVATE PERFORMANCE OF YE PADRE FURIOSO E FIGLIA INFELICE.]

Du Maurier's stay in Blankenberghe was but short. He soon went to Dusseldorf to put himself under the treatment of a famous oculist, Hofrath de Leeuwe, who resided not far from there at Grafrath. He wrote, in high spirits: "Spent yesterday in Grafrath; jolly place, lots of beauties, plenty of singing and sketching and that sort of thing, you know. Long walks in beautiful valleys, most delightful. The fact is, I'm so beastly merry since I've been here that I don't think I'm quite sane, and altogether only want your periodical visits and permission to have my fling on Sat.u.r.day nights to be in heaven. Doctor says he'll do me good; have to go to Grafrath once a week. ca me bote joliment. Good-bye, my old. Thine ever

[Ill.u.s.tration]

He had met some old acquaintances and fraternised with some English and American artists, had got into the swim of Grafrath society, such as it was, and was soon placed on a pedestal, whilst sundry beauties sat at his feet and, to the best of my belief, sighed. "They all want me to make etchings of the little can-cans and lick-spittlings going on here. Splendid study; shall think about it. Carry novel, of course, adjourned _sine die_; haven't got time just now--you know what a fellow I am. Just got her letter; very nave and amusing--but don't tell her so, or else she will pose for that and spoil it. Here is a little drawing for you. Do all honour to it, since it has met with a little ovation here."

[Ill.u.s.tration: AT THE HOFRATH'S DOOR.

"SHE. REALLY I DON'T SEE THE SLIGHTEST MOTE IN YOUR EYES."

"HE. NO, BUT I CAN SEE THE BEAMS IN YOURS."]

He calls it "a new adaptation from the New Testament." He and a charming "she" sit waiting their turn at the Hofrath's door. _He_ is looking into her eyes and _she_ into his. "Really I don't see the slightest mote in your eyes," says she. "No, but I can see the beams in yours," he replies.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I SAY, GOVERNOR, MIND YOU DON'T GASH HIS THROAT AS YOU DID THAT POOR OLD SPANIARD'S!"]

Did du Maurier ever attempt to shave anybody, I wonder? According to one of the sketches he sent me from Dusseldorf he did, and was so engaged on a blind man Kennedy, when a Captain Marius comes on the scene and says, in discreet whisper and with much concern, "I say, governor, mind you don't gash his throat as you did that poor old Spaniard's! (_Out loud_) How d'ye do, Kennedy?"

The same Mr. Kennedy figures once more, when, unaware of the presence of the captain, he discreetly informs the professor that Captain Marius Blueblast "is na' but a sinfu' blackguard."

[Ill.u.s.tration: MR. KENNEDY, WHO IS QUITE BLIND, DISCREETLY INFORMS THE PROFESSOR THAT CAPTAIN MARIUS BLUEBLAST "IS NA BUT A SINFU'

BLACKGUARD."]