In Bohemia with Du Maurier | Page 2

OF BOBTAIL'S
PLIABLE HAT 46
"BESHREW THEE, NOBLE SIR RAGGE! LET US TO THE FAIR
TOBACCONISTE" 49
"SALUT À LA GENTE ET ACCORTE PUCELLE" 50
A MESMERIC SÉANCE IN MRS. L.'S BACK PARLOUR 57
THE MIDNIGHT PRESENCE OF THE UNCANNY 60
FELIX LOOKS VERY SEEDY AFTER HIS BIRTHDAY 64
"RACHEL" AND FRIENDS CELEBRATE BOBTAIL'S BIRTHDAY
65
RAG 72
BOBTAIL 72
"WHAT THE DEUCE AM I TO DO WITH THIS CONFOUNDED
ROPE? HANG MYSELF, I WONDER." 76
COFFEE AND BRASSIN IN BOBTAIL'S ROOMS 80
CLARA MOSCHELES 83
"HERR RAG SCHICKT ZU FRÄULEIN MOSCHELES SEIN
EMPFEHLUNG UND IHREN BRUDER." 87
CHER LIX 88
"AN INDISCREET FELLOW LOOKING OVER MY ----" 89
DU MAURIER AT WORK AGAIN 90

"CLAUDIUS FELIX ET PUBLIUS BUSSO, CUM CENTURIONE
GUIDORUM, AUDIENTES JUVENES CONSERVATORIONI" 91
DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM IN BRUSSELS 93
THE HEIGHT OF ENJOYMENT 95
YE CELEBRATED RAG TREATETH HIMSELF TO A PRIVATE
PERFORMANCE OF YE PADRE FURIOSO E FIGLIA INFELICE
97
AT THE HOFRATH'S DOOR 99
"I SAY, GOVERNOR, MIND YOU DON'T GASH HIS THROAT AS
YOU DID THAT POOR OLD SPANIARD'S" 100
MR KENNEDY, WHO IS QUITE BLIND, DISCREETLY INFORMS
THE PROFESSOR THAT CAPTAIN MARIUS BLUEBLAST "IS NA
BUT A SINFU' BLACKGUARD" 101
MEETING IN DÜSSELDORF 103
SCENE FROM MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN 106
PORTRAIT OF PICCIOLA 115
"ON THEIR HONEYMOON" 116
Also Illustration on pages 37, 88, 98, 102, 108, 109, 110, 112, 114, 119,
123, 135, 144, 145.
* * * * *

I.
"TUMBLINGS"
_WITH DU MAURIER AND FRIENDS._
"I well remember" my first meeting with du Maurier in the class-rooms
of the famous Antwerp Academy.
I was painting and blagueing, as one paints and blagues in the storm
and stress period of one's artistic development.
It had been my good fortune to commence my studies in Paris; it was
there, in the atelier Gleyre, I had cultivated, I think I may say, very
successfully, the essentially French art of chaffing, known by the name
of "La blague parisienne," and I now was able to give my less lively
Flemish friends and fellow-students the full benefit of my experience.
Many pleasant recollections bound me to Paris; so, when I heard one
day that a "Nouveau" had arrived, straight from my old atelier Gleyre, I

was not a little impatient to make his acquaintance.
[Illustration: THE ATELIER GLEYRE.]
The new-comer was du Maurier. I sought him out, and, taking it for
granted that he was a Frenchman, I addressed him in French; we were
soon engaged in lively conversation, asking and answering questions
about the comrades in Paris, and sorting the threads that associated us
both with the same place. "Did you know 'un nommé Pointer'?" he
asked, exquisitely Frenchy-fying the name for my benefit. I mentally
translated this into equally exquisite English, my version naturally
being: "A man called Poynter."
Later on an American came up, with whom I exchanged a few words in
his and my native tongue. "What the D. are you--English?" broke in du
Maurier. "And what the D. are you?" I rejoined. I forget whether D.
stood for Dickens or for the other one; probably it was the latter. At any
rate, whether more or less emphatic in our utterances, we then and there
made friends on a sound international basis.
It seemed to me that at this our first meeting du Maurier took me in at a
glance--the eager, hungry glance of the caricaturist. He seemed struck
with my appearance, as well he might be. I wore a workman's blouse
that had gradually taken its colour from its surroundings. To protect
myself from the indiscretions of my comrades I had painted various
warnings on my back, as, for instance, "Bill stickers beware," "It is
forbidden to shoot rubbish here," and the like. My very black hair, ever
inclined to run riot, was encircled by a craftily conceived band of
crochet-work, such as only a fond mother's hand could devise, and I
was doubtless colouring some meerschaum of eccentric design. My
fellow-student, the now famous Matthew Maris, immortalised that
blouse and that piece of crochet-work in the admirable oil-sketch here
reproduced.
[Illustration: MY BLOUSE.
(_From an oil-sketch by Matthew Maris._)]
It has always been a source of legitimate pride to me to think that I
should have been the tool selected by Providence to sharpen du
Maurier's pencil; there must have been something in my "Verfluchte
Physiognomie," as a very handsome young German, whom I used to
chaff unmercifully, called it, to reveal to du Maurier hidden
possibilities and to awaken in him those dormant capacities which had

betrayed themselves in the eager glance above named.
This was, I believe, in 1857; not feeling over sure as regards that date, I
refer to a bundle of du Maurier's letters before me, but they offer me no
assistance; there is but one dated, and