Years ago Ernest Newman said to me:
“Frederic Austin has become a fine singer through sheer brain-work. He always had temperament, but his voice was never in the least remarkable until by ingenious training, by constant thought, and by the most arduous labour he developed it until it became an organ of sufficient strength and richness to enable him to interpret anything that appeals to him.”
He is, I think, the only eminent singer in this country who is a distinguished composer. But perhaps the most remarkable thing about him is that you might very easily pass days in his company without guessing that he is a famous singer, for his personality suggests qualities that famous singers seldom possess. He is distingué, austere, and devoted to his art.
[239]
]CHAPTER XX
TWO CHELSEA “RAGS,” 1914 AND 1918
1914
It used to begin as a rumour, a faint stirring and excitement in King’s Road, Chelsea. The artist on the top floor of Joubert Studios—an artist who had a private income and a gently nursed hypochondria—received a parcel from home: a couple of cooked chickens, perhaps, a tongue, cakes, crystallised fruits, three bottles of wine and so on. The lady who occupied the studio below, and the musical critic who lived in the third studio from the top, were duly apprised of the fact, and Norman and Eddie Morrow were called in from near by for a consultation.
“Clearly,” the lady remarked, “a rag is indicated. A rag must always have a beginning, and this undoubtedly is a most excellent beginning. Ring up Susie, somebody, and fetch Hearn over and Ivan and let the Cumberlands know; and, oh! Hughes, dear little Herbert, lend me your pots and pans and things. And, Warlow, just run round everywhere and tell all the people you meet. Don’t forget John, and I think that Deane would like that girl with fuzzy hair. We’ll begin at seven. No, we won’t: we’ll begin now.”
And Warlow, nursing his hypochondria and being very biddable, sighed and moved away, saying beseechingly as he went:
“You will leave me a wing, won’t you? I’ve had no breakfast yet.”
[240]
]But neither had the rest, and by the time Warlow, suffering in a resigned and patient kind of way from paleness and breathlessness, returned, one of the chickens had vanished, and the long table with its litter of paper, cardboard, pencils and paint, was now littered also with plates and knives and forks and breadcrumbs. The rag had begun.