“MURDER MOST FOUL!”

Evening Star, Issue 22276, 29 February 1936, Page 11

“MURDER MOST FOUL!”

AND A FEW IBUKEHTS

LWritten by “ W.W.8.,” for the ‘ Evening Star.']

it is in an' unprejudiced state of mind that we pay our first visit to Madame Tussaud’s exhibition in tbo 'Maryleboue road, London, On the one hand we have been told that tbo chamber of horrors—and that, of course, is for moat of us the outstanding feature of the display—is most disappointing; on the other hand, we have also heard, this time from a very well-balanced young lady, that for disagreeable thrills the place is absolutely unsurpassed. So we feel fully prepared for both the best and the worst. Certainly we are not deceived by the wax policeman guarding the stairs or the attendants standing motionless in postures of eternal vigilance, or even by that remarkable woman who, week after week, sits sleeping on her bench and never wakes to pick up the book that she has so carelessly dropped upon the floor. Even the Chelsea pensioner gazing earnestly at the death of Gordon fails to arouse in us more than a feeling of admiration for such an excellent piece of counterfeit. Yet even hero there is -need for caution, for we have heard the story of a visitor who saw a gentleman—a real live one this time —reading his catalogue, and remarked; “Now, isn’t that good?’’ Then there is also, to make matters more complicated, the figure of the Sleeping Beauty, whose bosom heaves with such perceptible regularity that young ladies caught unawares are moved to shriek hysterically “ Look! She’s alive!” until thev catch sight of the reproving glance of Madame Tussaud herself, jealously guarding her masterpiece. There is indeed a halo round that name. It seems almost fitting that Madame Tussaud should have known the horror of the revolutionary period m France; but tragic in the extreme that she should have been compelled to model with her own hands the dead features of some of her former friends with whom she had spent many happy days at Versailles. From the Reign of Terror came fresh material for her art. One hour after it had been severed from the body Robespierre’s head was brought to her so that a death mask might be secured; and Charlotte Corday and her victim Marat were also destined to have their features modelled after death. In 1802, after her marriage with Francois Tussaud, she England a collection of ofugles that soon eclipsed the rather antiquated Fleet street display known as Airs Salmon’s Wax Work.” The Strand, Blackheath, and many provincial towns provided in turn a home for the models; but in 1833 Madame Tussaud came to Baker street, and there, /liter attracting thousands by an. excollent representation of the famous pnma donna, Madame Marie Malinran, she determined that celebrities of the hour should thenceforth have a place of honour in the exhibition. The success of this policy can be gauged +f 0m • bestowed to-day on the effigies of such interesting worthies r S Ton 1 ', 1 ' J^^er ail( T Signor Mussolini, in 1884 more room became necessary and the present site adjoining Baker street Station was chosen. During the war period the portrait of the Kaiser was so maltreated that it had to bo removed; but far more serious was the effect of the; fire which in March, utterly ruined the building and its contents. From the moulds, fortunately preserved, the new exhibition rose after long and arduous toil, and on April 26, 1928, the doors were once more opened to tbe public. So much has already been gaid about the prominent figures in the exhibition that everyone could hazard a guess as to the names of a score or so of the modc.s it contains and be perfectly sure that they were all on display. As we enter the Grand Hall a French coquette frowns upon Voltaire, who is smiling shrewdly, while Joan of Arc with uplifted eyes seems to be praying for the fire of heaven to descend upon them both. Sir Francis Drake, holding a map in his hand, looks rather worried; but Kitchener and the Duke of Wellington are splendidly austere. From the Royal Family we must, of course, single out the sweetly-smiling Princess Elizabeth, not merely because we know that by so doing we may win popular applause, but because she really does look very charming indeed. A iittle further along Lord Nelson, Earl Beatty, and Earl Jellicoo hold' conference with Lord Fisher, who looks as_ if he were searching for suitable epithets wherewith to adorn the occasion ; and among historic ministers we cannot fail to admire Gladstone, Salisbury, Cobden, Lord Palmerston, John Bright, and the ever-fresh and debonair Joseph Chamberlain. Not far distant is Napoleon, who does not seem to be enjoying the proceedings at all, and, lest we forget our American friends, we are soon brought face to face with the Presidents of the United States. Abraham Lincoln looks a little too neat and tidy, and Herbert C. Hoover has been .removed for alterations.

Next we arc greeted by the ecclesiastical group—John Knox, thumb in belt; William of Wykeham, with pastoral staff; the stern Calvin, side by side with the gentle Wesley; Martin Luther, a very solid and prosperouslooking gentleman ; Cardinal Newman, sainthood written on his face; General Booth, John Wycliffe, and—happy augury—the Archbishop of Canterbury chatting amicably with Pope Pius XI. Having recovered from this minor shock we are now in a position to view the past and present members of Parliament. Tile National Cabinet looks very pensive indeed. “ Stands England where she did?’.’ we ask, fearing some dire calamity. However, William Pitt does not seem to be paying very much attention, so all may yet be well. A little further along we find what might be termed the square-jawed section—Hindenburg, Mussolini, and Hitler. The latter is an extremely’ fine model ; we almost feel that we should like to catch hold of that uplifted hand and bring it down to a more restful position. In the literary’ corner we meet Caxton, Dickens, Macaulay, and Milton ; Sir Walter Scott, witli his dog and gun ; Lord Byron. Burns, Bacon, Wells, and Hardy; Bernard Shaw holding something which looks suspiciously like a Bible (or is it Shakespeare?): Victor Hugo, Barrie. Chaucer, and Kipling, and a perfectly preposterous Shakespeare in the traditional head-on-hand attitude. Why. oh why, do wo persist in representing our greatest dramatist as if he were the village idiot reclining against a lamp-post? Always that urbane, expressionless face! Come, let us go quickly to the next room. There, at least, we may be able to revive our flagging spirits.

The Hall of Tableaux is decidedly good. Though the scene that depicts the granting of .Magna Carta is not particularly impressive, the tableau representing the murder of the Princes in the Tower is exceedingly well staged. Here the lighting is most effective, and more is achieved by suggestion than by actual gruesome detail. Harold with the arrow in his eye has an air of unreality, however true historically the incident may be; but the death ol General Gordon is well represented, and in the execution of Mary Queen oi Scots there is not the slightest doubt that the axe is really an axe. Close by, Wellington watches over the body of Napoleon lying in state. The death of Nelson is moderately well depicted, and we pass on to some relics of the French Revolution —the original guillotine knife that decapitated Louix XV l and Marie Antoinette, a key of tho Bastille, and all that is left of the travelling carriage of Napoleon. 1 And When Did You Last See Your Father f’ is the title of the next tableau, and the English history scries is rounded off with the arrest of Guy Fawkes. By some clever device we are now presented with two changing pictures of the arena in ancient Rome. First wo see the early Christians in their cell; then we admire the lions feasting in the arena, and think of the little gir! who complained that one poor lion was not getting his share. Lastly, by way of comic relief, we find a tableau for the ' youngsters—Cinderella, Humpty Oumpty, Jack the Giant Killer, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, Dick Whittington, and Mickey Mouse. Truth may bo stranger than fiction, but fairy tales, we feel, arc just as true as the most engrossing events in history. Tho Hall of the Record-makers is crowded with famous aviators, explorers, musicians, actors, athletes, and personalities of the day. Of these the film artists arc a rather disappointing group. Tho rest will pass; yet we cannot help fee! ing, except in the case of a few great men whose glory will indeed live for ever, that in a few years’ lime some of the favourites here displayed will need to be removed to make way for more so-called heroes. Not that we wish to belittle their exploits, but there is a definite lack of proportion about the section that makes it seem rather like an anti-climax. The Hall of Kings has the same depressing effect. Though we realise the worth and dignity of this magnificent assembly, we grow a little impatient of what is apt to remind us of our old and rather neglected history text-books. Perhaps it is the fault of our education or. even of ourselves, or perhaps (shameful confession!) it is due to our impatience to descend the main staircase, turn left, and enter the longawaited Chamber of Horrors. The name sounds much better in French—“ La Salle Sinistra ” —and better still in German—“ Schrcckenskaramer.” Trying to appear as unconcerned as possible, we go down the steps to the vault beneath. By way of appetiser we are greeted at the entrance with numerous relics of Old Newgate and kindred institutions—washing bowls used by convicts, a chained copy of the Newgate Calendar, a black cap belonging to Baron Wensleydale, who condemned tho last man hanged for sheep stealing, and a ghastly collection of leg-crushers, handcuffs, tongue presses, wrist screws, leg irons, branding irons, and masks of ignominy. Further to arouse our more morbid instincts, we are shown relics of such notorious murderers as Charles Peace and George Joseph Smith, and an interesting copy of the ‘ Otological Gazette,’ 1909, edited by H. H. Crippen, M.D. (U.S.A.). Somewhat moved by this brief but impressive introduction to the underworld, we timidly step into the Chamber of Horrors itself. Immediately we experience a feeling of disappointment. The lighting is dim, and gruesome faces peer at us from the rafters s but we find it extremely difficult to distinguish between the murderers and the members of the National Cabinet whom we saw on the first floor. Frederick Bywaters is indeed a fine-lodking gentleman, for all the world like a budding M.P. Landru, the French “ Bluebeard,” seems to be trying to deliver a sermon, while Crippen himself wears an expression that we were taught at Sunday school to consider as seraphic in the extreme. Mrs Dyer, whose practice was to strangle babies and drop them into the Thames, certainly looks more purposeful; and Charles Pence, shown in one of his numerous clever disguises, is also open to suspicion ; but, we are quite sure that it would be impossible to discover a more affable-looking gentleman than William Palmer, the Rugeloy poisoner.

Yo';, to do the Chamber of Horrors justice, there are indeed gome grisly relics within its walls, and however cynical one may be at the time, afterrecollections are by no means pleasant. The Man in the Iron Cage, suspended from the castle walls beyond the reach of all help; Marat, stabbed while in his bath by Charlotte Corday; the guillotine and the last treadmill, its steps worn by the tramping of many feet; and a number of other exhibits directly connected with some crime—these are not easily dismissed from the imagination. It is possible to go through the Chamber of Horrors and boast that you have been but little perturbed; yet, in more thoughtful moments, certain images will persist in haunting your mind, for the imagination is ever stronger than reality. Even the facsimile of the mocking letter sent by Jack the llipper to the police in 1888 acquires a more horrible significance when, later on, we meditate on the insane glee that actuated tin’s most fiendish of murderers. Yet, when at last we emerge, we find to our intense amazement that even the most gruesome things that we have seen have not been able to influence us so strongly as the quiet, peaceful faces of Crippen and his companions in crime. As we walk along the Marylebone road we look apprehensively at each pedestrian we meet, wondering whether the mild-eyed man with the spectacles may not be scheming how best to murder his wife, or whether the little woman with the perambulator is not concealing in its depths the remains of her last unhappy victim. Then our thoughts turn to the other side of the picture—the good and groat of all ages who stand muto hut not inglorious in the four large halls, ever so much more spacious than the vaults below. Perhaps, wo reflect, as we munch our toast at supper, the world is not such a bad place after all.