by the hand. He was some important diplomat's
aide-de-camp, and was covered with medals of all
THE PLOUGH, MUSEUM STREET
kinds and gold braid. I was introduced to him and
we became the centre of interest of all the old ladies
and gentlemen. My friends still had my flat in
Great James Street and I thought that I would stay
there. When I got there I found that they had gone
(the First World War the restaurant of the Hôtel de la Tour Eiffel at 1
Percy
Street, London W1, became a favourite haunt of Augustus John,Wyndham
Lewis, Nancy
Cunard and their literary friends. T. E. Hulme's Poet's Club, including
the subsequent founders of Imagism, F. S. Flint and Ezra Pound, met
there in 1910, and Wyndham Lewis launched the Vorticist
magazine Blast there in 1914. Both Lewis and Roberts produced decorations for the restaurant, and
Roberts describes it in his posthumously published memoir 'The "Twenties"'. This group portrait shows the Vorticists Cuthbert Hamilton, Ezra Pound, William
Roberts, Wyndham Lewis, Frederick Etchells (holding the first issue of Blast), Edward Wadsworth, Jessie Dismoor and Helen Saunders, the waiter – Joe – and the Tour Eiffel's proprietor, Rudolph Stulik. Roberts commented on the evenings at the restaurant in his article 'Wyndham Lewis, the Vorticist' in The Listener on 21 March 1957: 'In my memory la cuisine Française and Vorticism are indissolubly linked.' Wyndham Lewis had been living in Percy
Street since 1914 and having most of his meals next door at the Tour Eiffel. He soon
became a favourite of Stulik's, who, according to Roberts, used to tell him: 'I vould
[sic] do anyting [sic] for Mr Lewis.' In the earlier part of 1915 Lewis was deeply involved with his new
magazine Blast and the promulgation in it of Vorticism. He had
gathered a group of adoring, and
not so adoring, artists around him. From his next-door flat he swept
them round to
Stulik's for dinner on a number of occasions, the meals being paid for
by a mixture
of Stulik's individual style of accounting – which allowed his rich
clientele to pay for his impoverished, but talented, clientele
– and by these talented young people earning their keep. That is, in the
case of Lewis
– and later Roberts – making paintings for Stulik's growing, but
artistically haphazard, collection. The White Tower first opened as a restaurant in 1896. The building soon became The Eiffel Tower restaurant, becoming inextricably linked with artists and bohemians, in particular the Post-Impressionist and The Vorticist movements, throughout the 20s and 30s. The restaurant was immortalised in William Roberts’ painting, now in the possession of the Tate Gallery, “The Vorticists at the Restaurant de La Tour Eiffel”.The restaurant remained in the hands of owner Rudolf Stulik until 1943, when it passed into the care of Greek restaurateur Yanni Stais and it became The White Tower in 1949.
For over forty years The White Tower enjoyed a reputation for excellence and was enthusiastically lauded by some Soho gourmets as “the greatest Greek restaurant in the world’. Yanni presided over what had become one of London’s most famous restaurants until his death in 1983, and The White Tower remained on the site until The No.1 Cigar Club took up its residency in 1997.)
away and had taken the key with them.
I went to
the Eiffel Tower where I found Tommy Earp.
Tommy said that he had a spare room at Regent
Square 
and I could stay there until I could get my
key from my friends. I had dinner at the Eiffel and
we decided to call on the way back to Regent
Square,
on a friend of ours who lived in Bedford
Square. 
We rang her up and she asked us to come
and see her. When we arrived she unfolded a tragic
story. Her father had gone away that morning
leaving a very old mahogany box in the drawing-
room, containing bottles of brandy and wine, but
the key could not be found. We all gazed at this
very solid looking box, with its iron lock and enor
mous keyhole. Silently Tommy took the poker, I
took a corkscrew, our hostess took a nail file, and
another girl took a fork and got seriously to work on
the box. We wrenched and dug and poked furiously
for about ten minutes with no success at all. Finally,
Tommy attacked the hinge with the poker and it
showed signs of opening but, alas! the box lifted
from the ground and then dropped down with a
thud and a dreadful noise of smashing glass. Out
of it poured a long river of red liquid. Tommy, with
great presence of mind, seized a tumbler and held
it between the lid and the box. He filled the glass.
From another portion of the box a small stream
trickled along the parquet floor and made rivulets,
which formed into a small lake. This was all very
disheartening. We shared the glass. It tasted like
brandy, red wine, and mahogany. Later on our
friend went out to replace the bottles. She bought
whisky and red wine. Next morning she found
the key of the box in an envelope addressed to
her brother in the hall. The bottles did not con
tain whisky but brandy. After this disaster we
went to Regent Square. Some time before, the
flat had been shared by
Aldous Huxley and his wife.
Upstairs lived two elderly ladies. They made,
sometimes in the evenings, a great deal of noise.
The landlord was a retired vicar. Aldous wrote a
letter complaining of the noise and asked him if he
would be kind enough to ask the ladies to stop their
nocturnal " bombinations "; the French slang for
raising hell and disturbing everyone is to faire la
bombe, and this word was an invention of his. The
Vicar wrote a pained letter back and said that he
was quite certain that the Misses A. were quite
incapable of committing any kind of abomination.
The flat was, at this time, shared by Russell Green
and his wife. Russell had been a contemporary of
Tommy's at Oxford. Facing the Square was a large
room with two windows and book-cases with very
fine books. First editions of Restoration Plays and
all kinds of rare and interesting works. By the
window was a telephone and in front of the fire was
a large wicker " Oxford " armchair. Near the door
was a divan on which Tommy slept. As I had
travelled all day and was tired I said that I would
like to go to bed. Tommy gave me a bottle of Bass
to drink, if I was thirsty during the night, and went
into the kitchen, saying that he was going to cook
earpsome onions. He showed me my room, which was
at the back and facing some roofs. I had been
foolish enough to register my luggage only as far as
Calais and had no clothes at all except what I had
on. I had to sleep in a very old,, short, and ragged
chemise. About five a.m. I woke up choking. The
room was full of smoke and smelt as if something
was burning. I did not take this very seriously as I
thought that Tommy had probably burnt the
onions. I tried to sleep and suddenly there was a
banging on the door and I heard Tommy say,
" Don't you think that you had better get up, you
know the house is on fire." I jumped out of bed and
opened the door. In burst flames and smoke. The
smoke was so thick in the passage that I could not
breathe, and I seized a towel, which I stuffed into
my mouth, and held my nose. I found my way
downstairs, still in the very short chemise and, stand
ing at the bottom of the staircase, was the vicar with
his hat on. I found out afterwards that the reason
that he wore his hat was that he usually wore a wig
and during the excitement was unable to lay his
hand on it. I felt slightly embarrassed and so, I
think, did the Vicar. I saw an umbrella-stand and
hat-rack and on it hung a clergyman's top coat. I
grabbed it and put it on as, after the fiery furnace
upstairs, I felt rather cold. Russell Green had gone
to the nearest fire alarm and sent for the Fire
Brigade. He came back and he and his wife and I
took some of the clergyman's chairs and sat in a row
just inside the front door waiting for the firemen.
They arrived in a few minutes and laid on the hose,
We still sat on our chairs and rested our feet on the
hose pipe. Tommy never came down at all. He
was upstairs in the kitchen handing the firemen
beer. We asked them if they considered that it was
a good fire and one fireman said, " Not arf, burnt
the 'ole bloomin' floor out. We asked Tommy
afterwards why he did not come downstairs, and
pointed out to him the risk he was taking of being
burnt to death. He had, apparently, not thought of
that and explained that he objected to " Personal
injury. I suppose he meant fighting his way
through the flames and smoke. The fire, fortun
ately, did not get as far as the kitchen, although it
raged outside. Suddenly, Russell Green remembered
that he had left the manuscript of his novel up
stairs and I realized that my passport was in my
room. We took each other by the hand and went
upstairs through the flames and smoke. He found
his manuscript and I snatched my passport from
the dressing-table, which I was able to feel my way
to. It was impossible to even open one's eyes, the
smoke was so thick. To have one's lungs filled with
smoke is a most disagreeable feeling and I hope that
I shall never be in another fire. Apparently it
started by Tommy having gone to sleep, probably
having left a lighted cigarette end on the floor.
The whole of the floor of his room was burnt out
before he woke up. It was only when the sleeve
of his pyjamas became singed that he woke up.
He was very ill for days afterwards. A great many
of the books were destroyed, but fortunately he was
insured. I felt awful and arrived at a friend's flat at
about eight a.m. She said, " Where on earth have
you been to, you smell like a smoked herring? " I
said, " I am." I had a bath and was regaled with
brandy as I felt very sick.
The next day I found my friends who had my
flat and got the latch-key and stayed there. I had
to arrange about my show and get my water-
colours framed. I had hardly any money and felt
very gloomy. I could not pay for the frames so
decided to visit a kind uncle who had a business in
the city. He was the brother of my terrifying aunt.
I explained my troubles and he was kind enough
to lend me the money (I have never paid him back,
I am ashamed to say, but I will some day) to pay
for them. My luck was in a very bad way as the day
my exhibition opened there was a coal strike. I
had a good private view, that is to say, all kinds of
people came, but all I sold during the whole show
was one drawing for seven guineas. Nancy Cunard
was in London. She asked me to a luncheon party
that her mother was giving in
Garlton House
Terrace. During the morning I had arranged to
do a drawing of
Stulik, the proprietor of the Eiffel
Tower Restaurant. I worked for several hours and
did a drawing in pencil which, although I don't
think a good drawing, is, at any rate, an excellent
likeness. It occurred to me that I might as well
take it to the luncheon party and show it to Nancy,
as she knew Stulik so well. I arrived, feeling rather
nervous, and left the drawing in the hall with my
coat. The footman showed me into a drawing-
room. I had never seen Lady Cunard before, but,
of course, knew her at once by her resemblance to
Nancy* She was perfectly charming and I felt at
once at my ease. I met Lord Inchcape above and Lady
Cynthia Asquith and then Aldous Huxley, the Sit-
wells and several other people came in. I sat next
Lord Inchcape at luncheon and was rather fright
ened, but Lady Cunard is such a wonderful hostess
that no one could possibly feel nervous for more
than a second. After luncheon she sat beside me
and asked me what work I had been doing. I said
that I had spent the morning drawing Stulik and
she said how much she would like to see it. I said
that I had got it with me. I fetched it from the hall
and they all liked it very much. Lady Cunard
asked me if I would do a drawing of Nancy, and
how much would I charge ? I said boldly, " Ten
guineas and I arranged a sitting a few days later.
I did, I think, quite a good drawing and got my
cheque the next morning. If only more patrons of
art would treat artists in this way we would not be
so frequently " in the soup.
I visited my exhibition every day and felt gloomier
and gloomier. In the evening I went to the Eiffel
Tower and wondered if I should ever get back to
Paris. After the show closed, some kind person
bought a small picture and I took the first train
back to Paris. During this visit to London I had
looked with interest at the river and the dirty streets,
and began to think that I might be able, some day,
to paint them. I felt, however, that I had not yet
got all that I could from Paris and that I should
have to stay there for still some years. I had my
Ethelbert and Elizabeth White - Portrait by Nina Hamnett (1918)
water-colours sent back to France. It is impossible
to find out the reasons for people buying pictures.
I had excellent criticisms and the pictures were very
bright and gay. I have since sold them nearly all
and destroyed a few that I did not like. It is really
the greatest mistake to destroy one's drawings or
paintings. The last time I was in Paris, three and
a half years ago, I went to the studio where the
Pole still was, bought a bottle of wine, and burnt
about fifteen oil paintings and two hundred drawings
in a fit of rage. I have learnt a lesson since, as, not
so very long ago, a man turned up and said that he
would like to buy some drawings. He looked
through dozens of drawings and finally asked me if
I had any oil paintings. I looked in cupboards and
in corners and found some, and at last came to a
still-life, that I had very nearly put into the dustbin.
I took it out and showed it to him. He gazed at it
for some time and asked me how much I wanted for
it. I said " twenty guineas. " He thought for some
time and said, " I will give you fifteen guineas
down." I said, " Yes." Having not seen it for
s some years I realized that it was not so bad as I had
thought.frys painting of nina
I still lived in Modigliani's studio and painted
portraits of any kind of odd-looking person that I
could find. A friend of my Pole's had been to
Marseilles and there had found a Tunisian who was
a very tough character. He had brought him back
to Paris to be his cook, valet, and general servant.
He had very black eyes, in one of which was a cast.
He wore a check cap and a blue linen suit, no collar
and espadrilles. He would suddenly appear late at
night at the Parnasse to fetch his master home. One
suddenly turned round on the terrasse and saw him
standing like a statue. I asked him if he would
come and sit for me and one afternoon I heard a
knock on the door. The staircase was very long
and, as a rule,, one could hear people pounding and
groaning up the staircase. He sat without moving.
He was quite terrifying, as, like Landru,
he never
blinked his eyelids. I became almost hypnotized
and had to ask him to rest about every quarter of an
hour. I did a good painting of him, which was
eventually accepted by the Salon d'Automne. I
sold it the other day to Miss Ruth Baldwin, and it
now hangs near the cocktail bar in her house in Chel
sea. If one paints a good picture it is a little sad to
think that one will never see it again. I am not
actually speaking of that one, but some of mine have
gone to America and Africa and some have been
bought by people that I do not even know. I think
writers are so much luckier than painters. In the
first place it costs them nothing to write. To paint
costs money. If one paints a good picture, even a
very good one, it may have a success at an exhibition
and be sold, and it is never heard of again until
one is dead, or, perhaps not even then. If a writer
writes a book its reputation, if it is a good one, goes
on for years and the writer continues to get money
for it. Kmetty_Janos portrait of Hamnett
An extraordinary man came daily to the Cafe
Parnasse. He was very tall and frequently wore a
top-hat, a tail coat, and white spats, and carried
over his shoulders a pair of field-glasses, and he wore
an eyeglass. He did not seem to know anyone.
We could not make out what his nationality was.
He appeared to be so conceited that the Arab and
the Pole nick-named him " Mezigue "; this is the
argot for " I," " me. " Sezigue " is the argot for
" he " him just as " tezigue " is for " thou,"
" thee." One day Ortiz spoke to him and found that
he came from Chili. His father was a merchant from
Lancashire, who had gone to Chili and married
there a Chilian lady. We picked him up and found
him quite mad but very funny. He had come to Paris
to study opera singing. We pointed out to him that
Paris was not the place to study and that he ought
to go to Milan. This had not occurred to him be
fore. Later on in the evening he sang; he had a
most wonderful voice of a very beautiful quality and
most awfully loud. It shook the whole cafe. He
sang us " Pagliacci " and other operas. He was, ap
parently, quite broke and had only one other suit
of clothes besides the top-hat. He confessed shame
facedly to us that he earned his living by accompany
ing Cook's tourists round Paris in a char-a-banc.
He spoke English very well, but not so well as
Spanish, and I asked him if he would come and sit
for me in his top-hat. He was delighted and I
bought a large canvas in order to paint him life-
size. I arranged him sitting down with his legs
crossed and holding his stick and the top-hat. In
the background I put a Moroccan rug, which was a
very beautiful colour; reds and blues. This rug I
bought from one of the carpet-sellers who infest all
continental cafes, and who will walk up and down
in front of the terrasse selling rugs. We had one
particular carpet-seller who also sold coats and
necklaces and sometimes had really beautiful things
for almost nothing. One day he was pestering a
very drunken American and the American said,
" Go away, I don't want any of your goddam
stinking carpets' and our Moroccan answered, in
a deeply pained voice, " Sir, it is not the carpets that
stink, it is me." In the background of my portrait
I put my guitar and a pot of red flowers on the
floor. The white pot, his white collar, and the
spats were the only white spots in the picture. The
canvas was over five feet high, and I had to work
like the devil, even to cover it up. My Pole was
painting in the next room and now and then came
and gave me criticisms. He was an extremely in
telligent man and knew a great deal more about
painting than I did. The top-hat was indescribably
difficult, not only the drawing, but the shadows,
they were so intensely black. I used no black at all
in my palette but only dark blue, and had to paint
the rest of him in a much higher key than I would
otherwise have done. He was a splendid model
and very vain, and it was almost impossible to
stop him posing when he had once begun. One
day his Father arrived and I was asked to meet
him. He was a charming old gentleman of seventy-
six, but he did not look as old. He had long
fair whiskers and dressed in a dark blue-serge suit.
He had rather a nautical appearance. He could
not understand why I wanted to paint his son,
whose face certainly was not what the English
workman would describe as an " oil painting." He
said, "I have seven sons, this one is the best, you
can imagine what the other six are like/' I very
much wanted to know but I did not like to ask him.
I sent his portrait and four others to the Salon
d'Automne. I saw Othon Friesz,
whom I knew
quite well and who liked my work and, knowing
that he was on the committee, asked him to look
out for them. This is done in Paris as elsewhere.
I received a notice, to my astonishment, to hear that
they had all been accepted. I went to the Varnish
ing Day and found, to my surprise, that they were
not in Friesz's room at all. Each member of the
committee has a special room, where he can hang
the paintings of the people that he approves of. I
looked round the Salon and found that all mine
were very well placed in a group " On the line in
the Salle of Andre Lhote. This was very odd, as
apparently Friesz had not. been able to find my
pictures on the day that the committee had judged
them, but they had been discovered by Lhote, who
was not on speaking terms with Friesz at the time and
he had placed them in his salle. I had met Lhote
one day in 1920 at the Rotonde with Wassilieff, but
I don't think he had even seen my work and cer
tainly did not know my name, so that I considered
that it was a great compliment I had a few press
notices in the French papers and one in Polish that
was very complimentary, I decided to have a
One man show. I had met Monsieur Lucien
Vogel at the Boeuf sur le Toit. He had a very nice
Gallery in the Rue St. Florentin, just behind the
Place de la Concorde. I showed all my water-
colours that had been in London, the ones from the
Salon, the paintings of Gollioure, and some draw
ings. It really looked quite nice. In Paris artists
nearly always get a well-known critic to write a
notice. I had made the acquaintance of a promi
nent critic-editor who said that he would be de
lighted to write one for me. He came up to my
studio. The Pole hated him, he had a dreadful
voice. He wrote to me asking me to visit his office
he was the editor of an important art paper I
arrived one day in the Boulevard Raspail to see his
article. I think it mentioned my name once. It was
a long discourse on English painting and nearly all
about Roger Fry and P. Wyndham Lewis. He then
demanded two thousand francs. I was furious and
told him what I thought about him. He then told
me what he thought of me and opened the door,
pushed me out, and kicked the door to with his foot,
so I had no notice. Cocteau and Radiguet came
to the show and were most awfully nice. Gocteau
said, as he said about anything that he appre
ciated, that the drawings were, " Plus vrai que le
vrai" And Radiguet said the most charming
things: I think he had the best manners of anyone
I have ever met. Brancusi came also and was very
sweet. I think he thought they were too realistic,
which, of course, they were. I sold very few, as it is
very difficult to sell pictures in Paris if you are not
French, and have not got a picture-dealer to back
you. As, however, it often happens one sells more
pictures after a show than during it, and during the
few weeks after I did quite well.
I visited the home of my friend the Countess quite
often. She was very kind to me. One day she
invited me to a dance. I had some quite good
evening dresses that Marie and Nancy had given me
and so, fortunately, I could go out looking quite
respectable. I arrived about eleven p.m. There
were mostly French people there, very chic women,
and Miss Elsa Maxwell was playing the piano with
great vigour. I danced a lot and when the people
began to leave, the Countess said to me, " Don't
leave but stay on, we will get rid of the dull respect
able people and have some fun, avec des amis.
Leading out of the ball-room was a small room
where supper was laid. There were only about ten
people remaining. Lady Michelham who, alas! is
now dead, the Marquis de Segur, Cecile Sorel,
Madame M., a beautiful Russian, and several others
whose names I do not remember. I wore a most
beautiful dress that the Countess had given me. It
was long and straight and was covered all over with
golden spangles, which looked like fishes 3 scales. . . .
It fitted quite tight and exposed the lines of the
figure to view and I was very much pleased with
myself. The Marquis de Segur played the piano.
He played very loudly and we pelted him with
oranges, Cecile Sorel
and myself. She was a most
marvellous person, magnificently dressed, with a
most interesting face. I had seen her act and was
very much impressed with her. She was very nice
to me. She seized a large ham and said to me.
" Hold the bone while I carve it." I was at the
other side of the table and grabbed the ham bone
and pulled, as she had the fork in the ham. The
bone was only an imitation one and came out in my
hand and I fell over backwards. It was one of those
very grand hams that had been filleted. She then
grabbed me by the shoulder of my dress and said,
" Take this off and dance." This amused me as I
thought of WassiliefFs studio and my performances
there, but I said nothing and did not dance. Lady
Michelham was charming and asked me to come
and see her at her home at Passy.
I knew that she
had the most wonderful pictures and was delighted.
The party ended about four a.m. and I went home
to Montparnasse. Some days later I went to see
her. She had an enormous apartment and the foot
man showed me into a small room leading into a
big drawing-room. I sat and waited. There were
cases containing the most wonderful pottery and on
the wall the sketch for Gainsborough's Hay Cart
which is in the National Gallery. The sketch I
thought very much more beautiful than the finished
picture. The finished picture had, unfortunately,
been so much cleaned that half the paint had been
removed also. Lady Michelham
came in and sent
for some cocktails. We had a long talk about life
and gossiped about our friends. She then asked me
if I would like to see the rest of her apartment. We
went into a huge ball-room with a very fine Law
rence portrait of a lady and many other splendid
specimens of the English School. In a flat, glass
case, in the middle of the room were the most
wonderful jewels. There was one about an inch
and a half long. It represented a semi-nude man.
His torso was composed of a natural pearL The
head had been modelled in gold but the pearl was
so shaped that it represented perfectly the body of a
man. I don't think he had legs but a fish's tail that
was made of gold. There were other jewels in the
rest of the design. The case was filled with equally
beautiful pieces of jewellery. I said, with a gasp,
cc Whatever are these? " As a matter of fact I had
already guessed. Lady Michelham, whose memory
was very bad, said, " I can't remember the man's
name." I said, " Benvenuto Cellini," and she said,
"Yes, that is his name." I said that I must be
going, and she said, " Before you go my maid will
give you a little box." I guessed that it would
probably contain some clothes, as all my women
friends were most thoughtful and kind and realized
the importance of clothes, consequently I always
looked well dressed. If one is smartly dressed, even
if one lives in a garret, one can always ask more for
one's pictures. The maid handed me a cardboard
box about a foot and a half in length and a foot wide
and three inches deep, which was so heavy that I
could, only with difficulty, lift it. I placed it on the
pavement outside and waited till a taxi appeared.
"When I got it home I opened it and found four
most splendid evening dresses. They were covered
in beads and that was why the box was so heavy. I
tried them on and they fitted me perfectly. They
were long and straight and all being French models
would, to-day, have been most fashionable.
dead and M. said, " Do you believe in ghosts? " 
Some years afterwards I met 
', 
in Montparnasse and we went to the Rue Boissy 
Some nights after was the official opening of the 
stayed out three days and three nights and finally 
The cathedral of Chartres and 
which is, I think, the gayest and most 
, who Tommy in 
the way