Celebrities in Wax

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 388, 23 June 1928, Page 26

Celebrities in Wax

Madame Tussaud’s Reopens

(Written for THE SUN by PAMELA TRAVERS.)

» HAVE just returned home from a most awe-inspiring experience—a visit to Madame Tussaud's. I have looked Immortality in the eye and I do not like her. She is a jade —a lying jade. May my dust be forever forgotten when eventually it is dust rather than be immortalised in wax and painty Tussaud’s is no longer the florid, rather exotic building it was before the fire. Like the phoenix it has risen from its own ashes —but, oh, how changed. Gone are the Victorian iron railings that surrounded it —Tussaud’s now sits squat upon the very pavement with nothing between it and us but a horde of spruikers and a ticket grille. Never having seen the waxworks before, I went with a fresh and innocent heart and full of lively anticipation. Half-way up the gilded stairs that remind one rather of the royal suites one sees in films I asked a brown-garbed commissionaire whether I should turn left or right. His eyes showed no answering gleam, his lips did not move. He stared at me contemptuously, glassily. A waxwork! Why, I know not —but the sight of this apparently human but really most inhuman creature filled me with terror. I darted down the stairs ‘again and -would have been out in the street and into a bus had not my companion arraigned me for cowardice. I crept back again and slunk past the contemptuous image. Further up I found a policeman and prepared to slink past him—but with a cheery and most human grin he said, comfortingly, “I’ts orl right, mum, I’m real!” Oh, the relief! I came then to the Grand Hall, where an enormous crowd had gathered curiously. They were moved on by policemen and commissionaires, one of whom tucked me into a miniature space in the queue and told me to get forward. I got forward with as much rapidity as was possible and came upon the Royal Family with the lesser princes and princesses draped tastefully about the scarlet and gold canopy that covered the royal heads. King George’s effigy looked as if he had no neck —he does not make a good waxwork —but Queen Mary smiled as graciously at me as if I were wearing three feathers and a train instead of tweeds. The Prince of Wales was mildly formidable in a busby hut I thought the Duchess of York looked a little as though she had been opening too many bazaars and cutting the ribbons of too many new roads. The minor celebrities gazed tenderly at the crowd and smiled ingratiating smiles as those who say: “tVe’re also fairly important —do notice us if you have a moment to spare!” This group of gorgeousness attracted by far the largest portion of the crowd. It seemed as though they could not drag themselves away from contemplation of the Royal Ones. Mere Great Ones were not a bit interesting to .them. My dislike of graven images increased when I saw the whole of the Government and Opposition ranged about their Majesties. Do human people look like that? How terrible. Better to be a blade of grass or a withered thorn than like these. Mr. Baldwin’s image was years older than he, but contrariwise the waxen Lloyd George looked at least 40 years younger than the real one, and he had the complexion of a beautiful child. Ramsay Macdonald bristled mildly at me as I went past to the men of war. There was Hindenburg, twice lifesize for some unknown reason, there was Joffre rubbing shoulders with

Jellicoe, Kitchener towering over Roberts, the ex-Tsar of Russia smiling a feeble, ingratiating smile at Albert of Belgium. Little John Travers Cornwall, V.C., stood close to Nurse Cavell as though for protection, and close at hand were the colonial Prime Ministers: Stanley Melbourne Bruce and Gordon Coates standing stalwartly together. The waxen, painted creatures sailed past me unendingly—or did I sail past them? I cannot be sure. Everything there was so unreal and fantastic that I felt like the ancient poet who dreamed he was a butterfly and when he woke could not be sure whether he was a man turned butterfly or a butterfly turned man.

But I came at. last to a room whose inhabitants filled me with no grief—since they were not drawn from life. The ancient kings of England, for instance, in lovely unbelievable brocades and pleasantly unreal postures. Here illusion began and here the wax took on charm and meaning. Henry the Much-Married stood like a happy Jove among his many spouses—(spice?) brave, gallant, debonair with no hint of his dreadsome deeds on his handsome, lineless face. How tenderly did Anne Boleyne turn to him; with what pride, what love! Anne of Cleves was a little sombre, as though she were busy with a private dream, but Jane Seymour showed her mettle by lifting a billowing skirt of heavy velvet and displaying coquettishlv tiniest (surely!) foot that ever bore woman along corridor or lawn. Catherine Parr had a stormy determined face, and I could well believe, looking at her, how she outlived Henry. He would never have 1 dared to lop off that proud head. A lovely group. It was pleasant, too, to see the announcement to Queen Victoria of her accession. A slender girl in a blue dressing-gown ruched with pink, stood, her brown hair streaming, in a gilded room whose walls blossomed profusely with discreetly naked cupids who twined flowers and ribbons about their heads and waists. The two tellers of the news were realistically dusty and travel-stained —-for had they not ridden post haste from London to Richmond with the tidings? The Arrest of Guy Fawkes and the Granting of Magna Charta were full of charm, but the best tableau of all. showed the little princes in the Tower. There they lay in a huge four-poster bed, so small, so rosy, the elder with his arm flung round his brother’s shoulders protectively. Two ruffianly villains were engaged in tearing the white sheets and the tapestried quilt from the tiny forms—but somehow the sight did not fill me with horror. For they must stand there forever, holding the lace and velvet. The daggers will never be drawn, the four-poster never rifled of its treasure, and the babes will sleep forever in that smiling peace of theirs. (Continued on Page 27)