who “came drooping like a willow to the sculptor, desiring a monument,
and declaring that she did not care what money was expended on the
memory of one she loved so. ‘Do what you please, but oh! do it quickly,’
were her parting orders. Nollekens went to work, made the design,
finished the model, and began to look for a block of marble to carve it
from, when in dropped the lady--she had been absent some three months.
‘Poor soul,’ said the sculptor, when she was announced, ‘I thought she
would come soon, but I am ready.’ The lady came light of foot, and
lighter of look. ‘Ah, how do you do, Mr. Nollekens? Well, you have not
commenced the model?’ ‘Aye, but I have though,’ returned the sculptor,
‘and there it stands, finished.’ ‘There it is, indeed,’ sighed the lady,
throwing herself into a chair; they looked at one another for a minute’s
space or so--she spoke first. ‘These, my good friend, are, I know, early
days for this little change’--she looked at her dress, from which the
early profusion of crape had disappeared,--‘but since I saw you, I have
met with an old Roman acquaintance of yours, who has made me an offer,
and I don’t know how he would like to see in our church a monument of
such expense to my late husband. Indeed, on second thoughts, it would
perhaps be considered quite enough, if I got our mason to put up a mural
tablet, and that you know he can cut very prettily.’ ‘My charge, madam,
for the model,’ said the sculptor, ‘is one hundred guineas.’ ‘Enormous!
enormous!’ said the lady, but drew out her purse and paid it.” The
mutability of human nature!
NOLLEKENS’ COMPLIMENTS.
Cunningham says that a portion of his sitters “were charmed into
admirers by the downright bluntness of his compliments, which they
regarded as so many testimonies on oath of their beauty. As a specimen
of his skill in the difficult art of pleasing, take the following
anecdotes. He was modelling the head of a lady of rank, when she forgot
herself, changed her position, and looked more loftily than he wished.
‘Don’t look so scorney, woman,’ said the sculptor, modelling all the
while, ‘else you will spoil my bust--and you’re a very fine woman--I
think it will make one of my very best busts.’ Another time he said to a
lady, who had a _serious_ squint, ‘Look for a minute the other way, for
then I shall get rid of a slight shyness in your eye, which, though not
ungraceful in life, is unusual in art.’ On another occasion, a lady with
some impatience in her nature was sitting for her portrait; every minute
she changed her position, and with every change of position put on a
change of expression, until his patience gave way. ‘Lord, woman!’
exclaimed the unceremonious sculptor, ‘what’s the matter how handsome
you are, if you won’t sit still till I model you!’ The lady smiled, and
sat ever afterwards like a lay figure.”
AN OVERPLUS OF MODESTY.
It has been remarked by some close observer, that modesty is like shadow
in a picture--too much of it obscures real excellence, while the proper
medium exhibits all parts in agreeable relief. John Riley, an English
portrait painter who flourished in the latter part of the seventeenth
century, was a proof that one may have a superabundance of this in
itself excellent quality. Walpole says, “He was one of the best native
artists who had flourished in England; but he was very modest, had the
greatest diffidence of himself, and was easily disgusted with his own
works. His talents were obscured by the fame rather than by the merit of
Kneller, and with a quarter of the latter’s vanity, he might have
persuaded the world that he was as great a master.” He was but little
noticed until the death of Lely, when Chiffinch being persuaded to sit
to him, the picture was shown, and recommended him to the king. Charles
II. sat to him, but almost discouraged the bashful artist from pursuing
a profession so proper for him. Looking at the picture, he cried, “Is
this like me? Then od’s fish, I’m an ugly fellow!” This discouraged
Riley so much that he could not bear the picture, though he sold it for
a large price. However, he kept on, and had the satisfaction of painting
James II. and his Queen, and also their successors, who appointed him
their painter. Riley died three years after the accession of William and
Mary, in 1691.
THE ARTIST FOOTMAN.
Edward Norgate, an English painter of excellent judgment in pictures,
was sent into Italy by the Earl of Arundel to purchase works of art. On
returning, however, he was disappointed in receiving remittances, and
was obliged to remain some time in Marseilles. Being totally unknown
there, he used frequently to walk for several hours in a public part of
the city, with a most dejected air; and while thus engaged, he was
occasionally observed by a merchant, who, doubtless impelled by kind
feelings, ventured one day to speak to the wanderer, and told him that
so much walking would have soon brought him to the end of his journey,
when Norgate confessed his inability to proceed for want of money. The
merchant then inquired into his circumstances, and told him that
perceiving he was able to walk at least twenty miles a day, if he would
set out on his journey homeward, he would furnish him handsomely for a
foot traveler. By this assistance, Norgate arrived in his own country.
AN ARCHITECT’S STRATAGEM.
William Winde, a Dutch architect who visited England in the reign of
Charles II., erected, among other works, Buckingham House in St. James’
Park, for the Duke of Bucks. He had nearly finished this edifice, but
the payment was most sadly in arrears. Accordingly Winde enticed the
Duke one day to mount upon the leads, to enjoy the grand prospect. When
there, he coolly locked the trapdoor and threw the key over the parapet,
addressing his astounded patron, “I am a ruined man, and unless I have
your word of honor that the debts shall be paid, I will instantly throw
myself over.” “And what is to become of me?” asked the Duke. “You shall
go along with me!” returned the desperate architect. This prospect of
affairs speedily drew from the Duke the wished-for promise, and the
trapdoor was opened by a workman below, who was a party in the plot.
THE FREEDOM OF THE TIMES IN THE REIGN OF CHARLES II.
The freedom allowed in social intercourse is well illustrated by a
sketch in the account of Graham. William Wissing, a Dutch painter who
succeeded Sir Peter Lely in fashionable portrait painting in England,
was noted for his complaisant manners, which recommended him to most
people’s esteem, “In drawing his portraits, especially those of the fair
sex, he always took the _beautiful_ likeness; and when any lady came to
sit to him whose complexion was in any ways pale, he would commonly take
her by the hand and dance her about the room till she became warmer; by
which means he heightened her natural beauty, and made her fit to be
represented by his hand”!
HANNEMAN’S PICTURE OF “PEACE”
Descamps says that Adrian Hanneman painted for the States of Holland an
emblematical subject of Peace, impersonated by a beautiful young female
habited in white satin, and seated on a throne. The picture was very
charming, so much so that the gallant burgomasters presented the living
model who served for it with a gratuity of 1000 florins!
WEESOP.
This Dutch painter is chiefly known in England, for his successful
imitations of Vandyck. He spent some time there, but left in 1649,
saying, “He would never stay in a country where they cut off their
king’s head, and were not ashamed of the action.” Walpole remarks that
it would have been more sensible to say, he would not stay where they
cut off the head of a king who rewarded painters, and then defaced and
sold his collection.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] “I cannot forbear quoting Madame Hahn-Hahn’s reflections on the
Museum of Seville, and the custody of pictures in that city in 1841.
“‘It is wretched to see how these invaluable jewels of pictures are
preserved! Uncleaned’ (this is at least some comfort), ‘without the
necessary varnish, sometimes without frames, they lean against the
walls, or stand unprotected in the passages where they are copied.
Every dauber may mark his squares upon them, to facilitate his drawing;
and since these squares are permanent in some pictures in order to
spare these admirable artists the trouble of renewing them, the threads
have, in certain cases, begun to leave their impression on the picture.
The proof of this negligence is the fact that we found to-day the
mark of a finger-nail on the St. Augustine, which was not there on
the first day that we saw it. We can only thank God if nothing worse
than a finger-nail make a scar on the picture! It stands there on the
ground, without a frame, leaning against the wall. One might knock it
over, or kick one’s foot through it! There is to be sure a kind of
ragged custode sitting by, but if one were to give him a couple of
dollars he would hold his tongue; he is, moreover, always sleeping, and
yawns as if he would put his jaws out. He does not forget, however, on
these occasions to make the sign of the cross with his thumb, opposite
his open mouth, for fear the devils should fly in--such is the common
belief. You see clearly that with this amount of neglect and want
of order, the same fate awaits all the Murillos here as has already
befallen Leonardo’s Last Supper at Milan. These are all collected in
two public buildings, in the church of the Caridad and in the Museum.
‘The Caridad was a hospital or charitable institution. The pictures
were brought thither from Murillo’s own studio; there are five--Moses,
the Feeding of the Five Thousand, the St. Juan de Dios, a little
Salvator Mundi, and a small John the Baptist; the sixth, the pendant
to the St. Juan de Dios, the St. Elizabeth with the Sick, has been
carried to the Museum at Madrid. It is very questionable whether
these fine pictures will be still in the Caridad in ten years’ time.
Nothing would be easier than to smuggle out the two small pictures! A
painter comes--copies them--does not stand upon a few dollars more or
less--takes off the originals and leaves the copies behind in their
places, which are high up and badly lighted--the pictures are gone
for ever! This sort of proceeding is not impossible here, and Baron
Taylor’s purchases for Paris prove the fact. It cannot of course be
done without corruption and connivance on the part of the official
guardians; and after all one has hardly the courage to lament it. The
pictures are, in fact, saved--they are protected and duly valued;
whilst to me it is completely a matter of indifference whether a
custode, on account of this sort of sin, suffer a little more or a
little less in Purgatory.’”--Reisebriefe, ii. s. 126-8.
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
Charles I. of England, in 1530, purchased the Mantuan collection for
£20,000=> Charles I. of England, in 1630, purchased the Mantuan
collection for £20,000 {pg 263}
Fragment d’un Traité sur les Moveuments du corp humain=> Fragment d’un
Traité sur les Mouvements du corps humain {pg 275}