When Gogin and I were taking our Easter holiday this year we went, among
other places, to Ypres. We put up at the Hôtel Tête d’Or and found it
exquisitely clean, comfortable and cheap, with a charming old-world,
last-century feeling. It was Good Friday, and we were to dine _maigre_;
this was so clearly _de rigueur_ that we did not venture even the
feeblest protest.
When we came down to dinner we were told that there were two other
gentlemen, also English, who were to dine with us, and in due course they
appeared—the one a man verging towards fifty-eight, a kind of cross
between Cardinal Manning and the late Mr. John Parry, the other some ten
years younger, amiable-looking and, I should say, not so shining a light
in his own sphere as his companion. These two sat on one side of the
table and we opposite them. There was an air about them both which said:
“You are not to try to get into conversation with us; we shall not let
you if you do; we dare say you are very good sort of people, but we have
nothing in common; so long as you keep quiet we will not hurt you; but if
you so much as ask us to pass the melted butter we will shoot you.” We
saw this and so, during the first two courses, talked _sotto voce_ to one
another, and made no attempt to open up communications.
With the third course, however, there was a new arrival in the person of
a portly gentleman of about fifty-five, or from that to sixty, who was
told to sit at the head of the table, and accordingly did so. This
gentleman had a decided manner and carried quite as many guns as the two
barristers (for barristers they were) who sat opposite to us. He had
rather a red nose, he dined _maigre_ because he had to, but he did not
like it. I do not think he dined _maigre_ often. He had something of
the air of a half, if not wholly, broken-down blackguard of a gambler who
had seen much but had moved in good society and been accustomed to have
things more or less his own way.
This gentleman, who before he went gave us his card, immediately opened
up conversation both with us and with our neighbours, addressing his
remarks alternately and impartially to each. He said he was an Italian
who had the profoundest admiration for England. I said at once—
“Lei non può amare l’Inghilterra più che io amo ed ammiro l’Italia.”
The Manning-Parry barrister looked up with an air of slightly offended
surprise. Conversation was from this point carried on between both
parties through the Italian who acted, as Gogin said afterwards, like one
of those stones in times of plague on which people from the country put
their butter and eggs and people from the town their money.
By and by dealings became more direct between us and at last, I know not
how, I found myself in full discussion with the elder barrister as to
whether Jean Van Eyck’s picture in the National Gallery commonly called
“Portrait of John Arnolfini and his Wife” should not properly be held to
be a portrait of Van Eyck himself (which, by the way, I suppose there is
no doubt that it should not, though I have never gone into the evidence
for the present inscription). Then they spoke of the tricks of light
practised by De Hooghe; so we rebelled, and said De Hooghe had no
tricks—no one less—and that what they called trick was only observation
and direct rendering of nature. Then they applauded Tintoretto, and so
did we, but still as men who were bowing the knee to Baal. We put in a
word for Gaudenzio Ferrari, but they had never heard of him. Then they
played Raffaelle as a safe card and we said he was a master of line and a
facile decorator, but nothing more.
On this all the fat was in the fire, for they had invested in Raffaelle
as believing him to be the Three per Cents of artistic securities. Did I
not like the “Madonna di S. Sisto”? I said, “No.” I said the large
photo looked well at a distance because the work was so concealed under a
dark and sloppy glaze that any one might see into it pretty much what one
chose to bring, while the small photo looked well because it had gained
so greatly by reduction. I said the Child was all very well as a child
but a failure as a Christ, as all infant Christs must be to the end of
time. I said the Pope and female saint, whoever she was, were
commonplace, as also the angels at the bottom. I admitted the beauty of
line in the Virgin’s drapery and also that the work was an effective
piece of decoration, but I said it was not inspired by devotional or
serious feeling of any kind and for impressiveness could not hold its own
with even a very average Madonna by Giovanni Bellini. They appealed to
the Italian, but he said there was a great reaction against Raffaelle in
Italy now and that few of the younger men thought of him as their fathers
had done. Gogin, of course, backed me up, so they were in a minority.
It was not at all what they expected or were accustomed to. I yielded
wherever I could and never differed without giving a reason which they
could understand. They must have seen that there was no malice prepense,
but it always came round to this in the end that we did not agree with
them.
Then they played Leonardo Da Vinci. I had not intended saying how
cordially I dislike him, but presently they became enthusiastic about the
head of the Virgin in the “Vierge aux Rochers” in our Gallery. I said
Leonardo had not succeeded with this head; he had succeeded with the
angel’s head lower down to the right (I think) of the picture, but had
failed with the Madonna. They did not like my talking about Leonardo Da
Vinci as now succeeding and now failing, just like other people. I said
it was perhaps fortunate that we knew the “Last Supper” only by
engravings and might fancy the original to have been more full of
individuality than the engravings are, and I greatly questioned whether I
should have liked the work if I had seen it as it was when Leonardo left
it. As for his caricatures he should not have done them, much less
preserved them; the fact of his having set store by them was enough to
show that there was a screw loose about him somewhere and that he had no
sense of humour. Still, I admitted that I liked him better than I did
Michael Angelo.
Whatever we touched upon the same fatality attended us. Fortunately
neither evolution nor politics came under discussion, nor yet, happily,
music, or they would have praised Beethoven and very likely Mendelssohn
too. They did begin to run Nuremberg and it was on the tip of my tongue
to say, “Yes, but there’s the flavour of _Faust_ and Goethe”; however, I
did not. In course of time the séance ended, though not till nearly ten
o’clock, and we all went to bed.
Next morning we saw them at breakfast and they were quite tame. As Gogin
said afterwards:
“They came and sat on our fingers and ate crumbs out of our hands.”
[1887.]