I
Why the National Gallery should not attract so many visitors as, say,
the British Museum, I cannot explain. The latter does not contain much
that, one would suppose, appeals to the interest of the ordinary
sightseer. What knows such of prehistoric flints and scratched bones? Of
Assyrian sculpture? Of Egyptian hieroglyphics? The Greek and Roman
statuary is cold and dead. The paintings in the National Gallery glow
with colour, and are instinct with life. Yet, somehow, a few listless
wanderers saunter yawning through the National Gallery, whereas swarms
pour through the halls of the British Museum, and talk and pass remarks
about the objects there exposed, of the date and meaning of which they
have not the faintest conception.
I was thinking of this problem, and endeavouring to unravel it, one
morning whilst sitting in the room for English masters at the great
collection in Trafalgar Square. At the same time another thought forced
itself upon me. I had been through the rooms devoted to foreign schools,
and had then come into that given over to Reynolds, Morland,
Gainsborough, Constable, and Hogarth. The morning had been for a while
propitious, but towards noon a dense umber-tinted fog had come on,
making it all but impossible to see the pictures, and quite impossible
to do them justice. I was tired, and so seated myself on one of the
chairs, and fell into the consideration first of all of--why the
National Gallery is not as popular as it should be; and secondly, how it
was that the British School had no beginnings, like those of Italy and
the Netherlands. We can see the art of the painter from its first
initiation in the Italian peninsula, and among the Flemings. It starts
on its progress like a child, and we can trace every stage of its
growth. Not so with English art. It springs to life in full and splendid
maturity. Who were there before Reynolds and Gainsborough and Hogarth?
The great names of those portrait and subject painters who have left
their canvases upon the walls of our country houses were those of
foreigners--Holbein, Kneller, Van Dyck, and Lely for portraits, and
Monnoyer for flower and fruit pieces. Landscapes, figure subjects were
all importations, none home-grown. How came that about? Was there no
limner that was native? Was it that fashion trampled on home-grown
pictorial beginnings as it flouted and spurned native music?
Here was food for contemplation. Dreaming in the brown fog, looking
through it without seeing its beauties, at Hogarth's painting of Lavinia
Fenton as Polly Peachum, without wondering how so indifferent a beauty
could have captivated the Duke of Bolton and held him for thirty years,
I was recalled to myself and my surroundings by the strange conduct of a
lady who had seated herself on a chair near me, also discouraged by the
fog, and awaiting its dispersion.
I had not noticed her particularly. At the present moment I do not
remember particularly what she was like. So far as I can recollect she
was middle-aged, and was quietly yet well dressed. It was not her face
nor her dress that attracted my attention and disturbed the current of
my thoughts; the effect I speak of was produced by her strange movements
and behaviour.
She had been sitting listless, probably thinking of nothing at all, or
nothing in particular, when, in turning her eyes round, and finding
that she could see nothing of the paintings, she began to study me. This
did concern me greatly. A cat may look at the king; but to be
contemplated by a lady is a compliment sufficient to please any
gentleman. It was not gratified vanity that troubled my thoughts, but
the consciousness that my appearance produced--first of all a startled
surprise, then undisguised alarm, and, finally, indescribable horror.
Now a man can sit quietly leaning on the head of his umbrella, and glow
internally, warmed and illumined by the consciousness that he is being
surveyed with admiration by a lovely woman, even when he is middle-aged
and not fashionably dressed; but no man can maintain his composure when
he discovers himself to be an object of aversion and terror.
What was it? I passed my hand over my chin and upper lip, thinking it
not impossible that I might have forgotten to shave that morning, and in
my confusion not considering that the fog would prevent the lady from
discovering neglect in this particular, had it occurred, which it had
not. I am a little careless, perhaps, about shaving when in the country;
but when in town, never.
The next idea that occurred to me was--a smut. Had a London black,
curdled in that dense pea-soup atmosphere, descended on my nose and
blackened it? I hastily drew my silk handkerchief from my pocket,
moistened it, and passed it over my nose, and then each cheek. I then
turned my eyes into the corners and looked at the lady, to see whether
by this means I had got rid of what was objectionable in my personal
appearance.
Then I saw that her eyes, dilated with horror, were riveted, not on my
face, but on my leg.
My leg! What on earth could that harmless member have in it so
terrifying? The morning had been dull; there had been rain in the night,
and I admit that on leaving my hotel I had turned up the bottoms of my
trousers. That is a proceeding not so uncommon, not so outrageous as to
account for the stony stare of this woman's eyes.
If that were all I would turn my trousers down.
Then I saw her shrink from the chair on which she sat to one further
removed from me, but still with her eyes fixed on my leg--about the
level of my knee. She had let fall her umbrella, and was grasping the
seat of her chair with both hands, as she backed from me.
I need hardly say that I was greatly disturbed in mind and feelings, and
forgot all about the origin of the English schools of painters, and the
question why the British Museum is more popular than the National
Gallery.
Thinking that I might have been spattered by a hansom whilst crossing
Oxford Street, I passed my hand down my side hastily, with a sense of
annoyance, and all at once touched something cold, clammy, that sent a
thrill to my heart, and made me start and take a step forward. At the
same moment, the lady, with a cry of horror, sprang to her feet, and
with raised hands fled from the room, leaving her umbrella where it had
fallen.
There were other visitors to the Picture Gallery besides ourselves, who
had been passing through the saloon, and they turned at her cry, and
looked in surprise after her.
The policeman stationed in the room came to me and asked what had
happened. I was in such agitation that I hardly knew what to answer. I
told him that I could explain what had occurred little better than
himself. I had noticed that the lady had worn an odd expression, and had
behaved in most extraordinary fashion, and that he had best take charge
of her umbrella, and wait for her return to claim it.
This questioning by the official was vexing, as it prevented me from at
once and on the spot investigating the cause of her alarm and mine--hers
at something she must have seen on my leg, and mine at something I had
distinctly felt creeping up my leg.
The numbing and sickening effect on me of the touch of the object I had
not seen was not to be shaken off at once. Indeed, I felt as though my
hand were contaminated, and that I could have no rest till I had
thoroughly washed the hand, and, if possible, washed away the feeling
that had been produced.
I looked on the floor, I examined my leg, but saw nothing. As I wore my
overcoat, it was probable that in rising from my seat the skirt had
fallen over my trousers and hidden the thing, whatever it was. I
therefore hastily removed my overcoat and shook it, then I looked at my
trousers. There was nothing whatever on my leg, and nothing fell from my
overcoat when shaken.
Accordingly I reinvested myself, and hastily left the Gallery; then took
my way as speedily as I could, without actually running, to Charing
Cross Station and down the narrow way leading to the Metropolitan, where
I went into Faulkner's bath and hairdressing establishment, and asked
for hot water to thoroughly wash my hand and well soap it. I bathed my
hand in water as hot as I could endure it, employed carbolic soap, and
then, after having a good brush down, especially on my left side where
my hand had encountered the object that had so affected me, I left. I
had entertained the intention of going to the Princess's Theatre that
evening, and of securing a ticket in the morning; but all thought of
theatre-going was gone from me. I could not free my heart from the sense
of nausea and cold that had been produced by the touch. I went into
Gatti's to have lunch, and ordered something, I forget what, but, when
served, I found that my appetite was gone. I could eat nothing; the food
inspired me with disgust. I thrust it from me untasted, and, after
drinking a couple of glasses of claret, left the restaurant, and
returned to my hotel.
Feeling sick and faint, I threw my overcoat over the sofa-back, and cast
myself on my bed.
I do not know that there was any particular reason for my doing so, but
as I lay my eyes were on my great-coat.
The density of the fog had passed away, and there was light again, not
of first quality, but sufficient for a Londoner to swear by, so that I
could see everything in my room, though through a veil, darkly.
I do not think my mind was occupied in any way. About the only occasions
on which, to my knowledge, my mind is actually passive or inert is when
crossing the Channel in _The Foam_ from Dover to Calais, when I am
always, in every weather, abjectly seasick--and thoughtless. But as I
now lay on my bed, uncomfortable, squeamish, without knowing why--I was
in the same inactive mental condition. But not for long.