"Well, you see, miss, I haven't taken enough yet. Can't afford to go
home on twopence."
"_My_ brother paints. He's in the sixth standard. I give 'im a box of
paints on his birthday, and he's going to paint me a picture for my
bedroom."
[Illustration: "YOU AIN'T DONE MUCH YET."]
The gulf that _might_ have divided us was bridged now, so I got what
satisfaction I could out of her chatter.
"I wish I could paint. I'd like to do them tex's what they gives yer at
Sunday school."
"Oh, that's the line you'd like to take up, Julia, is it?"
Another pause.
"D'yer like them paintin's what they gives yer at the tea grocers? My
brother says 'e's going to paint them sort when 'e gets them colours
what you squeezes out of tubes; you know, like them ladies' tormenters,
same as you gets on Bank 'olidays on 'Ampstead 'Eath."
I wanted to go on with my picture, so I suggested to Julia (I had no
reason to suppose that her name was not Julia) that it was getting near
tea-time.
[Illustration: "MY BROTHER PAINTS."]
"Oh, is it," she said; "come along, Halbert." Then, turning to me, she
added--"Are yer comin' to-morrer? I'd like yer to see my brother's
paintin's."
"That depends upon how much I make to-day, Julia," I answered--"whether
the 'pitch' is a good one or not."
"Oh," said Julia, thoughtfully; "I'd like yer to come to-morrer," and
then as she passed she dropped a halfpenny into my box.
[Illustration: "BANK 'OLIDAYS ON 'AMPSTEAD 'EATH."]
On other occasions, when out painting in poor neighbourhoods, my easel,
camp-stool, and self have been used as "home" in games like "Hi-spi-hoy"
and "Hoop," and I have, during the progress of my sketch, been more than
once in imminent danger of being carried away, and my kit sent flying,
during a sudden rush of the excited players. But even such an indignity
as this does not touch bottom. Boys have before now made me a "Harbour
of Refuge," with the poetry left out, and bricks and various missiles
substituted. They have dodged behind me to escape the consequences of
"cheekiness" to bigger boys, and have used my canvas as a screen to
shield off stones.
And what are you to do? Just at that moment, in all likelihood, you are
putting in a crisp, telling touch that will "do the trick," and if the
news were brought to you that your favourite aunt had fallen downstairs,
it would not be sufficient to make you rise from off your camp-stool.
[Illustration: "Hi-spi-Hoy"]
I was sketching once near a row of those cheap one-storied cottages,
generally called Villa This and Villa That, inhabited by a tribe the
mothers of which seem always to have a baby on hand, and several others
in various stages of development. These children spend most of their
time, so far as I can judge, in hanging about, just outside the front
garden, waiting for something to turn up to amuse them, and I had been
much bothered by their creeping round behind me, or edging closer and
closer to my side, and occasionally shoving each other so as to shake me
or my sketch. I tried to forget them, and maintained a chilling silence.
The numbers, however, kept on increasing, and presently games were
projected in my immediate vicinity, as though I were the centre of
gravity, or the hub of the universe. The climax was reached when a young
nurse, aged seven or thereabouts, with a child just on the brink of
independence in her arms, came up and said--
"D'yer mind me leaving my baby here, while I have a game with the
Tubbses? She'll be all right if I sit her on your jacket."
Nice thing when seeking material for a masterpiece for next year's
Academy to be asked to look after baby!
The remarks made by street loafers and errand-boys, too, who stand at
your elbow for half-an-hour at a stretch, are not encouraging, as a
rule. One boy, in what he considers a tone of confidence, will say to
another--
"S'elp me, Bob, aint 'e a doin' it a fair treat."
"Carry me out" (it is impossible to write "out" as _they_ pronounce it),
"'Arree, ain't it fine" (rising intonation on the "I")--"I wish I wos a
bloomin' hartist."
"Don't 'e fancy 'isself, just."
It is difficult to keep quietly on at work with every appearance of
indifference under such circumstances. It is also exasperating to be
called "Matey," as though you were a pal of theirs, and lived on the
same landing. Yet these are only a few of the indignities with which a
poor artist has to put up.
[Illustration: "D'YER MIND ME LEAVING MY BABY HERE."]
Who has not, when on a sketching tour, felt the contempt that the
bucolic mind has for a man who, day after day, and week after week, sits
out of doors on his camp-stool, doing his best to catch some of Nature's
mystery and fleeting beauty, and give it an abiding place on his canvas.
[Illustration: "AINT 'E A DOIN' IT A FAIR TREAT."]
My friend S---- is a big, healthy, bearded fellow, who looks as
though he could pick half-hundred weights up in each hand with the ease
that I pick up my palette. The following dialogue took place on one
occasion between him and an elderly rustic who had been standing
watching him for some time, as he sat by the roadside, painting.
"No offence, sir," said the agriculturist, "but is anything the matter
wi' yer?"
"No," answered S---- "What makes you ask?"
"Yer hain't lame, are yer?"
"Lame! Good gracious, no!"
"You hain't 'ad a misfortune in any way? The sciatics or lumbager,
that's kind o' laid yer by?"
"No, I'm as well as I have always been."
"An' yer call yerself a man and can sit theer a doin' o' that. Well, I'm
d----d!"
I never go out sketching without feeling this silent contempt, for it is
only rarely that it finds expression. The remarks made by villagers show
how utterly unable they are to grasp the idea of anyone valuing an
artist's efforts. The old story of the painter who was asked by the
farmer whose cow he had been drawing, what the said picture might be
worth when finished, is typical.
[Illustration: "YER HAIN'T LAME, ARE YER?"]
"Oh, I hope to get thirty pounds for it if it is well hung," explained
the artist.
"Thutty pound for the mere picture!" cried the old fellow in
astonishment. "Why, I'd sell you the old cow itself for ten."
[Illustration: WHOSE COW HE HAD BEEN DRAWING.]
A spirit of commiseration underlies a good many of the remarks made by
the bucolic. I went down on one occasion to see a couple of painters who
had taken a small cottage at one and sixpence a week in order to paint
some orchard pictures. When their neighbours, who were farm hands, got
to know them a bit, they were very friendly disposed, and made them
presents of vegetables, and one old fellow who was reputed to have
"saved a smart bit o' money," said to one of the "painter chaps," as
they were called--
"There don't seem much of a living in your business, sir. I s'pose
trade's a bit dull with ye, now folks is a spring cleaning. What do yer
say now to paintin' my cart in yer dinner hour? I shall want it done
afore long, and I'd like to gie ye the job, for a shilling or two down't
come amiss to any of us. Do it now?"
[Illustration: "WHAT DO YOU SAY TO PAINTIN' MY CART?"]
Another job refused by these same artists was to clean and touch up an
old picture that had been bought for a few shillings at a sale. The old
chap who had purchased it went so far as to offer them a shilling to do
the work, and that offer being declined, he threw in a pint of stout as
an additional inducement.
A friend who had painted a 50 x 40 canvas outside during one summer,
spending some five or six weeks upon it, told me that one old chap,
who looked like a jobbing gardener, used to pass by every day, and
invariably stayed to stare at the work, but always at a respectful
distance, and it was not until the picture was nearly completed that
he broke the silence.
"D'yer moind me 'aving a look at it, sir?"
[Illustration: STAYED TO STARE AT THE WORK.]
"Oh, certainly not," and my friend got off his camp-stool to let the
critic have an uninterrupted view. The subject was a careful study of
wild flowers and herbage, growing in the corner of an orchard. The old
fellow seemed to take the picture in very carefully, and at length said:
"Is it a view in Ireland, sir?"
"View in Ireland! What made you think of that? Don't you see it's the
corner of the orchard there, with all the thistles and docks and wild
flowers?"
"Well, to be sure! Fancy anyone a paintin' them weeds and trumpery!" and
with that cheerless remark the old fellow sheered off.
[Illustration: MODELLING A MILKMAID.]
Sculptors, unlike painters, rarely venture out of their studios, but it
happened that a sculptor came down to spend a few days with us when in a
Norfolk village, and so liked the place that he hired a barn, had a lot
of clay and a turntable sent down, and started modelling a milkmaid. As
the work progressed, it became the talk of the place, and, in due
course, numbers came to see the clay image that my friend was setting up
in the barn. This work _did_ appeal to them. They could see at a glance
what it was meant to represent, and the chorus of approval was loud and
general, except on the part of the village constable. He was a taciturn
man, and used to come and smoke his pipe and preserve a contemptuous
silence. One day he said--
"Are you making that image for a church?"
"No. Why did you think I was?"
"Oh, nothing. Only when I was in London, and that's a smart while ago, I
worked on a church as was a buildin', and we had to fix some figures;
only they were made in what we calls Portland cement."
[Illustration: NUMBERS CAME TO SEE THE CLAY IMAGE.]
"Oh, then, you have seen sculpture before?"
"Yes, sir, 'tain't the first time as I've seed a graven image, as the
Bible calls 'em. D'yer ever make them figures they puts over doors and
winders of houses?"
"No; I can't say I do."
"Did you ever see them two figures in the Lord Mayor's palace in the
City? You _ought_ to see them, sir. I reckon they're the best things in
that line you can see anywhere?"
"I'm afraid I don't remember which figures you refer to."
"Oh, they ain't like your work, not a little bit. They're picked out in
all kinds of colours, and are ever so big. I was thinking they must
represent two of them heathen gods what the Children of Israel fell down
and worshipped. You know the figures I mean?"
"I'm afraid I don't. Can't you remember their names?"
"Why, Gog and Magog, aren't they, sir?"
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE CONSTABLE.]
_The Brothers' Agency._