MORE WORK AND PLAY
So I worked steadily at the big picture, finding the red coats very
trying. What would I have thought, when studying at Florence, if I had
been told to paint a mass of men in one colour, and that “brick-dust”?
However, my Aldershot observations had been of immense value in showing
me how the British red coat becomes blackish-purple here, pale salmon
colour there, and so forth, under the influence of the weather and wear
and tear. I have all the days noted down, with the amount of work done,
for future guidance, and lamentations over the fogs of that winter of
1874-5. I gave nicknames in the Diary to the figures in my picture,
which I was amused to find, later on, was also the habit of Meissonier;
one of my figures I called the “_Gamin_” and he, too, actually had a
“_Gamin_.” Those fogs retarded my work cruelly, and towards the end I
had to begin at the studio at 9.30 instead of 10, and work on till very
late. The porter at No. 76 told me mine was the first fire to be lit in
the morning of all in The Avenue.
[Illustration: PRACTISING FOR “QUATRE BRAS.”]
One day the Horse Guards, directed by their surgeon, had a magnificent
black charger thrown down in the riding school at Knightsbridge (on deep
sawdust) for me to see, and get hints from, for the fallen horse in my
foreground. The riding master strapped up one of the furious animal’s
forelegs and then let him go. What a commotion before he fell! How he
plunged and snorted in clouds of dust till the final plunge, when the
riding master and a trooper threw themselves on him to keep him down
while I made a frantic sketch. “What must it be,” I ask, “when a horse
is wounded in battle, if this painless proceeding can put him into such
a state?”
The spring of 1875 was full of experiences for me. I note that “at the
Horse Guards’ riding school a charger was again ‘put down’ for me, but
more gently this time, and without the risk, as the riding master said,
of breaking the horse’s neck, as last time. I was favoured with a
charge, two troopers riding full tilt at me and pulling up at within two
yards of where I stood, covering me with the sawdust. I stood it bravely
the _second_ time, but the first I got out of the way. With ‘Quatre
Bras’ in my head, I tried to fancy myself one of my young fellows being
charged, but I fear my expression was much too feminine and pacific.”
March 22nd gave me a long day’s tussle with the grey, bounding horse
shot in mid-career. I say: “This _is_ a teaser. I was tired out and
faint when I got home.” If that was a black day, the next was a white
one: “The sculptor, Boehm, came in, and gave me the very hints I wanted
to complete my bounding horse. Galloway also came. He says ‘Quatre Bras’
beats ‘The Roll Call’ into a cocked hat! He gave me £500 on account. Oh!
the nice and strange feeling of easiness of mind and slackening of
speed; it is beginning to refresh me at last, and my seven months’ task
is nearly accomplished.” Another visitor was the Duke of Cambridge, who,
it appears, gave each soldier in my square a long scrutiny and showed
how well he understood the points.
On “Studio Monday” the crowds came, so that I could do very little in
the morning. The novelty, which amused me at first, had worn off, and I
was vexed that such numbers arrived, and tried to put in a touch here
and there whenever I could. Millais’ visit, however, I record as “nice,
for he was most sincerely pleased with the picture, going over it with
great _gusto_. It is the drawing, character, and expression he most
dwells on, which is a comfort. But I must now try to improve my _tone_,
I know. And what about ‘_quality_’? To-day, Sending-in Day, Mrs. Millais
came, and told me what her husband had been saying. He considers me, she
said, an even stronger artist than Rosa Bonheur, and is greatly pleased
with my _drawing_. _That_ (the ‘drawing’) pleased me more than anything.
But I think it is a pity to make comparisons between artists. I _may_ be
equal to Rosa Bonheur in power, but how widely apart lie our courses! I
was so put out in the morning, when I arrived early to get a little
painting, to find the wretched photographers in possession. I showed my
vexation most unmistakably, and at last bundled the men out. They were
working for Messrs. Dickinson. So much of my time had been taken from me
that I was actually dabbing at the picture when the men came to take it
away; I dabbing in front and they tapping at the nails behind. How
disagreeable!”
After doing a water colour of a Scots Grey orderly for the “Institute,”
which Agnew bought, I was free at last to take my holiday. So my Mother
and I were off to Canterbury to be present at the opening of St.
Thomas’s Church there.
“_April 11th, Canterbury._--To Mass in the wretched barn over a stable
wherein a hen, having laid an egg, cackled all through the service. And
this has been our only church since the mission was first begun six
years ago, up till now, in the city of the great English Martyr. But
this state of things comes to an end on Tuesday.”
This opening of St. Thomas’s Church was the first public act of Cardinal
Manning as Cardinal, and it went off most successfully. There were rows
of Bishops and Canons and Monsignori and mitred Abbots, and monks and
secular priests, all beautifully disposed in the Sanctuary. The sun
shone nearly the whole time on the Cardinal as he sat on his throne.
After Mass came the luncheon at which much cheering and laughter were
indulged in. Later on Benediction, and a visit to the Cathedral. I
rather winced when a group of men went down on their knees and kissed
the place where the blood of St. Thomas à Becket is supposed to still
stain the flags. The Anglican verger stared and did _not_ understand.
On Varnishing Day at the Academy I was evidently not enchanted with the
position of my picture. “It is in what is called ‘the Black Hole’--the
only dark room, the light of which looks quite blue by contrast with the
golden sun-glow in the others. However, the artists seemed to think it a
most enviable position. The big picture is conspicuous, forming the
centre of the line on that wall. One academician told me that on account
of the rush there would be to see it they felt they must put it there.
This ‘Lecture Room’ I don’t think was originally meant for pictures and
acts on the principle of a lobster pot. You may go round and round the
galleries and never find your way into it! I had the gratification of
being told by R.A. after R.A. that my picture was in some respects an
advance on last year’s, and I was much congratulated on having done what
was generally believed more than doubtful--that is, sending any
important picture this year with the load and responsibility of my
‘almost overwhelming success,’ as they called it, of last year on my
mind. And that I should send such a difficult one, with so much more in
it than the other, they all consider ‘very plucky.’ I was not very happy
myself, although I know ‘Quatre Bras’ to be to ‘The Roll Call’ as a
mountain to a hill. However, it was all very gratifying, and I stayed
there to the end. My picture was crowded, and I could see how it was
being pulled to pieces and unmercifully criticised. I returned to the
studio, where I found a champagne lunch spread and a family gathering
awaiting me, all anxiety as to the position of my _magnum opus_. After
that hilarious meal I sped back to the fascination of Burlington House.
I don’t think, though, that Mamma will ever forgive the R.A.’s for the
‘Black Hole.’
“_April 30th._--The private view, to which Papa and I went. It is very
seldom that an ‘outsider’ gets invited, but they make a pet of me at the
Academy. Again this day contrasted very soberly with the dazzling P.V.
of ‘74. There were fewer great guns, and I was not torn to pieces to be
introduced here, there, and everywhere, most of the people being the
same as last year, and knowing me already. The same _furore_ cannot be
repeated; the first time, as I said, can never be a second. Papa and I
and lots of others lunched over the way at the Penders’ in Arlington
Street, our hosts of last night, and it was all very friendly and nice,
and we returned in a body to the R.A. afterwards. I was surprised, at
the big ‘At Home’ last night, to find myself a centre again, and people
all so anxious to hear my answers to their questions. Last year I felt
all this more keenly, as it had all the fascination of novelty. This
year just the faintest atom of zest is gone.
“_May 3rd._--To the Academy on this, the opening day. A dense, surging
multitude before my picture. The whole place was crowded so that before
‘Quatre Bras’ the jammed people numbered in dozens and the picture was
most completely and satisfactorily rendered invisible. It was chaos, for
there was no policeman, as last year, to make people move one way. They
clashed in front of that canvas and, in struggling to wriggle out,
lunged right against it. Dear little Mamma, who was there nearly all the
time of our visit, told me this, for I could not stay there as, to my
regret, I find I get recognised (I suppose from my latest photos, which
are more like me than the first horror) and the report soon spreads that
I am present. So I wander about in other rooms. I don’t know why I feel
so irritated at starers. One can have a little too much popularity. Not
one single thing in this world is without its drawbacks. I see I am in
for minute and severe criticism in the papers, which actually give me
their first notices of the R.A. The _Telegraph_ gives me its entire
article. _The Times_ leads off with me because it says ‘Quatre Bras’
will be the picture the public will want to hear about most. It seems to
be discussed from every point of view in a way not usual with battle
pieces. But that is as it should be, for I hope my military pictures
will have moral and artistic qualities not generally thought necessary
to military _genre_.
“_May 4th._--All of us and friends to the Academy, where we had a
lively lunch, Mamma nearly all the time in ‘my crowd,’ half delighted
with the success and half terrified at the danger the picture was in
from the eagerness of the curious multitude. I just furtively glanced
between the people, and could only see a head of a soldier at a time. A
nice notion the public must have of the _tout ensemble_ of my
production!”
I was afloat on the London season again, sometimes with my father, or
with Dr. Pollard. My dear mother did not now go out in the evenings,
being too fatigued from her most regrettable sleeplessness. There was a
dinner or At Home nearly every day, and occasionally a dance or a ball.
At one of the latter my partner informed me that Miss Thompson was to be
there that evening. All this was fun for the time. At a crowded
afternoon At Home at the Campanas’, where all the singers from the opera
were herded, and nearly cracked the too-narrow walls of those tiny rooms
by the concussion of the sound issuing from their wonderful throats, I
met Salvini. “Having his ‘Otello,’ which we saw the other night, fresh
in my mind, I tried to _enthuse_ about it to him, but became so
tongue-tied with nervousness that I could only feebly say _‘Quasi, quasi
piangevo!’ ‘O! non bisogna piangere,’_ poor Salvini kindly answered. To
tell him I nearly cried! To tell the truth, I was much too painfully
impressed by the terrific realism of the murder of Desdemona and of
Othello’s suicide to _cry_. I have been told that, when Othello is
chasing Desdemona round the room and finally catches her for the murder,
women in the audience have been known to cry out ‘Don’t!’ And I told him
I _nearly_ cried! Ugh!”
After this I went to Great Marlow for fresh air with my mother, and
worked up an oil picture of a scout of the 3rd Dragoon Guards whom I saw
at Aldershot, getting the landscape at Marlow. It has since been
engraved.
By the middle of June I was at work in the studio once more. The
evenings brought their diversions. Under Mrs. Owen Lewis’s chaperonage I
went to Lady Petre’s At Home one evening, where 600 guests were
assembled “to meet H.E. the Cardinal.”[5] I record that “I enjoyed it
very much, though people did nothing but talk at the top of their voices
as they wriggled about in the dense crowd which they helped to swell.
They say it is a characteristic of these Catholic parties that the talk
is so loud, as everybody knows everybody intimately! I met many people I
knew, and my dear chaperon introduced lots of people to me. I had a
longish talk with H.E., who scolded me, half seriously, for not having
come to see him. I was aware of an extra interest in me in those
orthodox rooms, and was much amused at an enthusiastic woman asking,
repeatedly, whether I was there. These fleeting experiences instruct one
as they fly. Now I know what it feels like to be ‘the fashion.’” Other
festivities have their record: “I went to a very nice garden party at
the house of the great engineer, Mr. Fowler, where the usual sort of
thing concerning me went on--introductions of ‘grateful’ people in large
numbers who, most of them, poured out their heartfelt(!) feelings about
me and my work. I can stand a surprising amount of this, and am by no
means _blasée_ yet. Mr. Fowler has a very choice collection of modern
pictures, which I much enjoyed.” Again: “The dinner at the Millais’ was
nice, but its great attraction was Heilbuth’s being there, one of my
greatest admirations as regards his particular line--characteristic
scenes of Roman ecclesiastical life such as I so much enjoyed in Rome. I
told Millais I had had Heilbuth’s photograph in my album for years. ‘Do
you hear that, Heilbuth?’ he shouted. To my disgust he was portioned off
to some one else to go in to dinner, but I had de Nittis, a very clever
Neapolitan artist, and, what with him and Heilbuth and Hallé and Tissot,
we talked more French and Italian than English that evening. Millais was
so genial and cordial, and in seeing me into the carriage he hinted very
broadly that I was soon to have what I ‘most _t_’oroughly
deserved’--that is, my election as A.R.A. He pronounced the ‘_th_’ like
that, and with great emphasis. Was that the Jersey touch?”
In July I saw de Neuville’s remarkable “Street Combat,” which made a
deep impression on me. I went also to see the field day at Aldershot, a
great success, with splendid weather. After the “battle,” Captain Cardew
took us over several camps, and showed us the stables and many things
which interested me greatly and gave me many ideas. The entry for July
17th says:
“Arranging the composition for my ‘Balaclava’ in the morning, and at
1.30 came my dear hussar,[6] who has sat on his fiery chestnut for me
already, on a fine bay, for my left-hand horse in the new picture. I
have been leading such a life amongst the jarring accounts of the
Crimean men I have had in my studio to consult. Some contradict each
other flatly. When Col. C. saw my rough charcoal sketch on the wall, he
said _no_ dress caps were worn in that charge, and coolly rubbed them
off, and with a piece of charcoal put mean little forage caps on all the
heads (on the wrong side, too!), and contentedly marched out of the
door. In comes an old 17th Lancer sergeant, and I tell him what has been
done to my cartoon. ‘Well, miss,’ says he, ‘all I can tell you is that
my dress cap went into the charge and my dress cap came out of it!’ On
went the dress caps again and up went my spirits, so dashed by Col. C.
To my delight this lancer veteran has kept his very uniform--somewhat
moth-eaten, but the real original, and he will lend it to me. I can get
the splendid headdress of the 17th, the ‘Death or Glory Boys,’ of that
period at a military tailor’s.”
The Lord Mayor’s splendid banquet to the Royal Academicians and
distinguished “outsiders” was in many respects a repetition of the last
but with the difference that the assembly was almost entirely composed
of artists. “I went with Papa, and I must say, as my name was shouted
out and we passed through the lane of people to where the Lord Mayor and
Lady Mayoress were standing to receive their guests, I felt a momentary
stroke of nervousness, for people were standing there to see who was
arriving, and every eye was upon me. I was mentioned in three or four
speeches. The Lord Mayor, looking at me, said that he was honoured to
have amongst his guests Miss Thompson (cheers), and Major Knollys
brought in ‘The Roll Call’ and ‘Quatre Bras’ amidst clamour, while Sir
Henry Cole’s allusion to my possible election as an A.R.A. was equally
well received. I felt very glad as I sat there and heard my present
work cheered; for in that hall, last year, I had still the great ordeal
to go through of painting, and painting successfully, my next picture,
and that was now a _fait accompli_.”
A rainy July sadly hindered me from seeing as much as I had hoped to see
of the Aldershot manœuvres. On one lovely day, however, Papa and I
went down in the special train with the Prince of Wales, the Duke of
Cambridge, and all the “cocked hats.” In our compartment was Lord
Dufferin, who, on hearing my name, asked to be introduced and proved a
most charming companion, and what he said about “Quatre Bras” was nice.
He was only in England on a short furlough from Canada, and did not see
my “Roll Call.”
“At the station at Farnborough the picturesqueness began with the gay
groups of the escort, and other soldiers and general officers, all in
war trim, moving about in the sunshine, while in the background slowly
passed, heavily laden, the Army on the march to the scene of action.
Papa and I and Major Bethune took a carriage and slowly followed the
march, I standing up to see all I could.
“We were soon overtaken by the brilliant staff, and saluted as it
flashed past by many of its gallant members, including the dashing Baron
de Grancey in his sky blue _Chasseurs d’Afrique_ uniform. Poor Lord
Dufferin in civilian dress--frock coat and tall hat--had to ride a
rough-trotting troop horse, as his own horse never turned up at the
station. A trooper was ordered to dismount, and the elegant Lord
Dufferin took his place in the black sheepskin saddle. He did all with
perfect grace, and I see him now, as he passed our carriage, lift his
hat with a smiling bow, as though he was riding the smoothest of Arabs.
The country was lovely. All the heather out and the fir woods aromatic.
In one village regiments were standing in the streets, others defiling
into woods and all sorts of artillery, ambulance, and engineer waggons
lumbering along with a dull roll very suggestive of real war. At this
village the two Army Corps separated to become enemies, the one
distinguished from the other by the men of one side wearing broad white
bands round their headdresses. This gave the wearers a rather savage
look which I much enjoyed. It made their already brown faces look still
grimmer. Of course, our driver took the wrong road and we saw nothing of
the actual battle, but distant puffs of smoke. However, I saw all the
march back to Aldershot, and really, what with the full ambulances, the
men lying exhausted (_sic_) by the roadside, or limping along, and the
cheers and songs of the dirty, begrimed troops, it was not so unlike
war. At the North Camp Sir Henry de Bathe was introduced, and Papa and I
stood by him as the troops came in.” A day or two later I was in the
Long Valley where the most splendid military spectacle was given us,
some 22,000 being paraded in the glorious sunshine and effective cloud
shadows in one of the most striking landscapes I have seen in England.
“It was very instructive to me,” I write, “to see the difference in the
appearance of the men to-day from that which they presented on Thursday.
Their very faces seemed different; clean, open and good-looking, whereas
on Thursday I wondered that British soldiers could look as they did. The
infantry in particular, on that day, seemed changed; they looked almost
savage, so distorted were their faces with powder and dirt and deep
lines caused by the glare of the sun. I was well within the limits when
I painted my 28th in square. I suppose it would not have done to be
realistic to the fullest extent. The lunch at the Welsh Fusiliers’ mess
in a tent I thought very nice. Papa came down for the day. It is very
good of him. I don’t think he approves of my being so much on my own
hook. But things can’t help being rather abnormal.”
Here follows another fresh air holiday at my grandparents’ at Worthing
(where I rode with my grandfather), finishing up with a visit which I
shall always remember with pleasure--I ought to say gratitude--not only
for its own sake, but for all the enjoyment it obtained for me in Italy.
That August I was a guest of the Higford-Burrs at Aldermaston Court, an
Elizabethan house standing in a big Berkshire park. “I arrived just as
the company were finishing dinner. I was welcomed with open arms. Mrs.
Higford-Burr embraced me, although I have only seen her twice before,
and I was made to sit down at table in my travelling dress, positively
declining to recall dishes, hating a fuss as I do. The dessert was
pleasant because every one made me feel at home, especially Mrs. Janet
Ross, daughter of the Lady Duff Gordon whose writings had made me long
to see the Nile in my childhood. There are five lakes in the Park, and
one part is a heather-covered Common, of which I have made eight oil
sketches on my little panels, so that I have had the pleasure of working
hard and enjoying the society of most delightful people. There were
always other guests at dinner besides the house party, and the average
number who sat down was eighteen. Besides Mrs. Ross were Mr. and Mrs.
Layard, he the Nineveh explorer, and now Ambassador at Madrid, the
Poynters, R.A., the Misses Duff Gordon, and others, in the house. Mrs.
Burr with her great tact allowed me to absent myself between breakfast
and tea, taking my sandwiches and paints with me to the moor.”
Days at Worthing followed, where my mother and I painted all day on the
Downs, I with my “Balaclava” in view, which required a valley and low
hills. My mother’s help was of great value, as I had not had much time
to practise landscape up to then. Then came my visit, with Alice, to
Newcastle, where “Quatre Bras” was being exhibited, to be followed by
our visit at Mrs. Ross’s Villa near Florence, whither she had invited us
when at Aldermaston, to see the _fêtes_ in honour of Michael Angelo.
“We left for Newcastle by the ‘Flying Scotchman’ from King’s Cross at 10
a.m., and had a flying shot at Peterborough and York Cathedrals, and a
fine flying view of Durham. Newcastle impressed us very much as we
thundered over the iron bridge across the Tyne and looked down on the
smoke-shrouded, red-roofed city belching forth black and brown smoke and
jets of white steam in all directions. It rises in fine masses up from
the turbid flood of the dark river, and has a lurid grandeur quite novel
to us. I could not help admiring it, though, as it were, under protest,
for it seems to me something like a sin to obscure the light of Heaven
when it is not necessary. The laws for consuming factory smoke are quite
disregarded here. Mrs. Mawson, representing the firm at whose gallery
‘Quatre Bras’ is being exhibited, was awaiting our arrival, and was to
be our hostess. We were honoured and fêted in the way of the
warm-hearted North. Nothing could have been more successful than our
visit in its way. These Northerners are most hospitable, and we are
delighted with them. They have quite a _cachet_ of their own, so
cultured and well read on the top of their intense commercialism--far
more responsive in conversation than many society people I know ‘down
South.’ We had a day at Durham under Mrs. Mawson’s wing, visiting that
finest of all English Cathedrals (to my mind), and the Bishop’s palace,
etc. We rested at the Dean’s, where, of course, I was asked for my
autograph. I already find how interested the people are about here, more
even than in other parts where I have been. Durham is a place I loved
before I saw it. The way that grand mass of Norman architecture rises
abruptly from the woods that slope sheer down to the calm river is a
unique thing. Of course, the smoky atmosphere makes architectural
ornament look shallow by dimming the deep shadows of carvings, etc.--a
great pity. On our return we took another lion _en passant_--my picture
at Newcastle, and most delighted I was to find it so well lighted. I may
say I have never seen it properly before, because it never looked so
well in my studio, and as to the Black Hole----! What people they are up
here for shaking hands! When some one is brought up to me the introducer
puts it in this way: ‘Mr. So-and-So wishes very much to have the honour
of shaking hands with you, Miss Thompson.’ There is a straight-forward
ring in their speech which I like.”
We were up one morning at 4.30 to be off to Scotland for the day. At
Berwick the rainy weather lifted and we were delighted by the look of
the old Border town on its promontory by the broad and shining Tweed.
Passing over the long bridge, which has such a fine effect spanning the
river, we were pleased to find ourselves in a country new to us.
Edinburgh struck us very much, for we had never quite believed in it,
and thought it was “all the brag of the Scotch,” but we were converted.
It is so like a fine old Continental city--nothing reminds one of
England, and yet there is a _Scotchiness_ about it which gives it a
sentiment of its own. Our towns are, as a rule, so poorly situated, but
Edinburgh has the advantage of being built on steep hills and of being
back-grounded by great crags which give it a most majestic look. The
grey colour of the city is fine, and the houses, nearly all gabled and
very tall, are exceedingly picturesque, and none have those vile, black,
wriggling chimney pots which disfigure what sky lines our towns may
have. I was delighted to see so many women with white caps and tartan
shawls and the children barefoot; picturesque horse harness; plenty of
kilted soldiers.
We did all the lions, including the garrison fortress where the Cameron
Highlanders were, and where Colonel Miller, of Parkhurst memory, came
out, very pleased to speak to me and escort us about. He had the water
colour I gave him of his charger, done at Parkhurst in the old Ventnor
days. Our return to Newcastle was made in glorious sunshine, and we
greedily devoured the peculiarly sweet and remote-looking scenes we
passed through. I shall long remember Newcastle at sunset on that
evening, Then, I will say, the smoke looked grand. They asked me to look
at my picture by gas light. The sixpenny crowd was there, the men
touching their caps as I passed. In the street they formed a lane for me
to pass to the carriage. “What nice people!” I exclaim in the Diary.
All the morning of our departure I was employed in sitting for my
photograph, looking at productions of local artists and calling on the
Bishop and the Protestant Vicar. One man had carved a chair which was to
be dedicated to me. I was quaintly enthroned on it. All this was done on
our way to the station, where we lunched under dozens of eyes, and on
the platform a crowd was assembled. I read: “Several local dignitaries
were introduced and ‘shook hands,’ as also the ‘Gentlemen of the local
Press.’ As I said a few words to each the crowd saw me over the
barriers, which made me get quite hot and I was rather glad when the
train drew up and we could get into our carriage. The farewell
handshakings at the door may be imagined. We left in a cloud of waving
handkerchiefs and hats. I don’t know that I respond sufficiently to all
this. Frankly, my picture being made so much of pleases me most
satisfactorily, but the _personal_ part of the tribute makes me
curiously uncomfortable when coming in this way.”
Ruskin wrote a pamphlet on that year’s Academy in which he told the
world that he had approached “Quatre Bras” with “iniquitous prejudice”
as being the work of a woman. He had always held that no woman could
paint, and he accounted for my work being what he found it as being that
of an Amazon. I was very pleased to see myself in the character of an
Amazon.