THE LAST OF EGYPT
Here at Verona was Italy in her richest dress, her abundant and varied
crops filling the landscape, one might say, to overflowing; not a space
of soil left untilled, and, all the way along our road to San Bonifacio
for Arcole, the snow-capped Alps were shimmering in the blue atmosphere
on one hand, and a great teeming plain stretched away to the horizon on
the other.
I noticed the fine physique of the peasantry, and their nice ways. Every
peasant man we met on the road raised his hat to us as we passed. At San
Bonifacio we got out of the carriage and, turning to the right, we
walked to Arcole, becoming exclusively Napoleonic on reaching the famous
marsh. History says that a soldier saved Napoleon from drowning early in
the battle by pulling him out of the water in that marsh, “by the hair!”
I pondered this _bald_ statement, and came to the conclusion that the
thing must have happened in this wise. Young Bonaparte in those early
days wore his hair very long, and gathered up into a queue. Had he been
close-cropped, as his later experience in Egypt compelled him to be, the
history of the world might have been very different. As I looked into
the water from the famous little bridge, I saw the place where the young
conqueror slipped and plunged in. The soldier must have caught hold of
the pigtail, and with the good grip it afforded him pulled his drowning
general out. Between the little bridge and the spot where he sank
Napoleon raised the obelisk which we see to-day. Thus do I like to
realise interesting events in history.
Our driver on the way back became a dreadful bore, for ever turning on
the box to chatter. First he informed us that Arcole was called after
Hercules, “a very strong man” (great thumping of biceps to illustrate
his meaning), which we knew before. Then, when within sight of the
battlefield of Custozza, where our dear Italians got such a “dusting”
from the Austrians, he informed us that he had been in the battle, and
that the Italians had _blasted_ the enemy. “_Li abbiamo fulminati_.”
“Oh, shut up, do! _Basta, caro!_”
Our afternoon stroll all over Verona merged into a moonlight one which
takes first rank in my Italian chronicles. The effect of a roaring
Alpine torrent (for such is the Adige at this season of melting snows)
rushing and swirling through the heart of that ancient city, between
embankments bordered with domed churches, with towers and palaces, I
found quite unique. Mysterious, too, it all felt in the lights and
profound shades of the moonlight. Above rose the hills with very
striking serrated outlines, crowned with fortresses.
The rest of the summer saw me at home at Delgany. I must say the “Green
Isle” for summer, following Egypt for winter, makes a very pleasant
combination. My husband had returned to Alexandria on August 23rd, and I
and a wee child followed in November. I had half accomplished my next
Academy picture at home, and I took it out to finish in Egypt--“Halt on
a Forced March: Retreat to Corunna.” A study of an artillery team this
time, giving the look of the spent horses, “lean unto war.” It was very
well placed at the Academy in the fresh first room, and well received,
but it was too sad a subject, perhaps, so I have it still. There were no
half-starved horses in all Wicklow, I am happy to say, look where I
would for models. I had well-to-do ones to get tone and colour from, but
I bided my time. In Egypt I had plenty of choice, and had I not been
able to put the finishing touches to my team _there_, the picture would
never have been so strong--an instance of my favourite definition when I
am asked, “What is the secret of success?” “_Seize opportunities_.”
So on December 10th, 1891, I, with the little child I had safely brought
out with me, landed once more at Alexandria. The big charger and the
grey Syrian pony had now a black donkey alongside for the desert rides,
which were the chief pleasure of our life out there.
But the winter grew sad. On January 7th, 1892, the Khedive Tewfik died
rather mysteriously, it was said, but his death was announced as the
result of that plague we call the “flu,” which reached even to the East.
Just eight days later poor Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence, fell a
victim to it, and in the same way died Cardinal Manning. Also some of
our own friends at Alexandria went down. And yet never was there more
brilliant weather, so softly brilliant that one could hardly realise the
presence of danger. All the balls and other festivities were stopped, of
course. I had ample time to finish my “Halt on a Forced March” in this
long interval, so boring and depressing to Alexandrian society. Soon
things returned to pleasantly normal conditions, however, and being
free from the studio on sending my picture off, I went in
whole-heartedly for the amenities of my official position. The Private
View at the far-away Royal Academy was in my mind on the occasion of my
giving away the prizes at some athletic sports, for I knew it was just
then in full blast, April 29th, 1892. I knew my quiet picture could not
make anything of a stir, and I chaffed myself by suggesting that the
“three cheers and one cheer more” proposed by the English consul at the
end of the prize-giving, which rent the sunset air in that dusty plain
in my honour, should be all I ought to expect. It would be a _little_
too much to receive applause in two quarters of the globe at the same
moment, allowing for difference of time!
I call upon my Diary again: “_May 18th_.--We joined a picnic in the very
palm grove through which the Turks fled from the French pursuit under
Bonaparte to find death in the surf of Aboukir Bay. We were shaded by
clumps of pomegranate trees in flower as well as by the waving, rustling
palms, and a cool wind blew round us most pleasantly, while the white
and grey donkeys that brought us rested in groups, their drivers and the
villagers squatting about them in those unconsciously graceful attitudes
I love to jot down in my sketch book. The moving shadows of the palm
branches on the sand always capture my observation; no other tree
shadows produce that effect of ever-interlacing forms. Far away in the
radiant light lay the region where the terrible naval battle took place
later, to our credit. Altogether our party was surrounded by frightful
reminiscences, in the midst of which the picnic went its usual picnicky
way. We rode back to Alexandria by the light of the stars.
“_May 23rd_.--A wonderful day, full of colour, movement and interest.
Young Abbas II., the new Khedive, was received here on his arrival from
Cairo, the whole population, swelled by strange wild Asiatics from
distant parts, filling the streets and squares through which he was to
pass. Will, of course, had to receive him at the station. The crowd
alone was a pleasure to look at. The Khedive seemed a squat young man
with a round pink and white painted face. They say he loves not the
English. What I enjoyed above all was the drive we took soon after, all
the length of the line of reception, to Ras-el-Tin. Oh, those narrow
streets of the old quarter, filled with numberless varieties of Oriental
costumes. Now and then the crowd was threaded by troops, some on
horseback, some perched on camels, and, to give the finishing touch of
variety, the native fire brigade went by, wearing the brass helmets of
their London _confrères_, very surprising headgear bonneting their black
and brown faces.”
I, with the little child, left for home on June 7th, _viâ_ Genoa, well
provided with a good stock of studies of camels and Camel Corps
troopers. These were for my 8-foot picture, destined for the next
Academy. Many a camel had I stalked about the Ramleh desert to watch its
mannerisms in movement. I got quite to revel in camels. Usually that
interesting beast is made utterly uninteresting in pictures, whereas if
you know him personally he is full of surprises and one never gets to
the end of him.
The voyage to my dear old Genoa was full of beautiful sights, with one
exception. I don’t know what old Naples was like--I know it was
frightfully dirty--but I saw it modernised into a very horrid town, a
smudge of ugliness on one of the ideal beauties of the world. It gave me
a shock on beholding it as we entered the harbour, and so I leave the
town itself severely alone, with its new, barrack-like buildings looking
gaunt and gritty in the burning June sunshine. The cloisters of the
Certosa at Sant’ Elmo are very beautiful, and I much enjoyed the church
and the splendid “Descent from the Cross” of Spagnoletto. There was just
time for a dash up there before leaving at 12 noon. As we steamed out
towards Ischia I got the oft-painted (and, alas! oleographed) view of
Vesuvius across the whole extent of the bay from off Posilipo. Certainly
nowhere on earth can a fairer scene be beheld, and greater grace of
coast and mountain outline. Then the fair scene melted away into the
tender haze of the June afternoon--blue and tender grey, the volcanic
islands one by one disappeared and the day of my first sight of the Bay
of Naples closed.
June 12th was a most memorable day, a day of deepest, sweetest, and
saddest impressions and memories for me. In the afternoon I made ready
for our approach to that part of the world where the brightest years of
my childhood were spent--the Gulf of Genoa. In order not to lose one
moment away from the contemplation of what we were approaching, I packed
up all our things before three o’clock, did all the _fin de voyage_
paying and tipping, and then, my mind free for concentration, I
stationed myself at the starboard bulwark, binocular in hand. At long
last I saw in the haze of the lovely afternoon a shadowy outline of
rocky mountain which my heart, rather than my eyes, told me was Porto
Fino, for never had I seen it before from out at sea, at that angle. But
I knew where to look for it, and while to the other passengers we seemed
still out of sight of land I saw the shadowy form. Then little by little
the whole coast grew out of the haze and I saw again, one after the
other, the houses we lived in from Ruta to Albaro. With the powerful
glass I had I could see Villa de’ Franchi and its sundial, and see how
many windows were open or shut at Villa Quartara as we passed Albaro,
and see the old, well-loved pine tree and cypress avenue of the latter
_palazzo_.
“The sight of Genoa in the lurid sunset glow, with its steep, conical
mountains behind it, crowned with forts, half shrouded in dark grey
clouds, was very impressive. ‘La Superba’ looked her proudest thus seen
full face from the sea, seated on her rocky throne. By the by, when
_will_ people give up translating ‘superba’ by ‘superb’? It is rather
trying. ‘Genoa the Superb’! Ugh!”
[Illustration: THE EGYPTIAN CAMEL-CORPS AND THE BERSAGLIERI.]
I worked away well in the pleasant seclusion of Delgany, at my 8-foot
canvas whereon I carried very far forward my “Review of the Native Camel
Corps at Cairo.” I had already a water-colour drawing of this subject,
which I had made while the scene was fresh in my mind’s eye. I had been
indebted to the then General commanding at Cairo for the facilities
afforded me to see, at close quarters, a charge of the native Camel
Corps, which impressed me indelibly. I had driven out of Cairo to the
desert, where the manœuvres were taking place, and, getting out of
the carriage opposite the saluting base, I placed myself in front of the
advancing squadrons, so timing things that I got well clear at the right
moment. I wanted as much of a full-face view as possible. The
attitudes of the men, wielding their whips, the movements of the camels,
the whole rush of the thing gave me such a sensation of advancing force
that, as soon as the “Halt!” was sounded, and the 300 animals had flung
themselves on their knees with the roar and snarl peculiar to those
creatures when required to exert themselves, I hastened back to
Shepheard’s and marked down the salient points. The men were of all
shades, from _fellaheen_ yellow to the bluest black of Nubia, and it was
a striking moment when they all leapt off their saddles (as the camels
collapsed), panting, and beginning to re-set their disordered
accoutrements. In those days the saddles were covered with red morocco
leather, with fringed strips that flew out in the wind, adding, for the
artist, a welcome aid to the representation of motion. Now, of course,
that precious bit of colour is gone, and the necessity for khaki
invisibility reaches even to the camel saddle, which is now a stiff and
unattractive dun-coloured object.
For my last and most brilliant visit to Egypt I took out our eldest
little girl, and a very enjoyable trip we had, _viâ_ Genoa. Of course, I
took out the picture to finish it on its native sands. I had the richest
choice of military camels, arms and accoutrements, and a native trooper
or two, as models, but only for studies. I was careful to have no posed
model to paint from in the studio, otherwise good-bye to movement. These
graceful Orientals become the stupidest, stiff lay figures the moment
you ask them to pose as models. Besides, the sincere Mohammedans refuse
to be painted at all. I have never used a Kodak myself, finding
snapshots of little value, but quick sketches done unbeknown to the
_sketchee_ and a good memory serve much better. The picture, I grieve to
say, was hung not very kindly at the Academy, but at the Paris Salon it
was received with all the appreciation I could desire.
What pleased me particularly in this last sojourn in Egypt was our visit
to Cairo, where I was so happy during my first experience, when I
described my sensations as being comparable to swimming in Oriental
colour, light, and picturesqueness. The only thing that jarred was the
tyranny of Cairo society, which compelled one to appear at the
diversions, whether one liked it or not. Nevertheless, I gained a very
thorough knowledge of the wondrously beautiful mosques, having the
advantage of the guidance of one who knew them all intimately--Dean
Butcher. It was a true pleasure to have him as _cicerone_, and I am
grateful to him for his most kindly giving up his time for little C. and
me. My husband had long ago been acquainted with every nook and corner
of Cairo, but Dean Butcher had made a special study of these mosques,
and I think he was pleased with the way we took in the fascinating
information he gave me and the child.
It’s a far cry from Cairo to Aldershot! On November 1st, 1893, my
husband’s command of the 2nd Infantry Brigade began there. Much as I
loved Egypt, it was a great delight for me to know that the parting from
the children was not to be repeated. I had had Egypt to my heart’s
content.
After returning home from Egypt, at Delgany, on June 17th, 1893, I set
up my next big picture, “The Réveil in the Bivouac of the Scots Greys on
the Morning of Waterloo--Early Dawn.” I was able to make all my
twilight studies at home, all out of doors; not a thing painted in the
studio. I pressed many people into my service as models, and I think I
got the light on their fine Irish faces very true to nature. I even
caught an Irish dragoon home on leave in the village, whose splendid
profile I saw at once would be very telling.