He was subject to fits of despondency, and during the continuance of
such moods he sat with his beloved book on entomology upon his
knee--touched now and then the breakfast cup with his lips, and seemed
resolutely bent on being unhappy. In periods such as these it was
difficult to rouse him, and even dangerous. Mrs. Fuseli on such
occasions ventured to become his monitress. "I know him well," she said
one morning to a friend who found him in one of his dark moods, "he will
not come to himself till he is put into a passion--the storm then clears
off, and the man looks out serene." "Oh no," said her visitor, "let him
alone for a while--he will soon think rightly." He was spared till next
morning--he came to the breakfast table in the same mood of mind. "Now I
must try what I can do," said his wife to the same friend whom she had
consulted the day before; she now began to reason with her husband, and
soothe and persuade him; he answered only by a forbidding look and a
shrug of the shoulder. She then boldly snatched away his book, and
dauntlessly abode the storm. The storm was not long in coming--his own
fiend rises up not more furiously from the side of Eve than did the
painter. He glared on his friend and on his wife--uttered a deep
imprecation--rushed up stairs and strode about his room in great
agitation. In a little while his steps grew more regular--he soon opened
the door, and descended to his labors all smiles and good humor.
Fuseli's method of curing his wife's anger was not less original and
characteristic. She was a spirited woman, and one day, when she had
wrought herself into a towering passion, her sarcastic husband said,
"Sophia, my love, why don't you swear? You don't know how much it would
ease your mind."
FUSELI'S PERSONAL APPEARANCE, HIS SARCASTIC DISPOSITION, AND QUICK
TEMPER.
Fuseli was of low stature--his frame slim, his forehead high, and his
eyes piercing and brilliant. His look was proud, wrapt up in
sarcastic--his movements were quick, and by an eager activity of manner
he seemed desirous of occupying as much space as belonged to men of
greater stature. His voice was loud and commanding--nor had he learned
much of the art of winning his way by gentleness and persuasion--he was
more anxious as to say pointed and stinging things, than solicitous
about their accuracy; and he had much pleasure in mortifying his
brethren of the easel with his wit, and over whelming them with his
knowledge. He was too often morose and unamiable--habitually despising
those who were not his friends, and not unapt to dislike even his best
friends, if they retorted his wit, or defended themselves successfully
against his satire. In dispute he was eager, fierce, unsparing, and
often precipitated himself into angry discussions with the Council,
which, however, always ended in peace and good humor--for he was as
placable as passionate. On one occasion he flew into his own room in a
storm of passion, and having cooled and come to himself, was desirous to
return; the door was locked and the key gone; his fury overflowed all
bounds. "Sam!" he shouted to the porter, "Sam Strowager, they have
locked me in like a blasted wild beast--bring crowbars and break open
the door." The porter--a sagacious old man, who knew the trim of the
Keeper--whispered through the keyhole, "Feel in your pocket, sir, for
the key!" He did so, and unlocking the door with a loud laugh exclaimed,
"What a fool!--never mind--I'll to the Council, and soon show them they
are greater asses than myself."