was raining pretty freely. I endeavoured to work through it; but, the
big drops piercing the foliage overhead, I had to give over; spent
twenty minutes under a thicket of leafage. Tried to begin again when
the rain was a little cleared off, but found the weight of water
quite displaced the different branches from their normal position,
making confusion; so came home to dinner. Felt my head very oppressed
while there, and extremely and unusually nervous before setting to
work; is this from smoking again? After dinner, worked at drawing-in
the outline of the male head in _The Last of England_. Then
reflected on it till near five. Settled that I would paint the woman
in Emma’s shepherd-plaid shawl, instead of the large blue-and-green
plaid, as in the sketch. This is a serious affair settled, which
has caused me much perplexity. After this, I worked till tea-time
at scraping away the ground of zinc white which I had laid myself
for the picture at Hampstead. I found that the head of the man had
cracked all over since I painted it, so had to scrape it out. His
coat also has cracks in it, a bad thing in a coat in particular;
so I will have no more of this zinc, confound it. There is nothing
like tin for a foundation to go upon: on this system will I work
henceforth. After tea I worked at altering the little lady reading a
letter in _The Brent_, which I had rubbed in from Emma the other day.
I have made it more sentimental....
21st.--To the Brent by half-past nine: worked well till half-past
one. Begins to look bravely, and beautiful colour; but still requires
all my energy and attention to master the difficulties attending a
style of work I have not been bred to. Weather very cold; north wind,
which it is to be hoped will take off the cholera. After dinner to
the corn-field for about three hours; interrupted by a shower, and
somehow did very little. Altogether these little landscapes take
up too much time to be profitable. This evening, wasted two hours
with Emma trying to make out an error of sixpence in our accounts,
in which I succeeded at last. I meant to have done so much to-night,
and so have done nothing. I cannot help it, but somehow whatever I
am about I must go through with to the extremity. This, if the work
happens to be of importance, is a most happy quality; but on the
other hand it is a most unprofitable mania when the occasion that
calls it forth is trivial, as in the present case,--such as an error
of sixpence, weeding a piece of garden, or such-like. The only thing
I can never bring myself to do with care is writing. This has always
(I know not wherefore) appeared to me as base and mechanical, and in
some way I am sure to make it disgraceful. Either I spell it wrong,
and this I can’t help and never could manage; or else I get a bad
pen, and so blotch and scribble it that it is not readable; or else I
get sleepy, and fill it up with iterations or faults of prosody,[86]
which must make me appear like a most illiterate ass, which however I
am not. Oh for Woolner’s[87] precision--rare in a man of art!...
24th.--Sunday.... Worked at the _Lady of Saturday night_ Cartoon,
which White has promised to buy, but has not yet performed. Two
pound and the pawnshop is all that now remains us. No debts, however,
except about £14 in all to my tailor, my lawyer, and my frame-maker
whose account is not sent in: so I do not owe above £8, and have one
hundred a year still. This week I have worked steadily on neither
Sunday, but forty-two hours in the week, which is seven hours per
diem _pure work_ (for I only put down the time I actually work at
art, not the time lost in preparatives). I am in reality employed at
_business_ all my time, from the moment I get up till I go to bed;
but I am dreamy, and slow in my movements....
26th.--... To the Brent by ten, worked till one--finished the
landscape part as much as I can do to it from nature. Went to see the
river, as far as the Decoy-farm; found none of it so beautiful as I
had painted. Home to lunch, after a splendid walk in a broiling sun.
Afternoon, to the corn-field....
27th.--... Up late. Worked at filling up the holes made over the
parlour-window, from which I had knocked away three hideous grinning
heads, that formed part of the house.
29th.--Terribly warm; could do nothing after I came back, headachy
and feeble.... After dinner no work; stupid and lazy--unwell and
disgusted.... Funds reduced to £1. 9s. 6d. (two and a-half hours).
30th.--... Placed the lay figure in the back yard; and, after reading
the newspaper, worked at the resumed coat of the Emigrant, from the
one I had made on purpose two winters ago, at Hampstead, and have
worn since then, it being horrid vulgar. Worked at it from twelve
to half-past two. Lunch, and to the field from three to half-past
five....
1st October.--Sunday.... I meant to have worked at the coat in the
morning, when the sun is off the backyard, and then to have taken
Lucy to church in the afternoon; but Heaven put a bar to the godless
intent, in the shape of a thick mist with drizzle, so that we went
in the morning. It was collection morning; and I, having nothing but
three half crowns (my last), asked Lucy what money she had--which
turned out to be another: so, no alternative obtaining, I gave one of
my half crowns. I did this, not in imitation of Haydon, but because
I did not like to pass the plate at the door; so now my enemies will
rejoice in the fact. But yet in truth was I pleased at being so
forced to give; because, if I had not given, it would have been on
principle, because I have no right to give when I have deficiency,
instead of superfluity, to take from. But, indeed, giving is a
pleasure, and it was for the poor cholera parentless brats. Now my
enemies are chop-fallen, and say pish! and stuff and humbug. So after
this, we took Katty a walk in the fields, and Katty kept thinking
the horses would eat her....
3rd.--To work at the cornfield from quarter past three till quarter
to six: did next to nothing. It would seem that very small trees in
the distance are very difficult objects to paint, or else I am not
suited to this sort of work; for I can make nothing of this small
screen of trees, though I have pottered over [them] sufficient time
to have painted a large landscape, the men of English schools would
say. This evening, there were no lamp-candles in the house, and
Emma strongly advised laziness.... White does not come; he cannot
value my works much, one would think, or he would show more anxiety
to purchase, buying at such prices as I offer at. What chance is
there for me, out of all the bodies, Institutions, Art-unions, and
Academies and commissions, of this country? Classes, sects, or
coteries, nobles, dealers, patrons, rich men, or friends--which one
takes an interest in me or my works? Is it encouraging to go on?
Is it not rather a clear affirmation of my not being required of
the British Public? And yet--patience is the only motto--we shall
see what we shall see. I only wish to be allowed to go on, to be
permitted to work.... Emma brought me home 8s. 6d. of her money
unspent: funds at present 10s....
5th.--Took Lucy back to school, calling on Rossettis in the way....
Heard from Christina the first news of the fall of Sebastopol.
What times we live in! It would seem that the allied armies were
quite determined to show the irresistible supremacy of the western
nations this time. How fearfully humiliated must feel the Emperor
of Russia! what a merited lesson! Perhaps most of all this is owing
to the genius of one man--Omar Pasha. Forty years ago the Russian
armies of serfs used to fight drawn battles with the conquering
legions of the first Napoleon. Twenty-five years ago, the Turks were
hopelessly their prey, and could not make a stand against them. One
man, furnished only with a lively and keen perception of the real
state of things, perplexes and retards the pedantic Russian generals,
till he makes their troops doubt their own prowess, they who come to
conquer and submerge; while his own wild ruffians at length believe
themselves invincible wherever he will allow them to fight. He does
all this in spite of the brutish obtuseness of his own generals,
who, where there is a chance left them of blundering, do it--the
pashas being as incompetent as the wild troops are naturally brave.
Then follows the ever-memorable defence of Silistria, where some
eight-thousand Turks, headed by a brave man and assisted by two young
Englishmen, left to themselves for six weeks (while upwards of one
hundred and fifty thousand English, French, and Turkish soldiers
are _doing nothing_, not fifty miles distant), end by defeating the
efforts of forty-thousand Russians to take the place by storm or
bribery (much to the inexpectancy of all parties, it is whispered--oh
dark and hideous suspicion!), and cause the Russians crestfallen to
abandon Turkey. “For,” say they, “if a Turkish rabble can serve us
thus, what were we, pitted against French and English?” Again, say
French and English soldiers, “If Turks can handle them thus, what
must be expected of _us_?” And so the huge reputation shrinks up,
like the decline of an Academician, or any other titled, decorated,
and legalized humbug; and nothing remains but bitterness, and the
necessity (through long habit) of speaking pompously. To what pitch
is England destined to soar in the history of the world? Externally
a far-shining glory to all the earth, and an example: internally,
a prey to snobbishness and the worship of gold and tinsel--a place
chiefly for sneaks and lacqueys, and any who can fawn and clutch,
or dress clean at church, and connive. The deepest pondering alas!
brings me back to old and nothing-original conclusions--that the
Aristocracy of this country presses, with torpedo-influence,
all classes of men and works; commerce alone is free from their
intermeddling, and thoroughly successful. In all else--be it war,
literature, art, or science--we are great, if great, in _spite_ of
them, and the depressing influence of established authority taking
the precedence of merit and justice. And yet every one would avert
revolutions as still worse. Abroad, somehow, things are managed with
more of the feeling of modern improvement and common-sense justice;
even amid the crash of breaking-up governments, and violations of
personal liberties and rights. Here the government--with our boasted
nobility, the greatest in the world--takes the lead in all that is
dullest and stupidest; and the genius of the nation, with utmost
effort, can alone force the improvement of art and the dictates
of common sense on it, long, long after date, after patience is
exhausted, and frequently not before a press-feeling has again
sprung up. And yet such is the vital energy of the nation, and the
stubborn irresistible patience of Englishmen, that improvement
keeps pace almost with other nations in all except such branches
of art as are especially government-reared, such as Architecture,
Sculpture, Music, and High Art. Alas for the latter! Yet has the
nation forced even some of that on it, witness Dyce. Our troops are
decidedly victorious, in spite of the utmost obtuseness of feeling at
the Horse Guards, with respect both to improvements and the causes
of promotion. It would seem as if it were impossible to set an
Englishman to a duty that he does not fulfil with ability of some
degree; but, were the Napoleonic spirit of promoting and evoking
merit the rule with us in lieu of _family interests_, what height
should we attain to in the scale of glory and the world’s wonder!
But this world is a mere mouse-trap--a trap baited to catch poor,
greedy, selfish, stupid man, who thinks himself so precious clever,
while damning his soul to feed his guts; a most cunningly devised
trap forsooth, where the utmost circumspection and wisdom, aided
by the purest intentions, shall hardly serve to keep a man’s heels
free. Alas! the poor selfish man is baited on all sides. Gluttony,
lechery, glory, were the least chances of destruction, where a wretch
may serve two ends, the safety of a nation and his own damnation;
or thinks still more cunningly to save his selfish soul by selfish
religion, and a giving up of man for God, and thinking to win God’s
notice and refuge by forced marches, leaving all others behind.
Alas! man shall forget himself in the community of being: woe to the
temerity that would call down the searching eye on his individuality!
Therefore is the Eternal shrouded in impenetrable mystery: otherwise
who but themselves would be first to seek him? Whoever feels a
tenderness for a fellow beg worships God in the act,--nay, a kind
feeling for a dog or a cat shall not pass unnoticed; but woe to the
self-seeker and him who despises the poor--
“Whose belly with thy treasure hid
Thou fill’st: they children have
In plenty; of their goods the rest
They to their children leave.
“But as for me, I thine own face
In righteousness will see,
And with thy likeness when I wake
I satisfied shall be.”
6th.--... Off to the field; rain; worked about one hour and a-half
under an umbrella, at the swedes. Rain drove me off; came home and
dined. At half-past three prepared all our plate (six teaspoons), all
the jewelry, my watch, opera-glass, and bronzes, to take into London
to the pawnbroker’s. Stayed unconsciously too long at dinner. After
dinner it rained so furiously that I hesitated, and finally remitted
the expedition, so I have the pleasant task for the morning (two
hours). Funds reduced to three shillings, and two more that Lucy has
left behind.
7th.--Walked into London. Raised £11; bought Lucy some things,
and self a pair of shoes. Called on Thomas. Heard from him some
curious details of the cholera, which raged furiously round his two
streets,[88] but did not molest _them_. Bodies taken from Middlesex
Hospital in vans. In the pest-stricken streets groups of women and
children frantic for their relations taken off. Police and others
with stretchers running about. Undertakers as common as other people
in the streets running about with coffins, like lamplighters. Hearses
with coffins outside as well as in; people following in cabs. One
funeral consisted of a cab, with coffin atop, and people inside.
Thomas and family all well.... Heard of the taking of Sebastopol
being all a lie, so my flaming up to epic pitch was unnecessary and
unwarranted. “Sic transit gloria” &c. However, let me, before it is
too late to prophesy, declare it my conviction that the allies acted
[like] imbeciles, to allow the Austrians to take the Principalities
without first having _fought_ the Russians--so. Next, our government
acted like imbeciles to imagine the Emperor of Russia would withdraw
his troops without force, and so waste precious time. Next, the
government has acted with pusillanimity in not requiring more of
Dundas in the Black Sea. Next, it is disgraceful to the nation that,
while all the powerful places of the Baltic and Black Sea have been
hitherto unmolested [?] some unfortunate Laplanders in the White
Sea should be murdered in their houses, and ruined, to no earthly
purpose, under the pretext of war. Surely, surely, this nation is
powerful enough to enable them to do grace to the poor inhabitants of
the Frozen Ocean. What a pity Captain Lyons cannot be exchanged with
Admiral Dundas! In the regions where Nature shows herself so cruel,
man should (fear of the Almighty would suggest) be awed into charity.
And so the capital of Lapland (combining antiquity of most strange
and foreign character with mysterious remoteness almost unearthly) is
reduced to a heap of ashes by a set of semi-barbarous sailors. Very
likely that neither Captain Lyons nor any of his crew are elevated
(in literary knowledge, feeling for art, morals, or the world’s
best interests) much above the rank of shopkeepers or any other
mechanically civilized savages. The men, whatever or wherever set
to do, will do their work; this is certain; but they are unequally
officered, and the want of vigour and unanimity at home is very sadly
apparent. Lord John would perhaps sniff and snort could he read
this--and what in sooth _can_ I know about the matter? Yet sure it is
that men of genius and vigour have been in politics, and it wants no
ghosts to tell us that Austria is false at heart, and Russia in want
of vigorous licking.
10th.--... I hope Sebastopol is done; I hope also White will come and
be done.
Could I but see him here once more,
That shining bald-pate deep old file,
Oh how I’d meet him at my door,
And greet him with a pleasant smile!
His blarney soft I’d suck it in,
Nor let his comments stir my bile;
And when my hand once grasped his tin
How kindly on him I would smile!
And as he strained my hand, full fain
My daubs were in his cab the while,
And promised soon to come again,
Oh how I’d smile him back his smile!
11th.--The field again.--Sunshine when I did not want it, cold and
wind when it went. Worked at the trees and improved them--found the
turnips too difficult to do anything with of a serious kind. I don’t
know if it would be possible to paint them well; they change from day
to day. An unpleasant and profitless day (eight hours).
12th.--Up latish--bath. Saw my turnips were all false in colour:
ruminated over this disgrace, and tried to retrieve it. Put it in
some shape, ready to take out in the afternoon. Set to work at the
coat from lay figure in back yard--very cold--worked till four at
it. Then to the swedes. Found the gate nailed up and brambled; had
to go round by a _détour_, but in and set to work; but not much
good. Tried to get the main tree more in harmony; a little to the
swedes--men in the field pulling them. At night the cartoon (seven
hours).
13th.--Beautiful day. Meant to walk into Hampstead, feeling strangely
idle. Emma, being better of her cramp, came for a walk instead.
Exquisite day: hedges all gold, rubies, and emeralds, defying all
“white grounds” to yield the like. About one to work at the coat from
self in a glass, back yard. Altered the folds of day before; made it
all right, nearly done. Afterwards to the field--for last time, thank
Heaven. I am sick of it; I have now only to work at home at it to
put in a little harmony. A labourer came and looked, and, stuttering
fearfully, expressed admiration, which ended in his supposing he
could not beg half a pint of beer--one whom I used to look upon as a
respectable man. I gave the degraded wretch twopence and scorn (five
hours).
14th.--To-day one of fearful idleness, self-abasement, and disgust.
Emma got up; I went down to breakfast with her, unwashed and only
half dressed. I intended working at the coat, then walking to
Hampstead to purchase flannel for Emma and baby-clothes. I sat
down to write to Gabriel a few lines about his calf,[89] and like
an ass must write in verse--bad rhymes. Spent till one o’clock, and
lunched--still unwashed--then read the paper--still unwashed till
half-past four: “Oh that it should be so!” Then dressed and took
Katty out--then we dined--then read the paper to Emma; the dear is
poorly and nervous. This is the true and particular history of a
day--a piteous thing to tell of.
15th, Sunday.--Worked at the coat out in the yard--then indoors,
driven in by fog, then fine and out again. Five hours in all....
16th.--Reflected seriously on my money position. Found I should have
four weeks’ money, and the same credit; after which something must be
done if White does not come. Decided on going the next day to collect
my rent at Greenwich, and to look up acquaintances in London, to see
what might turn up (three hours).
17th.--Walked to Holloway, ’bus to City, rail to Greenwich and back.
Got my quarter’s rent. Called on Robert Dickinson; tried to find John
Seddon. Called on my poor old aunt Brown, and on the Rossettis--heard
of Woolner’s return.[90]
18th.--A complete blank. Have done nothing all day, but sit by the
fire with Emma and try to think of ways towards means, ineffectual.
Could think of anything else but that; romped with Katty. A pitiable
day.
19th.--To Gravesend to take my daughter her winter-things and a
trunk. Met Shenton who had forgot his purse, lent him half-a-crown.
Saw his Art-Union Print of _Cœur de Lion_:[91] not very good. Has
taken I think six years. Find that he lives at Hendon, and is great
friends with the old rascally Vicar there whom we nicknamed Judas
from his iniquitous looks and conduct, especially towards cats. Helen
Bromley’s eldest daughter very sadly ill; mine quite well. Walked
home from the Camden Station; walked altogether seventeen miles,
spent £1. 12s. Read a number of Thackeray’s _Newcomes_--good, females
equal to Shakespeare, in all worldliness perfect; his artists all
asses, and his knowledge on that head about at zero.
20th.--Up late--no bath--still lazy, dreamy, and incompetent. Worked
at the draperies of _Our Ladye_ about two hours; headache (two hours).
21st.--Wrote reluctantly to White; but with some appearance of a
reason, the infamous scoundrel Reynolds[92] having published in his
Miscellany the wood-cut (that was formerly in _The People’s Journal_)
of _Wiclif_. Worked at the draperies about four hours. A letter from
old Bamford, to ask me to make a portrait from the one I formerly
painted of his son, since just lost in the _Lady Nugent_. Some sort
of tin tumbling in, and the old saying of an ill wind very truly
exemplified (five hours).
22nd, Sunday.--Up at half-past eight--bath. Worked well all day at
the _Lady of Saturday_: finished the drapery, and began spoiling the
heads.
23rd.--Up at half-past nine--no bath--to work at the _Ladye_. Found
part of the drapery bad, rubbed it out, heightened the seat she sits
on, mended the heads again; did a great deal, but not finished yet.
Any one might be surprised to read how I work whole days on an old
drawing done many years since, and which I have twice worked over
since it was rejected from the Royal Academy in ’47, and now under
promise of sale to White for £20. But I cannot help it. When I see a
work going out of my hands, it is but natural, if I see some little
defect, that I should try to mend it, and what follows is out of my
power to direct: if I give one touch to a head, I give myself three
days’ work, and spoil it half-a-dozen times over. This is invariable.
Is it so with every one? Alas!...
24th.--Bought colours, vehicles, etc. Called on divers beings--out.
Came home in the rain--spoiled my clothes to save eighteen pence....
29th.--To dine with the Rossettis, to meet Woolner; found him very
strangely altered....
2nd December.--To-day no work. Woolner dined here last night, and
this morning Rossetti took a walk with him and me, and then went into
London with him. I walked out with Emma; and then over to Hendon,
to arrange with Smart our grocer about not paying him and getting
credit. Yesterday I worked on the tarpaulin over the Lady’s knees in
_The Last of England_. _Three hours._ Woolner, who ought to know,
likes it well; also the subject for which I painted the background at
Hampstead--called _Work_. Since the 12th [November] Gabriel has still
been here, and I have omitted filling up in consequence, not choosing
he should know of this. To the best of my recollection, I have worked
as follows: 26th [November].--Began painting the tarpaulin out in the
back yard, having arranged bars to the chair in which the lay figure
sits like a Guy (four hours)....
30th.--Beautiful day. Worked well at the shawl in the open air. Now
that the pattern is all drawn and covered with a tint, I put-in the
outdoor effect. To have painted it all out of doors would have taken
six weeks of intense cold and suffering, and perhaps have failed....
3rd December.--After dinner tried to think of ways towards means;
could not think of anything else--fell asleep. No decision as yet: £8
left (two and a half hours).
4th.--Up late--to work about one till four at shawl. Went to the farm
with Emma to see Rossetti’s calf....
5th.--Up at half-past eight.... National Gallery: absurd old pictures
bought by Dyce.[93] An Albert Durer,[94] however, very fine, though
not painted, rather _mapped_; a Masaccio[95] with fine in it. Bad
Rembrandts, and a worse Wilkie--_The Beadle_.[96] Altogether it goes
from weak to foolish; faults of last year corrected by faults of
this....
13th.--Finished the background of _Beauty_, and lettered it afresh,
and pasted in frame; then wrote the letter to Secretary Mogford of
the Sketch-Exhibition. I have sent this morning _The Brent_ to this
place, and to-morrow go the Studies of Heads, and _Beauty_....
14th.--... Went to National Gallery. Met Woolner; his statue of
Wentworth the Lag[97] not a safe bill yet--poor Woolner! The Lag has
some idea of being done by some greater artist, and going down to
posterity more beautiful. Walked home from the Archway with a bad
foot. Evening, suffered severely....
16th.--Worked at the landscape of the turnip-field. Took off dirt and
inequalities of surface, and retouched the corn-part of it. Evening,
idle and suffering (two hours)....
18th.--This evening inconceivably dejected and stupid. Read
newspaper, and thought over our melancholy position; Emma about to be
confined--£2. 10s. in the house--Christmas-boxes to be _paid out of
this_, and the children taken back to Gravesend--and not one person
in the world I would ask to lend me a pound. No one that buys my
pictures; damn old White! (two hours).