PAINTER OF THE HEROIC--I'LL GO!--A MODEST PEEP--WHO IS THIS?--A CAPITAL
PHARAOH--DISPROPORTIONABLY SHORT--IMAGINARY PICTURE--ABOUT ENGLISH
FIGURES
The painter of the heroic resided a great way off, at the western end of
the town. We had some difficulty in obtaining admission to him; a
maid-servant, who opened the door, eyeing us somewhat suspiciously: it
was not until my brother had said that he was a friend of the painter
that we were permitted to pass the threshold. At length we were shown
into the studio, where we found the painter, with an easel and brush,
standing before a huge piece of canvas, on which he had lately commenced
painting a heroic picture. The painter might be about thirty-five years
old; he had a clever, intelligent countenance, with a sharp grey eye--his
hair was dark brown, and cut a-la-Rafael, as I was subsequently told,
that is, there was little before and much behind--he did not wear a
neckcloth; but, in its stead, a black riband, so that his neck, which was
rather fine, was somewhat exposed--he had a broad, muscular breast, and I
make no doubt that he would have been a very fine figure, but
unfortunately his legs and thighs were somewhat short. He recognised my
brother, and appeared glad to see him.
'What brings you to London?' said he.
Whereupon my brother gave him a brief account of his commission. At the
mention of the hundred pounds, I observed the eyes of the painter
glisten. 'Really,' said he, when my brother had concluded, 'it was very
kind to think of me. I am not very fond of painting portraits; but a
mayor is a mayor, and there is something grand in that idea of the Norman
arch. I'll go; moreover, I am just at this moment confoundedly in need
of money, and when you knocked at the door, I don't mind telling you, I
thought it was some dun. I don't know how it is, but in the capital they
have no taste for the heroic, they will scarce look at a heroic picture;
I am glad to hear that they have better taste in the provinces. I'll go;
when shall we set off?'
Thereupon it was arranged between the painter and my brother that they
should depart the next day but one; they then began to talk of art.
'I'll stick to the heroic,' said the painter; 'I now and then dabble in
the comic, but what I do gives me no pleasure, the comic is so low; there
is nothing like the heroic. I am engaged here on a heroic picture,' said
he, pointing to the canvas; 'the subject is "Pharaoh dismissing Moses
from Egypt," after the last plague--the death of the first-born; it is
not far advanced--that finished figure is Moses': they both looked at the
canvas, and I, standing behind, took a modest peep. The picture, as the
painter said, was not far advanced, the Pharaoh was merely in outline; my
eye was, of course, attracted by the finished figure, or rather what the
painter had called the finished figure; but, as I gazed upon it, it
appeared to me that there was something defective--something
unsatisfactory in the figure. I concluded, however, that the painter,
notwithstanding what he had said, had omitted to give it the finishing
touch. 'I intend this to be my best picture,' said the painter; 'what I
want now is a face for Pharaoh; I have long been meditating on a face for
Pharaoh.' Here, chancing to cast his eye upon my countenance, of whom he
had scarcely taken any manner of notice, he remained with his mouth open
for some time. 'Who is this?' said he at last. 'Oh, this is my brother,
I forgot to introduce him. . . . '
We presently afterwards departed; my brother talked much about the
painter. 'He is a noble fellow,' said my brother; 'but, like many other
noble fellows, has a great many enemies; he is hated by his brethren of
the brush--all the land and water scape painters hate him--but, above
all, the race of portrait-painters, who are ten times more numerous than
the other two sorts, detest him for his heroic tendencies. It will be a
kind of triumph to the last, I fear, when they hear he has condescended
to paint a portrait; however, that Norman arch will enable him to escape
from their malice--that is a capital idea of the watchmaker, that Norman
arch.'
I spent a happy day with my brother. On the morrow he went again to the
painter, with whom he dined; I did not go with him. On his return he
said, 'The painter has been asking a great many questions about you, and
expressed a wish that you would sit to him as Pharaoh; he thinks you
would make a capital Pharaoh.' 'I have no wish to appear on canvas,'
said I; 'moreover he can find much better Pharaohs than myself; and, if
he wants a real Pharaoh, there is a certain Mr. Petulengro.'
'Petulengro?' said my brother; 'a strange kind of fellow came up to me
some time ago in our town, and asked me about you; when I inquired his
name, he told me Petulengro. No, he will not do, he is too short; by the
by, do you not think that figure of Moses is somewhat short?' And then
it appeared to me that I had thought the figure of Moses somewhat short,
and I told my brother so. 'Ah!' said my brother.
On the morrow my brother departed with the painter for the old town, and
there the painter painted the mayor. I did not see the picture for a
great many years, when, chancing to be at the old town, I beheld it.
The original mayor was a mighty, portly man, with a bull's head, black
hair, body like that of a dray horse, and legs and thighs corresponding;
a man six foot high at the least. To his bull's head, black hair, and
body the painter had done justice; there was one point, however, in which
the portrait did not correspond with the original--the legs were
disproportionably short, the painter having substituted his own legs for
those of the mayor, which when I perceived I rejoiced that I had not
consented to be painted as Pharaoh, for, if I had, the chances are that
he would have served me in exactly a similar way as he had served Moses
and the mayor.
Short legs in a heroic picture will never do; and, upon the whole, I
think the painter's attempt at the heroic in painting the mayor of the
old town a decided failure. If I am now asked whether the picture would
have been a heroic one provided the painter had not substituted his own
legs for those of the mayor--I must say, I am afraid not. I have no idea
of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, even with the assistance
of Norman arches; yet I am sure that capital pictures might be made out
of English mayors, not issuing from Norman arches, but rather from the
door of the 'Checquers' or the 'Brewers Three.' The painter in question
had great comic power, which he scarcely ever cultivated; he would fain
be a Rafael, which he never could be, when he might have been something
quite as good--another Hogarth; the only comic piece which he ever
presented to the world being something little inferior to the best of
that illustrious master. I have often thought what a capital picture
might have been made by my brother's friend, if, instead of making the
mayor issue out of the Norman arch, he had painted him moving under the
sign of the 'Checquers,' or the 'Three Brewers,' with mace--yes, with
mace,--the mace appears in the picture issuing out of the Norman arch
behind the mayor,--but likewise with Snap, and with whiffler, quart pot,
and frying-pan, Billy Blind and Owlenglass, Mr. Petulengro and
Pakomovna;--then, had he clapped his own legs upon the mayor, or any one
else in the concourse, what matter? But I repeat that I have no hope of
making heroic pictures out of English mayors, or indeed, out of English
figures in general. England may be a land of heroic hearts, but it is
not, properly, a land of heroic figures, or heroic posture-making. Italy
. . . what was I going to say about Italy?