Читать книгу The Life of Sir William Quiller Orchardson - Hilda Orchardson Gray - Страница 29

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My Father was usually thought impulsive, yet his quickly painted pictures were the result of long and careful thought. I think his coming to London was the result of the same method. It is usually supposed that the London International Exhibition of 1862 brought him to London on the spur of the moment, with just a handbag for luggage. That is true so far as it goes; but several friends, Pettie particularly, had already migrated to the Metropolis, and it is scarcely to be supposed that Orchardson had not thought about the matter, whether he spoke of it or no. There is a letter too from a Mr John Dick, complaining of “all talent leaving Scotland at one fell swoop,” and inviting him and MacWhirter to “come here till I speak to you.” It is probable, too, that his great love for his father would keep him in Edinburgh.

Arrived in London, however, he would find that he was exactly suited to the life of a great-minded metropolis, that London offered greater scope to ambition than Edinburgh, and that he would be able to help his father just as well or even better; and in the end having thought the matter over “in all its aspects” (a favourite expression of his), he would decide to stay, making a sudden announcement to that effect. His thoughts were careful and sustained, his actions quick but only apparently impulsive; they followed his careful thoughts.

My Father’s early life in London is almost a sealed book to me, but a few letters give some glimpses of his successes and struggles. His first address is next door to his great friends, Pettie and Tom Graham.

60 Stanley Street,

Pimlico.

[About 1862.]

My Dear Father,

I am looking out for another studio, as my present one is not large enough for the picture in Gt. King St.^[1] I will not write to Smythe then till I can tell him my new address. In the meantime you might be looking out my other materials, a lot of them might be packed in the throne, which with any kind of rough lid nailed on would answer the purpose very well.

Send all my sketches, the clean canvases, the writing desk and frames, all other things you can, perhaps, stow away till I come down.

I have a picture for the little frame that hangs next the window in the drawing-room. I should like it sent up—all the other pictures in the room I hope you will accept of as a present.

I expect to get a studio immediately, but have very little time to look about.

When next you write tell me how you are getting on in business.

Your affectionate son,

W. Q. Orchardson.

Wednesday.

A friendly letter from Mr A. Binning Munro, dated Edinburgh, November 1862, throws a small light on W. Q. O.’s Edinburgh work. It would appear that Mr Munro threw a good deal of work, i.e. portraits, in the young painter’s way, and that these portraits were not as successful as some previous ones. It is suggested that perhaps the public became more critical rather than that the painter failed to come up to his previous standard. One of the portraits, that of Mrs Drummond, was said to want character, and W. Q. O. was asked to touch it up when he next came to Edinburgh. As, however, he never went back to Edinburgh, except for a few days, it is to be presumed that the portrait was not altered. Lack of character seems a curious criticism in view of my Father’s frequent remark, “Character I must have.”

[No date or address.]

[About 1863.]

My Dear Father,

I am sorry to have been so long in answering your letter but I mislaid it and could not remember Mr Callander’s address (I enclose the note for him).

I got the portraits finished in time, but it is rather a large canvas for an outsider, and I won’t be surprised if it comes back, nor will I be much affected. As for the Edinburgh critics, it matters little what they say, at present I look in another direction for reputation.

I am very much annoyed about Charlie’s conduct. I wrote him about it and had a letter from him which I have not yet answered. You surprised me about his taking to art. I am afraid he does not comprehend the extent of the undertaking. If a man is a true artist he has many stages to pass through. At first all work is delightful, but when he sees a little further he gets tossed about among conflicting ideas, works by fits, and always with disquiet; if he gets through this he may begin on firm ground. I speak not of Mediocrity—it has a path, smooth, clearly defined and without a shadow, and may be travelled by hundreds both with safety and profit.

My love to Liza, and believe me,

Your affectionate son,

W. Q. Orchardson.

P.S.—I will write again as I am in a great hurry just now.

“Charlie” was W. Q. O.’s younger brother. After going round the world twice he finally emigrated to the United States. He settled for a time in Chicago and became artist, author, lecturer, Socialist, and even stood for the Mayoralty of Chicago once—a Jack of all trades, and master of none, I fancy. I believe he wandered West afterwards. In 1866, W. Q. O. reported to a mutual friend who made enquiries, “Oh, he’s doing well; he combines agriculture with the Fine Arts.”

The following letter is evidently the one referred to above, it is unsigned, but it is in my Father’s own handwriting. My Father had very strong views on the duties of children to parents, and held that children should, if necessary, support parents in old age without question.

10 Sutherland Street,

Pimlico, S.W.

[About 1863.]

My Dear Charlie,

I have only just received your letter through its having been misdirected, and am very sorry to perceive that all is not right between you and Father. Are you quite sure the fault is not with yourself? You have always been his favourite son, and I cannot believe he would lightly quarrel or let any matter of personal interest stand between you. If he has a fault it is in giving way too much, and you should be the last to take advantage of it. Try and look at the question from his point of view. He is getting old now after a hard-working life, full of trouble and care, through all of which he has never ceased to be the best and kindest of Fathers. His favourite scheme for years past has been this entering into business with yourself as a partner and principally, I believe, that he might establish a thriving concern to which you should succeed. If there is to be a breach, think of his disappointment. You are young and may turn in any direction, with him it is different. If this long-cherished scheme falls to the ground, and the son who was to him more than all things else, if he fails, what is then left? Why, he believed in you so undoubtingly that [it] is scarcely possible he should ever believe in another. Dear Charlie, do not be rash. What is any paltry affair of worldly interest in comparison with the constant regret that is sure to follow. This would, indeed, be to “stand in your own light.”

It is difficult to come out of a false position, but do not let pride interfere with your making concessions. Make them and then be proud.

10 Sutherland Street,

Pimlico,

1863.

My Dear Father,

I went to the R.A. to touch up. My large portrait picture has the best place in the second room; it is a centre and on the portrait line. I knew no one in the rooms at first, but before I came away I had made the acquaintance of most of the great men present.

Old Linnel was the first who introduced himself, he said the most flattering things with the remark that it was pleasant to be able to do so conscientiously. He was really very kind, and has invited me to Redhill, his place in the country. Amongst others Landseer came up while I was working; he told me that the size of the picture had been a great difficulty in the hanging but they had done their best.

I do not care to repeat the compliments I received, but they were so many and from such quarters that I can’t help feeling somewhat gratified—besides, as Linnel said, when telling me to have faith in myself, it is the good opinion of the men who are the recognized heads of the profession that make the artist’s reputation.

I can’t help thinking I was right in remaining here, it takes a long time to get into London life and work, and had I been more cautious [?] I should only have lost another year. Besides, “there is a tide in the affairs of men, etc.”

Your affectionate son,

W. Q. Orchardson.

P.S.—I have written to Binning Munro, as I know he will be pleased.

Mr Munro wrote back that he rejoiced in this success, and asking for any particularly good critiques to be sent to him. He evidently felt a little anxious owing to the great praise he had given young Orchardson in Edinburgh.

10 Sutherland Street.

[1863.]

My Dear Father,

I have been in the intention of writing you any day this fortnight past and now I have only time for a few words. I am about to start for the country to get some sketches for the background of a picture.

I enclose a P.O. Order for £7 to pay the grocer. Liza will perhaps see about it, and get a receipt so that there may be no paying twice.

If you should see anyone else that I owe money to, you can tell them they will be paid all right, but in the meantime there is no occasion to make a fuss.

There have been several criticisms in the London papers about my picture; they are all favourable. I must get some and send you them. My love to Liza and believe me,

Your affectionate son,

W. Q. Orchardson.

P.S.—I will leave directions to have my letters forwarded to me in the country, as I may be a fortnight there unless I have uninterrupted good weather.

CHARLES MOXON, Esq., 1874

By kind permission of the National Gallery, Millbank.

I should think this letter from John MacWhirter must have been addressed to Sutherland Street; he was in Italy with Mr Hutchinson, the sculptor:

“I ought to have written long ago, and I may as well confess at once that my reason for writing now is to ask you a favour. Do you or your cousin^[2] know of two rooms; if you do and will take them for me you will for the hundredth time oblige a fellow countryman and brother artist! ! !

If I write from Paris telling you the train, perhaps you will be at the station for Auld Lang Syne and tell me all about everything. I was very glad to hear of the success of your portraits. Of course, we only hear scraps of news here, and I don’t know much, but it must surely be the thing when it was noticed in The Times the first day. I hope Pettie and Graham are strong too—remember me to them. I will crack a quart, yea a pottle pot, and smoke a pipe with you all, if you are not grown too great since I saw you last.”

In March of this year (1863), just before this success, he was evidently hard up and received a letter from two old Edinburgh friends, John and Isabella Burr, now settled in London, and whom he had evidently been visiting, saying: “Why did you not mention you were short of cash? We had two pounds in the house and you should have had one.” The letter goes on to say that he, John, was rather suspicious and that he had at once finished a landscape and taken it to Flatow to sell on purpose to get cash to lend his friend, who had had to sell a picture very cheaply. The consolation at the end is quaint, “Never mind, no one will know.”

Enclosed is an unused stamped envelope addressed by John Burr to himself—real friends these, but happily the “enclosed note” did not need to be posted. This was just before the opening of the Royal Academy, and W. Q. O.’s first success in London, success at the first attempt; he was often hard up temporarily afterwards, but that was chiefly through his inability to remember anything about money affairs, until they were forcibly called to his notice by the lack of cash.

In April Burr wrote that his wife thought Orchardson a remarkably punctual business man, but that Edinburgh was not likely to be of the same opinion, and that “the reason I bother you with a receipt is, business men like them; ’tis not like an affair of our own.”

The following amusing letter, which I cannot date exactly, might be either to John Burr or J. Borders; according to her diary my Mother knew both these old “J.B.’s” (“what a jolly man Mr Burr is!”).

My Dearest J.B.,

How wags the world in your corner of the sofa? Have you checkmated your troubles or have you not yet moved? The lymph of trust is quietly surrendering under the united influence of an easy mind and an unlimited pharmacopœia.

I arose this morning and looked out upon winter; Plato, poor fellow, mourned the loss of a day. How could he have stood the loss of a summer? We Moderns you perceive are much more philosophic!

Pray permit me to apologize for a broken promise. I was unable to call on Sunday, suffering as I then was and now am, from a severe cold and a continuous indisposition about the kidneys.

Oh, ye benignant gods, for which of my sins am I thus afflicted? for what inscrutable purpose is the current of my life thus damn’d, and its hitherto pure waters muddied? According to the general happiness principle, a thing can only be right in so far as it is conducive to the greatest amount of good; now I should admire and reverence the man who could induce me to believe that my uncomfortable sensations were merely the elimination of some great good, or that the success of such an abstraction could justify the material inconvenience I suffer in the process! And then we have another bastard philosopher who swears that nature to her broken laws pins a penalty which she herself inexorably inflicts. Will anyone explain on what possible principle of equity she attacks the kidneys of one whose suction is restricted to the most innocuous of fluids, utterly eschewing malt, alcohol and all their variations? Your case, of course, is somewhat different, being a certain penalty certainly attached to a certain case, though acting uncertainly! But if nature is so anxious for our good that she chastises our little lapses into sin ...!

In 1863 the late Sir Charles Gold, with whom he had had great times in Edinburgh, sent him an introduction to Alfred Gold, one of the firm of Gilbey and Company, with all of whom W. Q. O. remained friends for the rest of his life.

J. Borders, the Edinburgh engraver, appears to have visited W. Q. O. at 10 Sutherland Street, and the only other “event” I can find is a long and highly complimentary valentine poem addressed to Orchardson, which leads one to suppose that he still enjoyed flirting. The poem was saved by my Mother, and the last verse is as follows: