Читать книгу The Life of Sir William Quiller Orchardson - Hilda Orchardson Gray - Страница 30

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As in Edinburgh he did not stay long in one studio, so in London. By June 1863 he had changed his address to Berners Street. While there he received an invitation to stay with William Coleman at Rake’s Farm, Abinger; apparently he invited himself “according to promise.” Mr. Coleman wrote to say he would be very pleased to see him:

“Apropos of dinner troubles, have you been to the Scotch Stores in Oxford Street, a little west of Regent Circus? If you go, go upstairs and be tended by a tolerably ‘neat-handed Phyllis’ instead of the greasy old male you so unctuously describe. Grit is no longer the stable condiment in our ménage, though in the change to plain bread we miss a certain interest and stimulus attaching to the surmounting of obstacles—but on the whole it is an improvement.

“If it will add weight to your intention of coming I may tell you that the event is looked forward to with strongly expressed gratification by the ‘cheerful Harriet,’ who ‘never took to any gentleman so quickly.’ ”

While W. Q. O. lived in Berners Street he appears to have rescued two women, his landlady and her daughter, when the house was burnt down. I only once got him to speak of it in answer to my question as to whether he ever saved anybody’s life, and then he spoke so modestly that I got no story at all, merely a general impression of a blazing staircase, up which even the firemen would not go, with a young man, his head well covered, racing up alone and then coming back supporting, half carrying, the two terrified women to safety.

The following unfinished letter evidently refers to this fire; what a pity it leaves out the rescue, of which my Mother also told me; other friends knew of it too:

My Dear Coleman,

As we have had an incident here that may interest you, I overcome my latent objections to pen and ink.

Last night, after reading the Spiritual Magazine, I slept soundly, but was awoke in the middle watches by a very supernatural roll of thunder; this was performed on my bedroom door by someone who shouted lustily but incoherently. Opening the door I discovered Jove in the likeness of Priestly, his head bound in a cloth and his pale face breathing anxiety. “Run, for God’s sake run; the house is on fire. Save yourself.” I proceeded to dress with some despatch, having a lively view of the smoke and sparks outside.

But stay, this position may raise fully as great a tumult in your bosom as it did in mine, I must anticipate—the first front is intact and all its “belongings.” On reaching the staircase I found a strong mixture of women, police officers and firemen. The headquarters of the enemy had not yet been discovered but was believed to be in the back shop, and the confusion of tongues and opinions was astonishing. However, the house was soon cleared. The door at the foot of the stair was driven in and the firemen disappeared on their hands and knees beneath the densest clouds I have seen for some time. I was about blinded but ran upstairs to see after the doors and windows and struggled down again with eyes shut and altogether very much the worse for smoke. The scene outside was picturesque; the firemen rushing to and fro, the fire-escape up against the windows, the smoke issuing and the upturned faces of the multitude praying evidently that flames might follow.

15 Berners Street.

My Dear Father,

You know me too well to be surprised at my shortcomings as a correspondent, but the truth is I have been looking forward to seeing you, as I intended being in Edinburgh before this. I can’t come, however, till I finish the picture I am engaged on at present, which may be by the end of this or the beginning of next month; when down I intend going to Dumfries for some sketches I want for my next year’s picture.

I hope you are keeping well and that business is progressing favourably; write and let me know. Why does Liza never write? Tell her I have never had my photograph yet taken, but I may if I remember before coming down. Give her my love and believe me, dear Father,

Your affectionate son,

W. Q. Orchardson.

Having been burnt out of his Berners Street rooms his next move, I think, was to Howland Street, off Tottenham Court Road, and from there he joined his friends Pettie, Tom Graham and C. E. Johnson, in setting up house at 37 Fitzroy Square. Q. O., as he was called by his friends at this time, occupied the front drawing-room as a studio, Pettie the back drawing-room, Tom Graham the dining-room.

It was here he painted “The Challenge” (1864), which won Wallis’s hundred guinea prize at his French Gallery, Piccadilly. A great triumph for a “new man.”

While Orchardson and Pettie lived together, their pictures were often mistaken one for the other by the critics as well as by the general public. “The Challenge” in particular was without hesitation acclaimed as a specially good Pettie. Years after I asked my Father if I was wrong in being unable to see more than a distant resemblance. He said he thought not, and added he had always had very definite ideas of how he intended to paint and invariably practised that particular manner and no other, and he could not imagine himself imitating anyone, either consciously or unconsciously; at the same time, many people saw or thought they saw a resemblance, but Orchardson would always paint like Orchardson, his own way, for the simple reason that he could not possibly paint any other person’s way.

The four friends took it in turn to housekeep, and no one quite knew which was the most remarkable housekeeper of the four.

When it came to my Father’s turn, a present of figs had just been sent to add to the bachelors’ menu. My Father was always a late riser and, as usual, the cook came to his bedroom door for orders; amongst other things she reminded him of the keg of figs.

“Yes,” said he, “but what do you do with figs?”

“A pudding is the usual thing, sir.”

“Very well, then, make a pudding.”

At dinner that night at the sweet course appeared a huge and wonderful affair. The four friends looked and looked again, examined into the strange thing and finally sent for the cook. The housekeeper-of-the-week inquired into the nature of the novel dish. Cook, flustered, replied that it was the pudding he had ordered.

“A pudding?” said my Father, “did I order a pudding?”

“Yes, sir; to be made of the keg of figs.”

The four regarded the pudding with renewed interest, and cook continued: “I just put in a layer of figs, then a layer of suet, and so on till the figs were finished; it is very good, sir.”

“I think perhaps you will appreciate it more than we should; allow me to present it to you,” said my Father, picking up the pudding and presenting it to her in his most courteous and grandest manner.

Cook retired with her pudding, and the following day, being asked what she had done with it, she replied:

“I ate it last night, sir.”

“Not alone, and still alive?”

“Yes, sir, quite alone.”

Years after my Father’s trust in human nature received a rude shock on someone asking him when he had told the tale: “But what about the policeman?”

It is never easy to housekeep for artists, they are untidy and happy-go-lucky, and these four friends were fond of animals besides, my Father particularly. Even as a child he had been able to tame wild mice and wild birds. He told me that once when he was quite small the family was sitting in the drawing-room, when the maid came in to say that a mouse had been caught and would the children like to see it drowned?

Of course, thoughtless children would, and they all trooped down to the kitchen, where the mouse was dropped out of the trap into a pail of water, and the children watched while it swam round and round vainly trying to get out. Suddenly sensitive little “Bill” realized that the mouse was in pain and nearly dead, and he could bear it no longer. He picked up the mouse out of the water, wrapped it in a piece of flannel and put it by the fire to recover, fondling it at intervals, all the children and his father watching him. By and by the mouse recovered, poked its nose and bright eyes out of the flannel, ate a little food, and finally ran away down its hole. Thereafter “Bill” had only to tap three times on the floor for the mouse to come out and be fed and fondled. It would only come for Bill’s three taps, and was quite a show to friends of the house.

He generally had a tame sparrow or a siskin, and these once wild birds would come out of their cages, sit on his shoulder, eat out of his hands, and go for walks with him, flying away for a while, but always coming back to his shoulder and the cage. A canary he once had was not a great favourite with his friends owing to its habit of alighting on any visitor’s head and plucking out hairs for nest-making; this canary lived at large in the studio and also went for walks. Most of these pets seem to have fallen victims to the various cats.

At Fitzroy Square several pets were tried, a monkey and a parrot, I believe, and, of course, a cat; and one day they received a present of three fine white rats.

The rats usually lived in a cage, but in the evening were let out at the end of dinner; the four friends would join hands and the rats would race round and round on their shoulders.

If visitors were present their shoulders were also utilized as a race-course. One of the rats would often sit inside my Father’s sleeve with just its nose and pink eyes showing, which seems to have rather alarmed the fashionable “I’m-frightened-of-a-mouse” ladies of the period.

37 Fitzroy Square.

[1864 or 1865.]

My Dear Father,

I can manage well enough so far as I am concerned myself without proceeding farther with the insurance affair; it was principally for you I wished it done besides making some provision for Liza. I hope you will not feel straitened for a while.

Since I came up I have sold a picture on which I am putting the finishing touches.

I have a letter from Charlie to-day, tell him I will write shortly.

He speaks of having the large frame, as it won’t go into the box. I am sorry if it can’t come up because I have begun a picture for it.

I am anxious for those canvases.

Tell Liza I expect her letter.

Your affectionate son,

W. Q. Orchardson.

My letters are sent down from Fitzroy Square.

Hastings.

[1864 or 1865.]

My Dear Father,

I have not been very well and have been working hard to finish my Academy picture. I got through with it but had to work the last day from six in the morning till eleven at night. A great part of the picture is rather slight, as you may suppose, but I determined to send it rather than nothing, though the critics will be down upon it as an evidence of my falling off; moreover, being unfinished and not small, it runs the risk of being skied.

In the interval before the Academy opens I have run down here to pick up my health a bit before resuming work, of which this year I have a lot to do if all my promises are to be kept—everything I can possibly paint is bespoken, even my next year’s Academy picture.

I hope you are keeping well and that business is good, together with your balance at the bankers. I should like to know how you get on though, I rather fear it is a poor affair at the best.

Is Liza well? Give her my love,

And believe me,

Your affectionate son,

W. Q. Orchardson.

A Mr F. Brown writes on November 16th, 1863, that he has done some commission requested by W. Q. O., and adds: “I hope your club will be successful and carried on in a friendly spirit; I think it is a capital thing and fraught, if well conducted, with unspeakable advantage to all concerned.” So presumably the following letter is to Mr. Brown and probably W. Q. O. went to Edinburgh to see his father and then on to Dollar for sketches.

37 Fitzroy Square.

[Undated, about 1864.]

Dear Sir,

I have been looking towards you for some time back, and now strangely wonder that I have not yet troubled the postman on your account.

You probably understand what setting up house means, and will readily conceive the picture of our inexperience struggling with chaos, but as signs of order begin to appear and we are all settling to work I can now do more than think of writing to you.

I have been once again in the country attempting to sketch since I left Dollar, and was again unfortunate in the weather; in this case, however, I soon gave it up, fortune not granting any alleviation to my sufferings as she did in Dollar, when the evenings which your kindness, and that of [illegible] made so pleasant, more than counterbalanced the dreariness of the days, but though [bringing] away pleasant recollections, it was at the expense of parting with old friends.

Being much engaged lately I have not yet seen Nicol but shall not forget your message when I do.

We are getting up a club here like the old one in [Edinburgh], the first meeting takes place in my rooms on Monday night; there is a good mixture of Scotch and English elements. Archer, one of the members of the Club is among us, and J. D. Watson and Cooper from the Langham.

I have scarcely space left to impose on you a little piece of business; I forgot to pay for the use of that easel I had, your little boy will remember the place where he saw me return it. Will you be good enough to settle the matter for me? I enclose a P.O. for 10/- and the “lave o’t” you can make over to Lawrence ... [Unfinished.]

While still in Edinburgh my Father belonged to a quartet in which he played the second violin. He gave up playing so completely that I never heard whether he played well or ill, but the possession of a Cremona violin, which he lost during one of his many house removals, presupposes a pretty good player. There is no mention of his violin playing in London, but only of his playing the piano. About 1863, a Mrs Kate Richardson wrote: “John said you are very great at the piano now,” and a little later in Fitzroy Square he is pictured as spending much time at the piano and extraordinarily little at his easel, especially considering the amount of work he turned out. I myself never heard him, and one day asked him why he had given it up, and he told me it was because painting being a sedentary occupation, his recreation must be active, and as to play either violin or piano well required an immense amount of practice, he decided to give up both and devote all his spare time to active sports.

So about this time he joined the Chiddingfold Hunt, a yeoman pack hunted by four brothers Sadler, one of whom, so my Father told me, broke his neck at a stiff jump, and not merely remained alive but recovered and continued to hunt, with his head resting on his shoulder.

When I was a child my Father used to tell great hunting tales, but it is so long ago that I can remember almost nothing of them, except the sense that he had enjoyed the runs immensely and that he was nearly always in at the finish. In answer to my childish questions about the kill he said he did not see the fun of hunting unless you rode hard, took all the jumps possible, and were in at the death.

“But isn’t hunting cruel?”

Hare hunting is, he told me, because puss is always frightened and consequently loses what poor wits he has; but the fox is cunning and, in my Father’s opinion, has a certain pleasure in pitting his wits against his enemies, and being a fighting animal death by fighting is not cruel but only more or less natural.

On my asking which was his best horse he said that his light weight made him a “treat for any horse,” and he thought a very old white hunter that he rode for one season was the cleverest though not actually the best—“horses are usually stupid, you know, donkeys have far more brains. For instance, donkeys will take shelter from a storm, but horses never do, they merely turn their backs to it.”

Photo Grove & Boulton

LADY ORCHARDSON, 1875

By kind permission of Sir Edmund Davis.

But this old horse really seemed to have brains. He was too old for high jumps but was so clever at finding gaps in the hedges that he and his master were always well up. All the Hunt prophesied disaster with so old a horse and one day the two were seen to take a jump and then disappear. “There’s Orchardson down at last” they all exclaimed in triumph, forgetful for the moment of possible death or damage; but presently Orchardson rode up and explained that the old horse had made a mistake and had jumped over the hedge into a lane that proved much deeper than he thought, but had landed on his feet, stumbled and barked his nose.

“Ah! down at last; it’s what you deserve, riding an old horse like that.”

“Down!” said my Father, “we weren’t down—look at his knees!”

And true enough, the old chap’s knees were perfectly clean; there was just a smudge of mud and blood on his nose; his rider had contrived to pull him up in the nick of time with the clever old horse’s understanding help.

During one of these hunting years he bought a horse to train as a hunter himself; it was a great success and W. Q. O. rode it throughout the season without a fall or any kind of mishap. But on the last day of the season he had a whole chapter of accidents. He had ordered a cab to come early to catch a train at Waterloo; the cab did not come, the rain poured in torrents. After a long search the servant found another cab.

“Half a sovereign if you catch the train at Waterloo,” said Orchardson. It was too early for traffic so cabby drove at a great pace and his fare was just in time to see the train go out as he reached the platform. However, he found another train to a different station, telegraphed for a carriage to meet him and arrived in time. His groom was waiting with his horse and away he went.

“Everything was slippery with rain,” said my Father, “so when we came to a hedge with an unsuspected ditch on the other side my horse came down on the edge of it and turned a somersault—so did I. Having always believed that if ever I fell like that I should break my neck, I was glad to find that my preconceptions were quite wrong and that I could fall on my neck with impunity. I had two other similar falls on that day of mishaps, but neither my horse nor I was in the least hurt.”

In 1865 Mr Pettie’s marriage to Miss Lizzie Bossom broke up the Fitzroy Square ménage, a rather remarkable one and quite celebrated at the time in art circles and amongst art dealers. All four men, young as they were, were already well known, and Orchardson and Pettie, greatest of friends and friendly rivals, especially in other people’s eyes, became celebrated. Their supposed rivalry lessened as they grew older and went their different ways, but their friendship remained the greatest possible.

Mr Pettie died comparatively young, when I was a schoolgirl, so naturally I did not see him much, but his personality must have been a strong one, for I remember him as clearly to-day as if I had seen him yesterday—extraordinarily blue eyes, a nondescript nose, fresh complexion, and friendly energetic ways; he simply radiated energy and kindliness.

Mr Tom Graham was a frequent visitor at our house; he was quite evidently devoted to Q. O., but I think he felt his own lack of success very deeply, and his face was always a little sad. In later years I saw Mr Johnson fairly frequently, but somehow always had a little difficulty in recognising him, and always wondered what he was doing in that galère. In fact, I thought he could not have belonged to the Fitzroy Square ménage, but he told me himself that he did.

But of course when they were young and full of hope they must have been as lively and happy as the other two.

A contemporary description of W. Q. O. in the form of an acrostic by one of his many lady-loves may be appropriate here. The first verse makes William and announces anonymity:

II