Читать книгу The Life of Sir William Quiller Orchardson - Hilda Orchardson Gray - Страница 9

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

On the back of this is written the following beginning of a letter:

Royal Crescent,

Edin.

My Dear Boy,

I have just recovered from the surprising shock I experienced on learning the fact of your continued existence; far from ranking you among “the things that were,” I felt more disposed to give you a place among [those] that were not to be ... [Unfinished.]

Climbing was another “ploy” at this time. I remember well his vivid description of how he climbed the Salisbury Crags—supposedly unclimbable—and how his schoolfellows down below nearly caused him to fall when he was half-way up at a particularly dangerous spot. The rock on which he was standing gave way and he was left hanging by his hands. The shriek the boys gave as the stone came bounding amongst them, and then their directing shouts nearly caused my Father to loosen his hold and look down; fortunately the jerk of the fall had caused one arm to get half wedged in a crevice, which perhaps saved him. At any rate he reached the top; but so far as I know, never again attempted so dangerous a climb. His climbing capacity proved useful, however, for when his sister took to sleep-walking on the roof he was able to follow her right on to the parapet of the tall Edinburgh house, without fear of falling, and was able to bring her safely inside again.

Which reminiscence produced a climbing tale concerning his father.

My Grandfather as a boy spent much time bird-nesting, and climbing with several companions in Forfarshire. At last there was only one climb left and one nest worth thinking about—an eagle’s nest up an inaccessible cliff. They tried it this way, they tried it that, and my Grandfather got the furthest but was always stopped by an impossible ledge, till finally this eagle’s nest became an obsession with him, and he thought of it by day and dreamt of it by night. One night he had an unusually vivid dream; that he had not merely reached the ledge but had crossed it, climbed up to the nest, driven off the eagle, successfully climbed down again and brought the precious nest home and placed it under his bed; then, still in his dream, he got into bed again and slept. When he awoke in the morning the dream was still so vivid that in order to assure himself it was nonsense, he looked under the bed—and there was the nest. A sleep-walker can face risks impossible to a waking person.

My Father’s steady head more than once nearly got him into trouble afterwards. He was visiting the Shetland Islands and walking one day with a friend on a high cliff, when he suddenly thought he would like to go to the edge in order to see over. Leading down to the edge there was a slippery grass slope over which he crawled and then lay down with his head hanging over the precipice, and watched the waves breaking on the rocks and the gulls whirling seven hundred feet below. He was so fascinated by the strange silent spectacle that he lay there for a long time, quite forgetful of his dangerous position. His friend becoming impatient called him, and he suddenly realized that his head had become too heavy (so he expressed it) and was gradually overbalancing him. It was only with the greatest difficulty that he crept back to safety.

Another time he was visiting, I forget where, and came across a pier in the building. There was a single plank running right out to the end, and he walked along it to enjoy the breakers. It was only when he turned to go home that he realized the narrowness of his path, and felt, for the first and, I believe, only time in his life, a sudden access of vertigo. He waited hoping it would go off, but finding it only increase, he fixed his eyes on a distant object and crossed safely, not daring to look down.

One of my Father’s friends at this time was an art student called Ebsworth, with whom he often tramped for miles across the Pentland Hills. They discussed the scene—the purple heather, the sunset, the effects of light on colour, my Father doubtless indicating pictures with his thumb, pressing imaginary canvases; they discussed everything that art students invariably discuss, but always wound up with the recitation by Ebsworth of part of a Scott novel, a poem perhaps, or other literary masterpiece. In this way my Father said he “read” quite a lot of great works, Ebsworth being able to recite a great many—he could repeat anything by heart that he had once read. Once for a test my Father read him a newspaper article, and then asked him to recite it backwards, which he did without mistake. Mr. Ebsworth failed as a painter and became a parson with a living in Yorkshire. My Father once laughingly told him that if ever he became a rich man and wanted a library, he would employ Ebsworth instead—he would make reference so easy! My Father’s own memory was rather remarkable. He read all Scott as a young boy; the first being The Black Dwarf, read by him to his father when the latter was ill. He was so enchanted with the tale that his father suggested Ivanhoe next, which was even more fascinating, with the result that he read all the Waverley Novels one after the other. He never read them again, yet he knew all about them, and in many instances could repeat the very words. He read Shakespeare once through before he was twenty and never again, yet could repeat all the most beautiful passages off by heart. It was difficult to get him started but once wound up he would go on for quite a long time. On anyone venturing to express admiration for his long memory, he would smile and say: “Ah! but Ebsworth ...” and then would follow the reminiscence of the Pentland walks and many other tales if the listener only knew how “to work the oracle.”

Dancing was a favourite amusement, and he used to tell how on one occasion, after dancing all night, he and some companions ran to the top of Arthur’s Seat (as they were, in evening dress) to watch the sun rise. My Father, determined not to be late, ran the whole way without stopping, with the not unnatural result that on reaching the top he fell down unable either to breathe or move. It is possible that this was the cause of the heart trouble he suffered from late in life, and for which no one could account. He ran twice up Arthur’s Seat, the other time being in order to view from above a thunderstorm that broke over Edinburgh. That was before flying men were even thought of, and it was a stranger sight then than now to view a storm below one, while enjoying serene unclouded sunshine.

Fencing was another amusement that he followed enthusiastically. He belonged to the school of Angelo, and always maintained that the thumb was a much stronger and therefore a better guide than the forefinger. But having sprained his wrist very badly he was unable to continue, so took to boxing instead. He went to a professional boxer for lessons, and on his first day the pugilist attacked him somewhat roughly, after showing him the guards. The new pupil did not appreciate the rough handling, and, well, he did not exactly lose his temper, but at any rate he attacked suddenly and furiously, and so surprised his teacher that he drove him to the wall. Said the boxer: “I never knew a young man with a good nose, but what he knew how to protect it.”

Orchardson’s appearance was not such as to inspire enthusiasm in a professional pugilist; he was rather tall—5 ft. 10 inches—and his slenderness and upright carriage made him appear taller; his shoulders were exceptionally broad, a fact that greatly pleased him; his hands and wrists, feet and ankles were very small and finely shaped, but muscular, as he was all over; a doctor once told him that if he struck, say, a wall with all his force, he would probably break his arm. In fact he was a Highlander. His face with its delicate colour and fine features suggested delicacy; indeed, two dear old ladies always shook their heads sadly over him when he was calling, and told him he would die before he was twenty-one. His fellow students and artist friends made great use of his head as a model for girls and for the head of Christ. One man was hunting for a particularly fine type of nose; said another: “What ails ye at Orchardson’s nose?” His chin was small but his jaw was square and strong, and the man’s whole air gave an impression of force and enthusiasm, which, combined with an exceptionally charming and courteous manner, made all who met him realize that here was a personality.

He wore his hair rather long with the quaint result that once, when it was clipped short—a French crop—by an energetic but mistaken barber in Holland, he came home to Edinburgh quite unrecognizable, and his friends had to stare hard before they were sure of him. He never cut his moustache, which grew to be of the kind called military; and never wore a beard except once, on the recommendation of a friend, but he soon took it off again as being too thick and troublesome.

In spite of his delicate appearance my Father never seems to have suffered from anything worse than occasional attacks of indigestion, except once, when there was a bad epidemic of cholera in Edinburgh, and he fell a victim. He collapsed in the street, but managed to call a cab and give his address. He was carried into his Father’s house and given brandy at his gasped request, but only in a small glass; with much difficulty he managed to get hold of the bottle and drank off more than half of it, to his family’s horror. They were consoled, however, by the doctor telling them that his patient would have been dead before his arrival had it not been for the brandy.

To someone unknown and undated. A scrap:

“On Saturday night I was unable [to come] as I had promised and to-night I am still a prisoner. I send my apologies, please treat them well. The weather and the gods have used me vilely since last we met, and though I possess neither the morale nor physique of a martyr, I have been rehearsing patience, but feel diffident as to my success, indeed it has not been flattering. Pray be weak enough to forgive; if virtue is allowed without interference to be solely its own reward, why should not poor sin have the satisfaction of being its own punishment?”

He never even suffered from toothache he told me, except once; he went to a dentist to get the bad tooth out and was drawn with the tooth round and round the room, which decided him never to visit a dentist again. This, no doubt, accounts for the following note in his handwriting:

“A degree of cold below the freezing point of water is, I believe, a new agent in therapeutics, which could probably be usefully employed for various other important purposes. A solution of salt of a very low temperature by acting upon the exposed nerve might at once and permanently remove toothache.”

Which is closely followed by this note on fire:

“The materials required to extinguish fire in the hold of a ship are nothing more than a cask of common chalk in the bottom of the hold, connected with the deck by a small pipe; and a two gallon bottle of sulphuric acid, which, on the alarm of fire, being poured down the pipe will generate a sufficient quantity of dense smoke or gas in which flames cannot exist.”

In the same-aged writing is the following—a lecture to himself:

“To laugh, to applaud, to weep, are the signs of a sentiment or a passion and have nothing to say to the reason. Do you then be as uninfluenced by plaudits as by censures, and fear neither, or you will never improvise. Be calm in the midst of your grandest oratorical moments. Moderate them because you yourself judge what is right, and not because you are wanting in courage to give them unrestrained vent; reason alone should be your guide.

“Does the young orator blush when he attempts to improvise, so much the better; if he does, his success is certain if he has but courage to continue. He has intelligence since he perceives his folly and he has force of character since, notwithstanding that perception, he perseveres in speaking.”

In after years my Father described these as his “young and curly days,” and they certainly seem to have been very strenuous both in work and play; the extreme concentration on the work and the rapidity making up for usually short hours. There is a tale which illustrates this particularly well.

At the age of twenty-two, one afternoon three days before the last sending-in day for the Royal Scottish Academy, he was working at a picture he had just begun—“Wishart’s Last Exhortation”—when he was interrupted by his late teacher and present friend, Robert Scott Lauder. One head was painted, the rest of the picture sketched-in in charcoal. Scott Lauder was so much struck by the sketch and the finished head that, of course, he wanted to know why the picture had not been finished in time for the R.S.A. Orchardson shyly admitted that perhaps it was not so bad, that he had forgotten all about the exhibition and, as a matter of fact, had not been working very hard; he added that if so excellent a critic as Mr Lauder thought the picture good enough, he could finish it in time. Of course, Scott Lauder laughed—impossible to finish thirteen figures, including many hands in three days. However, when his visitor had gone, young Orchardson set to work. He painted till dusk, then called his sister Mary and asked if she would light up for him; and would she be so very kind as to keep him supplied with coffee all night? History does not relate whether the sister was surprised or not, probably not; but, at any rate, she looked after him, keeping him supplied with food and coffee, opening the shutters at dawn, closing them at dusk, until she was exhausted. Orchardson worked on and on, scarcely pausing even to eat, never sleeping, never resting. At the end of three days and three nights the picture was finished and sent off; and you might suppose that the painter went to bed. Not at all; he squared his shoulders and marched ten miles across the Pentlands. I say “marched” advisedly, for the word describes his walk exactly—alert and vigorous as well as light and graceful.

The picture was accepted, and when Orchardson went to the Academy on touching-up day, he found it was hung on the line. On my asking if there was not a great deal of finishing to be done, he replied that no one was more surprised than himself, but everything was finished with the most meticulous care except one halberd, which had been forgotten, in a corner; even a vase and a shawl and all the hands were highly finished. People asked him why he had not hidden the hands like many if not most painters; and he could only reply that the hands were there and so had to be painted. By which he meant that in his vision of the picture the eleven hands were, he considered, correctly placed, and he could not alter them for the sake of a little less work—or, indeed, for any reason. One of the women is wearing a lace shawl, painted with Pre-Raphaelite precision. Even a shawl, if it belonged to the original vision, was sacred.

George Wishart was condemned by Cardinal Beaton to be burned at St. Andrew’s. On his way to the stake, passing the apartments of the Captain of the Castle, he was requested to breakfast with his family and a few friends. Having desired them to sit down he discoursed to them concerning the Lord’s Supper. After his having blessed the Bread and Wine he dispensed the Sacrament. This was the first time the Sacrament was administered in Scotland in the Protestant form.

Wishart’s last exhortation is being listened to most attentively by his small congregation and the armed guards, the night before he was burnt at the stake by Cardinal Beaton in 1546. The preacher is thinking earnestly of his words and of his fate not at all, in spite of the prison walls of St. Andrew’s.

The two figures on the left appear to have been painted from the artist himself, and from Paul Chalmers, who is sitting at the table in the full light of the lantern.

Photo T. & R. Annan

SCENE FROM “PEVERIL OF THE PEAK,” 18—

By kind permission of the Glasgow Art Gallery.

In 1851 my Father and Grandfather went to London together for the great Exhibition. I can find no written records of this visit, but remember my Father telling me that he was impressed by two things, the vast size of the Exhibition and the extreme badness of the art, which, he said, was dominated by the Prince Consort, who knew nothing whatsoever about art, and had a “merely German” conception of it. The Prince encouraged art, he said, but the wrong kind—Winterhalter, for instance. My Father emphasized this all his life.

At this distance of time and place, it is exceedingly difficult to get into communication with anyone who knew my Father in his youth. But having found a little girl’s letter to “My Darling Bill,” and signed “Chattie,” I had the happy thought to write to Mr MacWhirter’s daughter (Mrs Charles Sims), who wrote to Mr MacKay, R.S.A., to whom I am indebted for a re-introduction to Mrs Ford, who turns out to be “Chattie Clow.” She writes to me as follows:

“I remember my mother telling me that she knew him first as a rather delicate-looking little boy in tunic and belt, and she must have been drawn to the motherless child for they were great friends. My first introduction to him was when I was about four years old. I was afraid to go into the drawing-room as one of my sisters (aged eight) said, ‘Don’t go in, he has a moustache and he kissed me’; a moustache was not a common thing in those days. Then my eldest sister took me in her arms and carried me upstairs, and we were friends at once and for always.

“Like all children, I was a hero-worshipper and from that time he was my hero in everything that he did; as you will know he was charming with children. On one occasion I was sitting on his knee helping him to plant an acorn in a windowbox, and after it was in the earth he said, ‘Now it will grow into a big oak tree, upset the windowbox, probably upset the house, and all go crash in the street! and then what will the landlord say!!!’

“He was like Lewis Carroll, he seemed to understand the twistings of a child’s mind.

“He was always in great demand for social functions. I remember private theatricals in our house and sundry fancy dress dances. I am sure he enjoyed his life in the intervals of work. About 1853 or 1854, he went to study in London for a time, I think about two years, but I cannot be sure. I had two letters from him (1854) enclosed in letters to my Mother (I was about five). He came back to Edinburgh for some years before ultimately going to reside in London. He never failed to come to see us when in Edinburgh. Here are the letters:

I have just come into possession of your delightful little letter in a very singular way. I was standing by the fire just now when I saw something white under the mirror that stands over the fireplace. After pushing it about for some time with the end of my brush I got it out at the side and was not a little astonished to find it to be your letter, which had fallen through from the side where the servant always sticks my letters.

I had begun to think you had forgotten all about the letter-writing, and I suppose you were thinking that I was a fine fellow! to be sure, wasn’t I? However, if you will forgive me this time I will close up the letter trap in the mirror, and promise to be a good boy for the future. I am sorry to hear that you have been ill, Chatty, and I assure you if you do not write soon and tell me that you “are quite well, I thank you,” I will think you very cruel.

I enclose a lock of my hair as you request. It’s not grey, but I can’t help that, for, strange to say, it seems unconscious of care, even of the care with which I search for a grey lock, so Aggie need not be afraid to take great care of it to lock it in her locket, and I will always venerate the organ of veneration from which it was cut. I found in your letter the fossil remains of two unfortunate rosebuds, they now figure in my geological collection.

Let Mrs Clow know that I received her kind little letter and I am glad to hear that she has been down calling on my sisters. Tell Aggie I have treasured up the relic she sent me. I have dreamt over it too, but the dream is a secret and won’t stand pen and ink. Only it was not about Rizzio.

As I must be suffering dreadfully in your estimation, Chatty, and I therefore wish you to get this as soon as possible, I will conclude with a “brief,” as the Highlandman says, and sending as much of my love as can possibly pass through the post to be distributed at the tea table,

How I do envy Eliza,^[2] the romps you have with her, and when you speak of the kisses you have for me don’t I wish I was at home again, that’s all!

I am glad Mrs Clow had got over her illness before you wrote, as I should have been very uneasy till the next bulletin; I hope the recovery is complete.

I am rather astonished about the lock of hair which I thought was enclosed in my letter, as I have not seen it since. It certainly must have made away with itself in despair. I sincerely trust that this one is reserved for a better fate.

You talk of having no one to romp with. Oh! Chatty how I wish, you were here, would we not startle the natives! Why, you would light up my lonely room like a ray of veritable sunshine dancing into all the corners, warming everything it came across and finally resting in the heart of your own fond Bill! who is only sorry that he can’t kiss you otherwise than in imagination. But never say die, Chatty, there’s a good time coming.

Till then I must be content with a kiss by post. This little letter is all over with them, they are even lurking in the corners of the envelope. Treat them kindly for the sake of your ever loving

Bill.

“I remember when a girl at school, I showed him my drawing (shading from the cast), and he said, ‘Child, who teaches you to do such fine work—what a waste of time!’

“In 1858, your Father had a picture in the Royal Scottish Academy entitled “Marley Gray,” with a quotation from a ballad: