An Autobiography

“July 24th.– The musketry instructor, contrary to my sad expectations, was by no means the automaton one expects a soldier to be, but a thoroughly intelligent model, and his attitudes combined perfect drill-book correctness with great life and action. He was splendid. I can feel certain of everything being right in the attitudes, and will have no misgivings. It is extraordinary what a well-studied position that kneeling to resist cavalry is. I dread to think what blunders I might have committed. No civilian would have detected them, but the military would have been down upon me. I feel, of course, rather fettered at having to observe rules so strict and imperative concerning the poses of my figures, which, I hope, will have much action. I have to combine the drill book and the fierce fray! I told an artist the other day, very seriously, that I wished to show what an English square looks like viewed quite close at the end of two hours’ action, when about to receive a last charge. A cool speech, seeing I have never seen the thing! And yet I seem to have seen it – the hot, blackened faces, the set teeth or gasping mouths, the bloodshot eyes and the mocking laughter, the stern, cool, calculating look here and there; the unimpressionable, dogged stare! Oh! that I could put on canvas what I have in my mind!

“July 25th.– A glorious day at Chatham, where again the Engineers were put through field exercises, and I studied them with all my faculties. I got splendid hints to-day. Went with Colonel Browne and Papa.

“July 28th.– My dear musketry instructor for a few more attitudes. He has put me through the process of loading the ‘Brown Bess’ – a flint-lock – so that I shall have my soldiers handling their arms properly. Galloway has sold the copyright of this picture to Messrs. Dickenson for £2,000! They must have faith in my doing it well.”

On August 11th I see I took a much-needed holiday at home, at Ventnor; and, as I say, “gave myself up to fresh air, exercise, a little out-of-door painting, and Napier’s ‘Peninsular War,’ in six volumes.” Shortly before I left for home I received from Queen Victoria a very splendid bracelet set with pearls and a large emerald. My mother and good friend Dr. Pollard were with me in the studio when the messenger brought it, and we formed a jubilant trio.

It was pleasant to be amongst my old Ventnor friends who had known me since I was little more than a child. But on September 10th I had to bid them and the old place goodbye, and on September 11th I re-entered my beloved studio.

“September 12th.– An eventful day, for my ‘Quatre Bras’ canvas was tackled. The sergeant-major and Colonel Browne arrived. The latter, good man, has had the whole Waterloo uniform made for me at the Government clothing factory at Pimlico. It has been made to fit the sergeant-major, who put on the whole thing for me to see. We had a dress rehearsal, and very delighted I was. They have even had the coat dyed the old ‘brick-dust’ red and made of the baize cloth of those days! Times are changed for me. It will be my fault if the picture is a fiasco.”

During the painting of “Quatre Bras” I was elected a member of the Royal Institute of Painters in Water Colour, and I contributed to the Winter Exhibition that large sketch of a sowar of the 10th Bengal Lancers which I called “Missed!” and which the Graphic bought and published in colours. This reproduction sold to such an extent that the Graphic must have been pleased! The sowar at “tent-pegging” has missed his peg and pulls at his horse at full gallop. I had never seen tent-pegging at that time, but I did this from description, by an Anglo-Indian officer of the 10th, who put the thing vividly before me. How many, many tent-peggings I have seen since, and what a number of subjects they have given me for my brush and pencil! Those captivating and pictorial movements of men and horses are inexhaustible in their variety.

I had more models sent to me than I could put into the big picture – Guardsmen, Engineers and Policemen – the latter being useful as, in those days, the police did not wear the moustache, and I had difficulty in finding heads suitable for the Waterloo time. Not a head in the picture is repeated. I had a welcome opportunity of showing varieties of types such as gave me so much pleasure in the old Florentine days when I enjoyed the Andrea del Sartos, Masaccios, Francia Bigios, and other works so full of characteristic heads.

On November 7th my sister and I went for a weekend to Birmingham, where the people who had bought “The Roll Call” copyright were exhibiting that picture. They particularly wished me to go. We were very agreeably entertained at Birmingham, where I was curious to meet the buyer of my first picture sold, that “Morra” which I painted in Rome. Unfortunately I inquired everywhere for “Mr. Glass,” and had to leave Birmingham without seeing him and the early work. No one had heard of him! His name was Chance, the great Birmingham glass manufacturer.

“November 27th.– In the morning off with Dr. Pollard to Sanger’s Circus, where arrangements had been made for me to see two horses go through their performances of lying down, floundering on the ground, and rearing for my ‘Quatre Bras’ foreground horses. It was a funny experience behind the scenes, and I sketched as I followed the horses in their movements over the arena with many members of the troupe looking on, the young ladies with their hair in curl-papers against the evening’s performance. I am now ripe to go to Paris.”

So to Paris I went, with my father. We were guests of my father’s old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Talmadge, Boulevard Haussmann, and a complete change of scene it was. It gave my work the desired fillip and the fresh impulse of emulation, for we visited the best studios, where I met my most admired French painters. The Paris Diary says:

“December 3rd.– Our first lion was Bonnat in his studio. A little man, strong and wiry; I didn’t care for his pictures. His colouring is dreadful. What good light those Parisians get while we are muddling in our smoky art centre. We next went to Gérôme, and it was an epoch in my life when I saw him. He was at work but did not mind being interrupted. He is a much smaller man than I expected, with wide open, quick black eyes, yet with deep lids, the eyes opening wide only when he talks. He talked a great deal and knew me by name and ‘l’Appel,’ which he politely said he heard was ‘digne’ of the celebrity it had gained. We went to see an exhibition of horrors – Carolus Duran’s productions, now on view at the Cercle Artistique. The talk is all about this man, just now the vogue. He illustrates a very disagreeable present phase of French Art. At Goupil’s we saw De Neuville’s ‘Combat on the Roof of a House,’ and I feasted my eyes on some pickings from the most celebrated artists of the Continent. I am having a great treat and a great lesson.

“December 4th.– Had a supposed great opportunity in being invited to join a party of very mondaines Parisiennes to go over the Grand Opera, which is just being finished. Oh, the chatter of those women in the carriage going there! They vied with each other in frivolous outpourings which continued all the time we explored that dreadful building. It is a pile of ostentation which oppressed me by the extravagant display of gilding, marbles and bronze, and silver, and mosaic, and brocade, heaped up over each other in a gorged kind of way. How truly weary I felt; and the bedizened dressing-rooms of the actresses and danseuses were the last straw. Ugh! and all really tasteless.”

However, I recovered from the Grand Opera, and really enjoyed the lively dinners where conversation was not limited to couples, but flowed with great ésprit across the table and round and round. Still, in time, my sleep suffered, for I seemed to hear those voices in the night. How graceful were the French equivalents to the compliments I received in London. They thought I would like to know that the fame of “l’Appel” had reached Paris, and so I did.

We visited Detaille’s beautiful studio. He was my greatest admiration at that time. Also Henriette Browne’s and others, and, of course, the Luxembourg, so I drew much profit from my little visit. But what a change I saw in the army! I who could remember the Empire of my childhood, with its endless variety of uniforms, its buglings, and drummings, and trumpetings; its chic and glitter and swagger: 1870 was over it all now. Well, never mind, I have lived to see it in the “bleu d’horizon” of a new and glorious day. My Paris Diary winds up with: “December 14th.– Papa and I returned home from our Paris visit. My eye has been very much sharpened, and very severe was that organ as it rested on my ‘Quatre Bras’ for the first time since a fortnight ago. Ye Gods! what a deal I have to do to that picture before it will be fit to look at! I continue to receive droll letters and poems (!). One I must quote the opening line of:

‘Go on, go on, thou glorious girl!’

Very cheering.”

CHAPTER X

MORE WORK AND PLAY

SO I worked steadily at the big picture, finding the red coats very trying. What would I have thought, when studying at Florence, if I had been told to paint a mass of men in one colour, and that “brick-dust”? However, my Aldershot observations had been of immense value in showing me how the British red coat becomes blackish-purple here, pale salmon colour there, and so forth, under the influence of the weather and wear and tear. I have all the days noted down, with the amount of work done, for future guidance, and lamentations over the fogs of that winter of 1874-5. I gave nicknames in the Diary to the figures in my picture, which I was amused to find, later on, was also the habit of Meissonier; one of my figures I called the “Gamin” and he, too, actually had a “Gamin.” Those fogs retarded my work cruelly, and towards the end I had to begin at the studio at 9.30 instead of 10, and work on till very late. The porter at No. 76 told me mine was the first fire to be lit in the morning of all in The Avenue.

One day the Horse Guards, directed by their surgeon, had a magnificent black charger thrown down in the riding school at Knightsbridge (on deep sawdust) for me to see, and get hints from, for the fallen horse in my foreground. The riding master strapped up one of the furious animal’s forelegs and then let him go. What a commotion before he fell! How he plunged and snorted in clouds of dust till the final plunge, when the riding master and a trooper threw themselves on him to keep him down while I made a frantic sketch. “What must it be,” I ask, “when a horse is wounded in battle, if this painless proceeding can put him into such a state?”

The spring of 1875 was full of experiences for me. I note that “at the Horse Guards’ riding school a charger was again ‘put down’ for me, but more gently this time, and without the risk, as the riding master said, of breaking the horse’s neck, as last time. I was favoured with a charge, two troopers riding full tilt at me and pulling up at within two yards of where I stood, covering me with the sawdust. I stood it bravely the second time, but the first I got out of the way. With ‘Quatre Bras’ in my head, I tried to fancy myself one of my young fellows being charged, but I fear my expression was much too feminine and pacific.” March 22nd gave me a long day’s tussle with the grey, bounding horse shot in mid-career. I say: “This is a teaser. I was tired out and faint when I got home.” If that was a black day, the next was a white one: “The sculptor, Boehm, came in, and gave me the very hints I wanted to complete my bounding horse. Galloway also came. He says ‘Quatre Bras’ beats ‘The Roll Call’ into a cocked hat! He gave me £500 on account. Oh! the nice and strange feeling of easiness of mind and slackening of speed; it is beginning to refresh me at last, and my seven months’ task is nearly accomplished.” Another visitor was the Duke of Cambridge, who, it appears, gave each soldier in my square a long scrutiny and showed how well he understood the points.

On “Studio Monday” the crowds came, so that I could do very little in the morning. The novelty, which amused me at first, had worn off, and I was vexed that such numbers arrived, and tried to put in a touch here and there whenever I could. Millais’ visit, however, I record as “nice, for he was most sincerely pleased with the picture, going over it with great gusto. It is the drawing, character, and expression he most dwells on, which is a comfort. But I must now try to improve my tone, I know. And what about ‘quality’? To-day, Sending-in Day, Mrs. Millais came, and told me what her husband had been saying. He considers me, she said, an even stronger artist than Rosa Bonheur, and is greatly pleased with my drawing. That (the ‘drawing’) pleased me more than anything. But I think it is a pity to make comparisons between artists. I may be equal to Rosa Bonheur in power, but how widely apart lie our courses! I was so put out in the morning, when I arrived early to get a little painting, to find the wretched photographers in possession. I showed my vexation most unmistakably, and at last bundled the men out. They were working for Messrs. Dickinson. So much of my time had been taken from me that I was actually dabbing at the picture when the men came to take it away; I dabbing in front and they tapping at the nails behind. How disagreeable!”

After doing a water colour of a Scots Grey orderly for the “Institute,” which Agnew bought, I was free at last to take my holiday. So my Mother and I were off to Canterbury to be present at the opening of St. Thomas’s Church there.

“April 11th, Canterbury.– To Mass in the wretched barn over a stable wherein a hen, having laid an egg, cackled all through the service. And this has been our only church since the mission was first begun six years ago, up till now, in the city of the great English Martyr. But this state of things comes to an end on Tuesday.”

This opening of St. Thomas’s Church was the first public act of Cardinal Manning as Cardinal, and it went off most successfully. There were rows of Bishops and Canons and Monsignori and mitred Abbots, and monks and secular priests, all beautifully disposed in the Sanctuary. The sun shone nearly the whole time on the Cardinal as he sat on his throne. After Mass came the luncheon at which much cheering and laughter were indulged in. Later on Benediction, and a visit to the Cathedral. I rather winced when a group of men went down on their knees and kissed the place where the blood of St. Thomas à Becket is supposed to still stain the flags. The Anglican verger stared and did not understand.

On Varnishing Day at the Academy I was evidently not enchanted with the position of my picture. “It is in what is called ‘the Black Hole’ – the only dark room, the light of which looks quite blue by contrast with the golden sun-glow in the others. However, the artists seemed to think it a most enviable position. The big picture is conspicuous, forming the centre of the line on that wall. One academician told me that on account of the rush there would be to see it they felt they must put it there. This ‘Lecture Room’ I don’t think was originally meant for pictures and acts on the principle of a lobster pot. You may go round and round the galleries and never find your way into it! I had the gratification of being told by R.A. after R.A. that my picture was in some respects an advance on last year’s, and I was much congratulated on having done what was generally believed more than doubtful – that is, sending any important picture this year with the load and responsibility of my ‘almost overwhelming success,’ as they called it, of last year on my mind. And that I should send such a difficult one, with so much more in it than the other, they all consider ‘very plucky.’ I was not very happy myself, although I know ‘Quatre Bras’ to be to ‘The Roll Call’ as a mountain to a hill. However, it was all very gratifying, and I stayed there to the end. My picture was crowded, and I could see how it was being pulled to pieces and unmercifully criticised. I returned to the studio, where I found a champagne lunch spread and a family gathering awaiting me, all anxiety as to the position of my magnum opus. After that hilarious meal I sped back to the fascination of Burlington House. I don’t think, though, that Mamma will ever forgive the R.A.’s for the ‘Black Hole.’

“April 30th.– The private view, to which Papa and I went. It is very seldom that an ‘outsider’ gets invited, but they make a pet of me at the Academy. Again this day contrasted very soberly with the dazzling P.V. of ‘74. There were fewer great guns, and I was not torn to pieces to be introduced here, there, and everywhere, most of the people being the same as last year, and knowing me already. The same furore cannot be repeated; the first time, as I said, can never be a second. Papa and I and lots of others lunched over the way at the Penders’ in Arlington Street, our hosts of last night, and it was all very friendly and nice, and we returned in a body to the R.A. afterwards. I was surprised, at the big ‘At Home’ last night, to find myself a centre again, and people all so anxious to hear my answers to their questions. Last year I felt all this more keenly, as it had all the fascination of novelty. This year just the faintest atom of zest is gone.

“May 3rd.– To the Academy on this, the opening day. A dense, surging multitude before my picture. The whole place was crowded so that before ‘Quatre Bras’ the jammed people numbered in dozens and the picture was most completely and satisfactorily rendered invisible. It was chaos, for there was no policeman, as last year, to make people move one way. They clashed in front of that canvas and, in struggling to wriggle out, lunged right against it. Dear little Mamma, who was there nearly all the time of our visit, told me this, for I could not stay there as, to my regret, I find I get recognised (I suppose from my latest photos, which are more like me than the first horror) and the report soon spreads that I am present. So I wander about in other rooms. I don’t know why I feel so irritated at starers. One can have a little too much popularity. Not one single thing in this world is without its drawbacks. I see I am in for minute and severe criticism in the papers, which actually give me their first notices of the R.A. The Telegraph gives me its entire article. The Times leads off with me because it says ‘Quatre Bras’ will be the picture the public will want to hear about most. It seems to be discussed from every point of view in a way not usual with battle pieces. But that is as it should be, for I hope my military pictures will have moral and artistic qualities not generally thought necessary to military genre.

“May 4th.– All of us and friends to the Academy, where we had a lively lunch, Mamma nearly all the time in ‘my crowd,’ half delighted with the success and half terrified at the danger the picture was in from the eagerness of the curious multitude. I just furtively glanced between the people, and could only see a head of a soldier at a time. A nice notion the public must have of the tout ensemble of my production!”

I was afloat on the London season again, sometimes with my father, or with Dr. Pollard. My dear mother did not now go out in the evenings, being too fatigued from her most regrettable sleeplessness. There was a dinner or At Home nearly every day, and occasionally a dance or a ball. At one of the latter my partner informed me that Miss Thompson was to be there that evening. All this was fun for the time. At a crowded afternoon At Home at the Campanas’, where all the singers from the opera were herded, and nearly cracked the too-narrow walls of those tiny rooms by the concussion of the sound issuing from their wonderful throats, I met Salvini. “Having his ‘Otello,’ which we saw the other night, fresh in my mind, I tried to enthuse about it to him, but became so tongue-tied with nervousness that I could only feebly say ‘Quasi, quasi piangevo!’ ‘O! non bisogna piangere,’ poor Salvini kindly answered. To tell him I nearly cried! To tell the truth, I was much too painfully impressed by the terrific realism of the murder of Desdemona and of Othello’s suicide to cry. I have been told that, when Othello is chasing Desdemona round the room and finally catches her for the murder, women in the audience have been known to cry out ‘Don’t!’ And I told him I nearly cried! Ugh!”

After this I went to Great Marlow for fresh air with my mother, and worked up an oil picture of a scout of the 3rd Dragoon Guards whom I saw at Aldershot, getting the landscape at Marlow. It has since been engraved.

By the middle of June I was at work in the studio once more. The evenings brought their diversions. Under Mrs. Owen Lewis’s chaperonage I went to Lady Petre’s At Home one evening, where 600 guests were assembled “to meet H.E. the Cardinal.”[5 - Manning.] I record that “I enjoyed it very much, though people did nothing but talk at the top of their voices as they wriggled about in the dense crowd which they helped to swell. They say it is a characteristic of these Catholic parties that the talk is so loud, as everybody knows everybody intimately! I met many people I knew, and my dear chaperon introduced lots of people to me. I had a longish talk with H.E., who scolded me, half seriously, for not having come to see him. I was aware of an extra interest in me in those orthodox rooms, and was much amused at an enthusiastic woman asking, repeatedly, whether I was there. These fleeting experiences instruct one as they fly. Now I know what it feels like to be ‘the fashion.’” Other festivities have their record: “I went to a very nice garden party at the house of the great engineer, Mr. Fowler, where the usual sort of thing concerning me went on – introductions of ‘grateful’ people in large numbers who, most of them, poured out their heartfelt(!) feelings about me and my work. I can stand a surprising amount of this, and am by no means blasée yet. Mr. Fowler has a very choice collection of modern pictures, which I much enjoyed.” Again: “The dinner at the Millais’ was nice, but its great attraction was Heilbuth’s being there, one of my greatest admirations as regards his particular line – characteristic scenes of Roman ecclesiastical life such as I so much enjoyed in Rome. I told Millais I had had Heilbuth’s photograph in my album for years. ‘Do you hear that, Heilbuth?’ he shouted. To my disgust he was portioned off to some one else to go in to dinner, but I had de Nittis, a very clever Neapolitan artist, and, what with him and Heilbuth and Hallé and Tissot, we talked more French and Italian than English that evening. Millais was so genial and cordial, and in seeing me into the carriage he hinted very broadly that I was soon to have what I ‘most t’oroughly deserved’ – that is, my election as A.R.A. He pronounced the ‘th’ like that, and with great emphasis. Was that the Jersey touch?”

In July I saw de Neuville’s remarkable “Street Combat,” which made a deep impression on me. I went also to see the field day at Aldershot, a great success, with splendid weather. After the “battle,” Captain Cardew took us over several camps, and showed us the stables and many things which interested me greatly and gave me many ideas. The entry for July 17th says:

“Arranging the composition for my ‘Balaclava’ in the morning, and at 1.30 came my dear hussar,[6 - Poor young Inman, who was killed at the fight of Laing’s Nek, S. Africa.] who has sat on his fiery chestnut for me already, on a fine bay, for my left-hand horse in the new picture. I have been leading such a life amongst the jarring accounts of the Crimean men I have had in my studio to consult. Some contradict each other flatly. When Col. C. saw my rough charcoal sketch on the wall, he said no dress caps were worn in that charge, and coolly rubbed them off, and with a piece of charcoal put mean little forage caps on all the heads (on the wrong side, too!), and contentedly marched out of the door. In comes an old 17th Lancer sergeant, and I tell him what has been done to my cartoon. ‘Well, miss,’ says he, ‘all I can tell you is that my dress cap went into the charge and my dress cap came out of it!’ On went the dress caps again and up went my spirits, so dashed by Col. C. To my delight this lancer veteran has kept his very uniform – somewhat moth-eaten, but the real original, and he will lend it to me. I can get the splendid headdress of the 17th, the ‘Death or Glory Boys,’ of that period at a military tailor’s.”

The Lord Mayor’s splendid banquet to the Royal Academicians and distinguished “outsiders” was in many respects a repetition of the last but with the difference that the assembly was almost entirely composed of artists. “I went with Papa, and I must say, as my name was shouted out and we passed through the lane of people to where the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress were standing to receive their guests, I felt a momentary stroke of nervousness, for people were standing there to see who was arriving, and every eye was upon me. I was mentioned in three or four speeches. The Lord Mayor, looking at me, said that he was honoured to have amongst his guests Miss Thompson (cheers), and Major Knollys brought in ‘The Roll Call’ and ‘Quatre Bras’ amidst clamour, while Sir Henry Cole’s allusion to my possible election as an A.R.A. was equally well received. I felt very glad as I sat there and heard my present work cheered; for in that hall, last year, I had still the great ordeal to go through of painting, and painting successfully, my next picture, and that was now a fait accompli.”

A rainy July sadly hindered me from seeing as much as I had hoped to see of the Aldershot manœuvres. On one lovely day, however, Papa and I went down in the special train with the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Cambridge, and all the “cocked hats.” In our compartment was Lord Dufferin, who, on hearing my name, asked to be introduced and proved a most charming companion, and what he said about “Quatre Bras” was nice. He was only in England on a short furlough from Canada, and did not see my “Roll Call.”

“At the station at Farnborough the picturesqueness began with the gay groups of the escort, and other soldiers and general officers, all in war trim, moving about in the sunshine, while in the background slowly passed, heavily laden, the Army on the march to the scene of action. Papa and I and Major Bethune took a carriage and slowly followed the march, I standing up to see all I could.

“We were soon overtaken by the brilliant staff, and saluted as it flashed past by many of its gallant members, including the dashing Baron de Grancey in his sky blue Chasseurs d’Afrique uniform. Poor Lord Dufferin in civilian dress – frock coat and tall hat – had to ride a rough-trotting troop horse, as his own horse never turned up at the station. A trooper was ordered to dismount, and the elegant Lord Dufferin took his place in the black sheepskin saddle. He did all with perfect grace, and I see him now, as he passed our carriage, lift his hat with a smiling bow, as though he was riding the smoothest of Arabs. The country was lovely. All the heather out and the fir woods aromatic. In one village regiments were standing in the streets, others defiling into woods and all sorts of artillery, ambulance, and engineer waggons lumbering along with a dull roll very suggestive of real war. At this village the two Army Corps separated to become enemies, the one distinguished from the other by the men of one side wearing broad white bands round their headdresses. This gave the wearers a rather savage look which I much enjoyed. It made their already brown faces look still grimmer. Of course, our driver took the wrong road and we saw nothing of the actual battle, but distant puffs of smoke. However, I saw all the march back to Aldershot, and really, what with the full ambulances, the men lying exhausted (sic) by the roadside, or limping along, and the cheers and songs of the dirty, begrimed troops, it was not so unlike war. At the North Camp Sir Henry de Bathe was introduced, and Papa and I stood by him as the troops came in.” A day or two later I was in the Long Valley where the most splendid military spectacle was given us, some 22,000 being paraded in the glorious sunshine and effective cloud shadows in one of the most striking landscapes I have seen in England. “It was very instructive to me,” I write, “to see the difference in the appearance of the men to-day from that which they presented on Thursday. Their very faces seemed different; clean, open and good-looking, whereas on Thursday I wondered that British soldiers could look as they did. The infantry in particular, on that day, seemed changed; they looked almost savage, so distorted were their faces with powder and dirt and deep lines caused by the glare of the sun. I was well within the limits when I painted my 28th in square. I suppose it would not have done to be realistic to the fullest extent. The lunch at the Welsh Fusiliers’ mess in a tent I thought very nice. Papa came down for the day. It is very good of him. I don’t think he approves of my being so much on my own hook. But things can’t help being rather abnormal.”

Here follows another fresh air holiday at my grandparents’ at Worthing (where I rode with my grandfather), finishing up with a visit which I shall always remember with pleasure – I ought to say gratitude – not only for its own sake, but for all the enjoyment it obtained for me in Italy. That August I was a guest of the Higford-Burrs at Aldermaston Court, an Elizabethan house standing in a big Berkshire park. “I arrived just as the company were finishing dinner. I was welcomed with open arms. Mrs. Higford-Burr embraced me, although I have only seen her twice before, and I was made to sit down at table in my travelling dress, positively declining to recall dishes, hating a fuss as I do. The dessert was pleasant because every one made me feel at home, especially Mrs. Janet Ross, daughter of the Lady Duff Gordon whose writings had made me long to see the Nile in my childhood. There are five lakes in the Park, and one part is a heather-covered Common, of which I have made eight oil sketches on my little panels, so that I have had the pleasure of working hard and enjoying the society of most delightful people. There were always other guests at dinner besides the house party, and the average number who sat down was eighteen. Besides Mrs. Ross were Mr. and Mrs. Layard, he the Nineveh explorer, and now Ambassador at Madrid, the Poynters, R.A., the Misses Duff Gordon, and others, in the house. Mrs. Burr with her great tact allowed me to absent myself between breakfast and tea, taking my sandwiches and paints with me to the moor.”

Days at Worthing followed, where my mother and I painted all day on the Downs, I with my “Balaclava” in view, which required a valley and low hills. My mother’s help was of great value, as I had not had much time to practise landscape up to then. Then came my visit, with Alice, to Newcastle, where “Quatre Bras” was being exhibited, to be followed by our visit at Mrs. Ross’s Villa near Florence, whither she had invited us when at Aldermaston, to see the fêtes in honour of Michael Angelo.

“We left for Newcastle by the ‘Flying Scotchman’ from King’s Cross at 10 a.m., and had a flying shot at Peterborough and York Cathedrals, and a fine flying view of Durham. Newcastle impressed us very much as we thundered over the iron bridge across the Tyne and looked down on the smoke-shrouded, red-roofed city belching forth black and brown smoke and jets of white steam in all directions. It rises in fine masses up from the turbid flood of the dark river, and has a lurid grandeur quite novel to us. I could not help admiring it, though, as it were, under protest, for it seems to me something like a sin to obscure the light of Heaven when it is not necessary. The laws for consuming factory smoke are quite disregarded here. Mrs. Mawson, representing the firm at whose gallery ‘Quatre Bras’ is being exhibited, was awaiting our arrival, and was to be our hostess. We were honoured and fêted in the way of the warm-hearted North. Nothing could have been more successful than our visit in its way. These Northerners are most hospitable, and we are delighted with them. They have quite a cachet of their own, so cultured and well read on the top of their intense commercialism – far more responsive in conversation than many society people I know ‘down South.’ We had a day at Durham under Mrs. Mawson’s wing, visiting that finest of all English Cathedrals (to my mind), and the Bishop’s palace, etc. We rested at the Dean’s, where, of course, I was asked for my autograph. I already find how interested the people are about here, more even than in other parts where I have been. Durham is a place I loved before I saw it. The way that grand mass of Norman architecture rises abruptly from the woods that slope sheer down to the calm river is a unique thing. Of course, the smoky atmosphere makes architectural ornament look shallow by dimming the deep shadows of carvings, etc. – a great pity. On our return we took another lion en passant– my picture at Newcastle, and most delighted I was to find it so well lighted. I may say I have never seen it properly before, because it never looked so well in my studio, and as to the Black Hole – ! What people they are up here for shaking hands! When some one is brought up to me the introducer puts it in this way: ‘Mr. So-and-So wishes very much to have the honour of shaking hands with you, Miss Thompson.’ There is a straight-forward ring in their speech which I like.”

We were up one morning at 4.30 to be off to Scotland for the day. At Berwick the rainy weather lifted and we were delighted by the look of the old Border town on its promontory by the broad and shining Tweed. Passing over the long bridge, which has such a fine effect spanning the river, we were pleased to find ourselves in a country new to us. Edinburgh struck us very much, for we had never quite believed in it, and thought it was “all the brag of the Scotch,” but we were converted. It is so like a fine old Continental city – nothing reminds one of England, and yet there is a Scotchiness about it which gives it a sentiment of its own. Our towns are, as a rule, so poorly situated, but Edinburgh has the advantage of being built on steep hills and of being back-grounded by great crags which give it a most majestic look. The grey colour of the city is fine, and the houses, nearly all gabled and very tall, are exceedingly picturesque, and none have those vile, black, wriggling chimney pots which disfigure what sky lines our towns may have. I was delighted to see so many women with white caps and tartan shawls and the children barefoot; picturesque horse harness; plenty of kilted soldiers.

We did all the lions, including the garrison fortress where the Cameron Highlanders were, and where Colonel Miller, of Parkhurst memory, came out, very pleased to speak to me and escort us about. He had the water colour I gave him of his charger, done at Parkhurst in the old Ventnor days. Our return to Newcastle was made in glorious sunshine, and we greedily devoured the peculiarly sweet and remote-looking scenes we passed through. I shall long remember Newcastle at sunset on that evening, Then, I will say, the smoke looked grand. They asked me to look at my picture by gas light. The sixpenny crowd was there, the men touching their caps as I passed. In the street they formed a lane for me to pass to the carriage. “What nice people!” I exclaim in the Diary.

All the morning of our departure I was employed in sitting for my photograph, looking at productions of local artists and calling on the Bishop and the Protestant Vicar. One man had carved a chair which was to be dedicated to me. I was quaintly enthroned on it. All this was done on our way to the station, where we lunched under dozens of eyes, and on the platform a crowd was assembled. I read: “Several local dignitaries were introduced and ‘shook hands,’ as also the ‘Gentlemen of the local Press.’ As I said a few words to each the crowd saw me over the barriers, which made me get quite hot and I was rather glad when the train drew up and we could get into our carriage. The farewell handshakings at the door may be imagined. We left in a cloud of waving handkerchiefs and hats. I don’t know that I respond sufficiently to all this. Frankly, my picture being made so much of pleases me most satisfactorily, but the personal part of the tribute makes me curiously uncomfortable when coming in this way.”

Ruskin wrote a pamphlet on that year’s Academy in which he told the world that he had approached “Quatre Bras” with “iniquitous prejudice” as being the work of a woman. He had always held that no woman could paint, and he accounted for my work being what he found it as being that of an Amazon. I was very pleased to see myself in the character of an Amazon.

CHAPTER XI

TO FLORENCE AND BACK

WE started on our most delightful journey to Florence early in September of that year to assist at the Michael Angelo fêtes as the guests of dear Mrs. Janet Ross and the Marchese della Stufa, who, with Mr. Ross, inhabited in the summer the delicious old villa of Castagnolo, at Lastra a Signa, six miles on the Pisan side of my beloved Florence. Of course, I give page after page in the Diary to our journey across Italy under the Alps and the Apennines. To the modern motorist it must all sound slow, though we did travel by rail! Above all the lovely things we saw on our way by the Turin-Bologna line, I think Parma, rising from the banks of a shallow river, glowing in sunshine and palpitating jewel-like shade, holds pride of place for noontide beauty. After Modena came the deeper loveliness of the afternoon, and then Bologna, mellowed by the rosy tints of early evening. Then the sunset and then the tender moon.

By moonlight we crossed the Apennines, and to the sound of the droning summer beetle – an extraordinarily penetrating sound, which I declared makes itself heard above the railway noises, we descended into the Garden of Italy, slowly, under powerful brakes. At ten we reached Florence, and in the crowd on the platform a tall, distinguished-looking man bowed to me. “Miss Thompson?” “Yes.” It was the Marchese, and lo! behind him, who should there be but my old master, Bellucci. What a warm welcome they gave us. Of course, our luggage had stuck at the douane at Modane, and was telegraphed for. No help for it; we must do without it for a day or two. We got into the carriage which was awaiting us, and the Marchese into his little pony trap, and off we went flying for a mysterious, dream-like drive in misty moonlight, we in front and our host behind, jingle-jingling merrily with the pleasant monotony of his lion-maned little pony’s canter. We could not believe the drive was a real one. It was too much joy to be at Florence – too good to be true. But how tired we were!