Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2092 page)

“Now, observe, I shall be most dreadfully hurt and mortified if, during your absence, mother does not get Mrs. Langdon to sleep in the house with her. You are to consider, yourself, whether, under all the circumstances, the journey is practicable. The expense will be about twenty-five shillings altogether. This we can save in five-and-twenty other ways; and if everything at home can be made comfortable to mother, I think it will be of service to your head. Will the journey be too much for you? — sixty miles down, and, to the best of my knowledge, the same up again.

“I came here to make sketches and not acquaintances. I have had no heavy time on my hands; a man should be able to bear his own company. * * I spend my time more satisfactorily than I usually do; live at a fisherman’s house; lodging, twenty-five shillings a week, (nothing to be had cheaper;) but as his wife cooks for me, and as I live upon fish and tea, (and live
well,
too, — sometimes to be sure with a chop,) I have something to spare for models, which I frequently make use of. * * *

“Don’t trouble yourself about the exact tint of the painting-room wall. I shall cover it with sketches.

“Your affectionate brother,

“WILLIAM COLLINS.”

At the beginning of October the painter returned to London, and resumed his Journal in the following manner:

“October, 1816. — On Sunday, September 29th, 1816, I made a solemn resolution to abstain from any compliance with desires calculated to weaken my faculties. This resolution was made in St. Clement’s church, at Hastings; and, as it has for its end the improvement of my powers as an artist and a man, I shall proceed to adopt a more strict and periodical examination of my conduct, with a view to banish from my constitution those inclinations to indolence, which, by their unobserved agency, might overcome my mental resources.

“I have for some years kept a common-place book and diary; but the irregularity with which it has been attended to renders it little more than a book of remorse. I shall, in order to make atonement for this neglect, .consider it an imperative duty to render the diary begun this day a more complete abstract of my employment of each four-and-twenty hours. It has this moment struck my recollection, that the day on which I made the above determination, which did not occur to me at the time, was my dear father’s birthday. God grant him peace — he had little here! His life was one scene of narrow poverty; which, to my finite capacity, he less deserved than any one I ever knew. ‘ God’s holy will be done!’ was his saying under each affliction.

“22nd, Thursday. — Arose at seven o’clock; walked, thought, and planned; read and resolved; hoped for power to carry my plans into execution; found myself in health and strength of body; and, so far, with no excuse for gloom. Strict attention will, I hope, enable me to preserve this necessary condition of my faculties.

“At twelve, began to paint upon Mr. Heathcote’s picture of ‘The Kitten Deceived,’ upon which I worked till five o’clock. 23rd. — Painted upon Mr. Heathcote’s picture until five o’clock. Mrs. L — - called. In my endeavour to paint while I was talking to her, (or rather
she
to
me,
) I painted the wrong side of the kitten in the looking-glass introduced into the picture. This shows the futility of attempting to paint with company, and the necessity of giving the entire attention to the work in hand. Went in the evening to Mr. P — -’s, for the first time, where, in attempting to be as precise as himself, I rather bewildered myself. 24th. — Painted till half-past two; went out to walk till dinner. At Murphy’s chess party in the evening. 25th. — Painted on Mr. Heathcote’s picture till two o’clock, with repeated interruptions from the smoking of the chimney, the inconvenience of which was such as to induce me to submit to the alternative of taking down the grate, and having it reset upon my own plan. This occupied the rest of the day. Henry — - came to give us a lesson in chess. I fell asleep frequently between the moves. This I tried all in my power to prevent. I hope it is not a disease with me, perhaps being up so late might have produced this effect. 26th. — My study is in a miserable state, in consequence of the grate being reset; painted, however, till four o’clock; read the ‘Antiquary’ in the evening till twelve. * * November 1st. — Up at eight o’clock; heavy and gloomy, head wandering. Began to clear away obstacles at twelve. Read No. 127 of the ‘Rambler;’ then to study upon Mr. Heathcote’s picture till five. Johnson says, in the above number, ‘When indolence once enters upon the mind, it can scarcely be dispossessed but by such efforts as very few are willing to exert.’ Perhaps I may be one of the
‘few.’
By a close examination of everything I see and hear, I hope to improve as a painter and as a man. 2nd. — Went to — - in the evening. My hours there were most foolishly, or rather, as affording a
lasting
lesson to me, most profitably spent. 3rd. — Rose ill; talked with visitors till three o’clock; also upon religion with Mr. Allston, whom I like much. Deduced the necessity of three resolutions from my follies of last evening, all to be rigidly enforced; read at night.

* * * 5th. — If I am indolent during the progress of a picture, that picture, at every sight of it, will make me so uncomfortable that I either risk putting it by unfinished, or getting it out of hand in a hasty manner.”

Sentiments such as those above displayed will sufficiently testify that Mr. Collins’s expedition to Hastings was morally, as well as intellectually, useful to him; and will, moreover, explain the secret of the unwearied endurance with which he struggled against the new disappointments which it will be seen misfortune for a time still directed against him — provided though he now was with the material, and the capacity to produce the most forcible pictorial appeals to the world of Art. Before however proceeding further in the progress of the painter at this important period of his life, it will not, in the first place, be irrelevant to show that one at least of his kind friends still continued to watch his doubtful fortunes with interest, by the insertion of the following letter, written by him in answer to a most liberal and spontaneous offer of payment in advance for a commissioned picture, by Sir Thomas Heathcote:

To SIR THOMAS HEATHCOTE, BART.,

“Dec. 7th, 1816.

“Dear Sir, — I shall not attempt to describe the pleasure I received upon the receipt of your letter of yesterday, nor to apologize for accepting your kind offer, as, after the account of my arduous situation which I troubled you with in a former letter, it would be perfectly inconsistent to conceal the necessity you have so generously anticipated.

“From my excursion to Hastings I returned early in October, with a sufficient number of sketches and observations to complete the pictures I propose exhibiting in the ensuing season; and should it please God to continue that degree of health which I have so happily enjoyed for the last twelve months, I hope to prove that I have not been idle.

“By the exhibition of these pictures, I trust I shall not lose that favour the public has shown towards my works; but, although I cannot exist without fame, yet I cannot live upon it, so that, in order to accomplish the increase of my resources, I must devote some of my intervening time to the production of one, or perhaps two highly-finished small portraits. Upon this subject, Mr. Owen has kindly given me advice, so decisive, that I shall not fail to adopt it. On this head, I hope to have the pleasure of communicating more at large when you favour me with a call. * * *

“Yours obliged and obediently,

“WILLIAM COLLINS.”

It is now necessary, viewing the painter as already provided with his new stock of materials, to return with him to the mingled pleasures and anxieties of his London home. Designs for his projected efforts, of all sizes and peculiarities, soon flowed from his pencil; and like the beginnings of all his other works, were shown to his family and his friends, before they were seriously undertaken for the approaching exhibition. In this peculiarity of his character, he differed all his life from some of his professional brethren. No man ever lived who less affected mystery in his Art, or more thoroughly despised the easy ambition of shining before a “select few” — the unworthy satisfaction of being contented to remain the colossus of a clique, the great man of a small party. His efforts, from first to last, were addressed to every grade of his fellow beings who were likely to behold them; and were tried in his own mind by no other final standard than that of general approbation.

Among those whom he most frequently consulted at the different stages of his pictures were his brother and his friend Wilkie, to whom he had been introduced while they were students together at the Academy. The first of these companions and advisers, Francis Collins, added to a quick and lively intellect a profound knowledge of the theory of Art and an uncommon capacity for just and intelligent criticism — qualities which his brother never omitted to call into action for his benefit, and never found to fail in directing and encouraging him aright. Of Wilkie’s capabilities as the adviser of his friend it is unnecessary to speak. The powerful genius of that simple-minded and amiable man never failed in its deep sympathy with the efforts of his brother painter. From the first to the last day of their friendship, Wilkie and Collins sought each other’s advice and enjoyed each other’s confidence, without a moment’s alloy on either side, of jealousy or doubt: both were as fully impressed with the necessity, as they were happy in the privilege, of a connection too rare among the members of their profession — the free communication between painters — of their thoughts, their hopes, and their undertakings in the Art. Each was more the enthusiast of the other’s genius than of his own — rejoicing equally in each other’s triumphs, and submitting equally to each other’s criticisms.

Of the painter’s household, at this period, one who was then, as afterwards, ever among the most welcome of his guests, and who still survives for the advantage of modern Art, Mr. Leslie, R.A., thus writes, in a communication with which he has favoured me on the subject of his departed friend:

“Very many of the pleasantest evenings of that period of my life” (1816 and 1817) “were spent at your father’s house, in New Cavendish-street, looking over his beautiful sketches and valuable collection of prints. The recollection of your uncle Francis — whom you, I should think, can hardly remember — is associated with those evenings. He was a most agreeable man, and had a fund of quiet humour — he had also great information on all matters connected with the Art, and an excellent judgment. Your father’s house was therefore to me like a school — but a school of the most pleasant kind.”

The group that, in those days, often assembled in my father’s painting-room, as they sat in judgment on his projected pictures, would have formed no unworthy subject for a picture in themselves. The calm serious features of Wilkie, as he silently and thoughtfully contemplated the work of his friend, contrasted by the merry countenance and animated gestures of Francis Collins, as he hinted a joke, or hazarded a criticism — the appearance on the scene of Mrs. Collins, a remarkably dignified and handsome woman, contemplating with all a mother’s affectionate admiration the progress of her son’s labours; and the position of the painter himself, as he sat at his easel, now adding and altering, and now watching the approbation of Wilkie’s attentive eye — these, surrounded by the quaint furniture of the little studio — the heap of variously-tinted canvasses here; the articles of fisherman’s clothing and models of fishermen’s boats there; the finished studies, hung confusedly on the walls; and the painter’s implements, scattered over the tables; in one place the green bough ravaged from Hampstead fields, as a study for foliage; in another the toppling “lay figure,” displaying, above, the counterfeit resemblance of the female form, and (“Desinat in piscem mulier formosa supreme”) clothed at its lower extremities with a fisherman’s apron and boots — might have formed, altogether, a representation of an interior, not unworthy to rank, in point of interest, with many of those which have been already submitted, successfully, on canvass to the public eye.

While I am occupied in mentioning the companions of the artist’s home, I must not omit to notice one who was ever as ready to offer his small aid and humble obedience as were any of his superiors, to confer the benefit of their penetrating advice — I refer to Mr. Collins’s dog “Prinny” (Prince). This docile and affectionate animal had been trained by his master to sit in any attitude which the introduction of a dog in his pictures (a frequent occurrence) might happen to demand. So strict was “Prinny’s” sense of duty, that he never ventured to move from his set position, until his master’s signal gave him permission to approach his chair, when he was generally rewarded with a lump of sugar, placed, not between his teeth, but on his nose, where he continued to balance it, until he was desired to throw it into the air and catch it in his mouth — a feat which he very seldom failed to perform. On one occasion, his extraordinary integrity in the performance of his duties was thus pleasantly exemplified:- My father had placed him on the backs of two chairs his fore legs on the rails of one, and his hind legs on the rails of the other — and, in this rather arduous position, had painted from him for a considerable time, when a friend was announced as waiting for him in another apartment. Particularly desirous of seeing this visitor immediately, the painter hurried from the room, entirely forgetting to tell “Prinny” to get down; and remained in conversation with his friend for full half an hour. On returning to his study, the first object that greeted him was poor “Prinny,” standing on his “bad eminence” exactly in the position in which he had been left, trembling with fatigue, and occasionally venting his anguish and distress in a low, piteous moan, but not moving a limb, or venturing even to turn his head. Not having received the usual signal, he had never once attempted to get down, but had remained disconsolate in his position “sitting” hard, with nobody to paint him, during the long half-hour that had delayed his master’s return.