Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2115 page)

“There now! — I think I have given my good and philosophical reasons for my intrusion on thee, and for thy frank, generous, and friendly reception of my unauthorised introduction of myself to thee. I am not however the less grateful for, arid gratified by, thy kindness. Though I have said so much to prove the ground of my reliance on it, I have done it rather to prove that I did not lightly, much less impertinently, venture to intrude on an R.A. The simple fact was, I had wished for years to see some performance of thine, however slight; whether a mere sketch in oil, or water-colours, or even in pencil, that might give me some idea of a master, of whom I had heard so much, and I wrote my letter and Sonnet, under the impression of that wish and feeling, considering that its existence did not discredit my own taste, and was the highest compliment I could pay to thy genius. For the manner in which my application has been met, I can only gratefully assure thee it has led me to join to admiration of the artist, cordial affection for the man, — a stronger, and yet more natural, feeling; for the first exists only from report, while the last is founded on experience. I shall therefore most thankfully receive thy prints, which will at least enable me to judge for myself of thy subjects and composition; and I doubt not that even from these, I shall cull materials for my Muse, which I shall have pleasure in sending thee.

“Thy obliged and affectionate friend,

“BERNARD BARTON.”

“P.S. I certainly should not have come to town, without making an effort to obtain a sight of a painting of thine — I should now try hard to see Hampstead and its artist.”

Applications for presents of sketches, from persons neither enjoying the peculiar privileges of Mr. Bernard Barton’s position, nor entertaining his correct ideas of the value of works of Art, form one of the prominent social misfortunes of a successful painter’s life. The system of intellectual extortion practised under the protection of that all-devouring dragon of pictorial offspring — a lady’s album — is not the only trial of his professional patience which the artist must endure. Nothing is more common than to hear some of his well-meaning but uninitiated friends making a polite demand, on visiting his painting-room, for “a little sketch;” which generally means some study they observe hanging upon his walls, that they have not the most distant notion can be of any particular use or value to him, and that they imagine he can give away — especially if he has once used it in a picture — with as little loss to himself, as his old painting coat, after he has worn it out at elbows, or his spirits of turpentine, when he has washed his brushes in them. It is often in vain that the unfortunate object of their passion for the Fine Arts, endeavours to explain to them the importance of his sketch to himself; if they are not very easy and good-natured people, they go away with a firm persuasion that his refusal to oblige them arises from an absence of generosity, or from a mercenary objection to part with a single stroke of his pencil, for which he may chance to obtain money at some future time. There is probably no department of intellectual Art which is so incautiously approached by those who have never studied it, as painting. The immense increase, in the present age, of interest in Art, among classes or individuals who formerly paid no attention to such a source of attraction, has made it unpleasantly singular for anybody to be without a criticism of his own, for whatever pictures he may see — no matter how few have been his opportunities of acquainting himself with the subject. People, who, in music, will silently submit to the infliction of a modern symphony, because they suppose that their professional friends, who assure them that it is “full of tune,” must know better than they do; or, who toil boldly through a volume of metaphysical poetry, because a learned acquaintance has described it (in the literary slang now in vogue) as “earnest,” or “hopeful,” or “subjective,” or “esthetic,” are, in many cases, the very people who, in matters of Art, scorn all guidance, and decide,
ex cathedra,
upon everything pictorial, over the last sip of a cup of coffee, or during a passing salutation in the crowd of an Exhibition-room. Part of this evil must, unfortunately, be always an inherent consequence of the peculiar nature of painting, which, unlike literature or music, appeals at once in all its parts to the judgment; and must, therefore, appear to the careless or uninformed as a comparatively superficial study, to be attained by tact and confidence, rather than by long devotion and anxious inquiry. Those who think themselves thus easily privileged to decide, without knowledge, on one of the most abstruse of sciences, are not unfrequently the critics who, on seeing a picture the day before it is exhibited, observe complacently that it will be “beautiful when it is finished,” and who exceed all belief, in producing at a moment’s notice, the most elabourately erroneous interpretations of incident and story, in beholding the clearest subject that can be placed before their eyes. Even in regard to the pecuniary value of works of Art, the absence of knowledge has often as little share in repressing the ambition to criticise, as in the higher matters of judgment. Of misapprehensions of this sort (oftener, it must be observed, ludicrous than offensive) an amusing instance occurred to Mr. Collins. His fondness for obtaining unsophisticated criticisms on the nature and value of his works, has been already noticed. It once induced him, on the conclusion of a large and elabourate sea-piece, to ask one of his servants, a north-country girl, what she thought ought to be the value, in money, of the picture she beheld. The “neat-handed Phillis,” evidently imagining that her opinion was of some consequence to her master, examined his production with great seriousness and care, and then exclaimed in a broad Northumbrian accent, and with the self-satisfied air of having “ touched the estimate” at its highest possible rate: “Well, sir, may be a
sovereign!”

Another of the painter’s favourite methods of procuring for himself the doubtful satisfaction of impartial criticism, was to join the groups of visitors to the Exhibition, who were looking at his pictures, and listen to their remarks. This rather perilous pastime he indulged in for many years, with tolerable impunity; but he was fated, at last, to suffer for his boldness. Having observed two gentlemen at the Exhibition displaying those decided symptoms of critical power over Art, which consist in shrugging the shoulders, waving the hand, throwing back the head, and marking the catalogue, before all the principal pictures, he was tempted to listen to their remarks, when they arrived opposite to one of his own works. “What’s this?” cried the great man of the two, severely — ”Sea-piece, by Collins? Oh, pooh, pooh! D — d tea-boardy thing!” The painter had not enough of the Roman in him to hear more. The incident so effectually cured him for some time of his predilection for sincere criticism, that when, shortly afterwards, he happened to be sitting next to Sir Henry Halford, at dinner, and was asked by that gentleman (who did not then know him personally), what he thought of “Collins’s pictures;” he replied, with unwonted caution, “I think I am rather too much interested on that subject, to give an opinion, — I painted them myself.” “Oh, you need not have feared my criticism!” returned Sir Henry, laughing, “I was about to tell you how much I have been delighted by their extreme beauty!”

In this year the painter contemplated another change of residence. The birth of his second child, and his determination, in consequence of her failing health, to take his mother under his own roof, where her infirmities might receive the most unremitting attention, were the chief causes which made a larger abode than that he at present occupied, an absolute necessity to him. His first project was to build a house for himself at Hampstead; and measures were taken for the purchase of the necessary ground. During the legal delays that ensued — delays, lengthened by a difficulty as to the validity of the land-holder’s title — Mr. Collins resolved to employ the interval of technical deliberation, in which he could take no part, in a visit, with his family, to the Coast of France — the place he fixed on being Boulogne, which was then less unfortunately Anglicised than it is now. On hearing of this design, Wilkie again recurred to his old project, and urged his friend to make Boulogne but his starting-point to Italy. But as the painter’s family party included his mother — one of the objects of his visit being to try the effect upon her constitution of change of air and scene — the “Continental tour” was more than ever impracticable; and, adhering to his first purpose, he fixed the sojourn of himself and his family, at Boulogne. The house he occupied stood in the market-place; and he had but to look from his window to find, in the picturesque dresses, curious gestures, and bustling employments of the agricultural peasantry, that ample occupation for his sketch-book, which was a requisite of his happiness wherever he went. His attention, however, was principally turned to the scenery and inhabitants of the sea-shore. For the former, he carefully explored the Coast, for many miles, on each side of Boulogne; and, in the latter, the differences in physiognomy, manners and habits, between the French fishermen whom he was then studying, and the English fishermen whom he had formerly studied, afforded constant employment for his observation and his pencil. These men, with their wives and families, formed the subjects of many of the most highly finished water-colour drawings that he ever executed. The women, young and old, in their bridal dresses, and their working-day garments — the men under every aspect, in their animated quarrels, and their regular occupations, were, each and all, delighting and absorbing studies, for one who saw fresh materials for his Art, and new incentives to the ambition of pictorial excellence, even in the humblest natural object that he beheld. Among the heterogeneous group of models — all more or less “characters,” in their different departments — which he soon collected about him, was one fisherman, whose handsome, benevolent face, and fine athletic figure, particularly attracted his attention. On inquiry, the history of this man was found to embrace one of those noble acts of philanthropy, which it is more a pleasure than a duty to record. He was present at a shipwreck on a lonely part of the coast near Boulogne, where all the crew were cast on shore dead, with the exception of a poor negro, who still showed faint signs of life. But the Quarantine Laws (to which the wrecked ship was liable) were then in such force, that no dwelling-house was permitted to receive the half-drowned man. No one attempted to approach, or succour him, but the fisherman; who, in defiance of all danger and objection, carried the poor wretch to a straw-hut on the beach; and, taking off his own clothes, laid down by him the whole night long, endeavouring to restore the dying negro by the vital warmth of his own body. This sublime act of humanity was however unavailing — when morning dawned, the negro was dead! The Boulogne authorities, greatly — as he expressed it — to his own surprise, rewarded the fisherman for a violation of the quarantine, which moved the admiration of all who heard of it, and which is too glorious an addition to the records of human virtue to be easily forgotten or frequently paralleled. Mr. Collins’ sketch of the “Good Samaritan,” was an admirable and characteristic likeness; and is now in the possession of Lord Monteagle, who purchased it at the sale of the painter’s works, after his death.

The following letter, from Mr. Collins to his brother, glances at his landscape and figure studies at Boulogne:

“To FRANCIS COLLINS, ESQ.,

“Boulogne, August 10th, 1829.

“My dear Frank — We had great pleasure in receiving, yesterday, your letter of the 5th, and we are rejoiced to find you are so comfortably and hospitably entertained. Although we may not meet here, I trust we shall at Dover; whither it is likely we shall go in about a month, and remain until some arrangement can be made about winter-quarters.

“The weather here has been very changeable: I have, however, made some sketches both of the place and the people; and in my excursions have derived considerable advantage, from the local information of Lieutenant King — an amateur painter of merit, whose wife, too, has been of great use to Harriet; she is a most ladylike person, a sister of Sir Nicholas Tindal’s.

“With respect to the information you require for Lord Sheffield, my own opinion of the neighbourhood of Torquay, as well as of Torquay itself, is in the highest degree favourable. Buryhead, Babicombe Bay, and in that direction on to Teignmouth, are quite beautiful; and, in the opposite direction, Dartmouth, Start Bay, and on to Prawle Point, where the coast is more wild, and equally interesting. The inland scenery too, particularly the banks of the Dart, about Ashburton, Buckland, Holne Chase, etc., etc., is universally admired. The climate, in fine weather, is quite perfect — I say however in
fine
weather, for the greatest admirers of Devonshire are constrained to admit that, with them, ‘the rain it raineth every day.’

“As Harriet claims some portion of my paper, and as she is a more methodical correspondent than I can pretend to be, I shall give her the remaining space.

“Your affectionate brother,

“WILLIAM COLLINS.”

About the middle of September, the painter returned with his family by way of Dover, proceeding from that place to Ramsgate, where — still unsettled about a permanent abode — he made a stay of a few weeks. “We have taken a house here, for a fortnight” — he writes to his brother; “sincerely hoping that, during this time, we may at last hear of an abode at Hampstead. Should you be able to put matters there in train, we see no reason why you should not spend at least a week with us, in the delightful air of this place, — Willy has plenty of room in his bed for you, and seconds the invitation with all his heart. I have not yet been to Broadstairs; which has more picturesque beauty, I believe, than any other place in this neighbourhood! There is nothing worth a straw at Ramsgate, except the sea; so I shall have plenty of idle time to go about with you.”