Sir John Everett Millais

by A. L. Baldry

OUR ILLUSTRATIONS

The works which have been reproduced as illustrations to this summary of the career of one of the greatest artists whom the British school has known have been selected with the intention of representing the more important stages in his progress. It is comparatively easy to divide his life into different periods, each one of which was marked by some achievements of more than ordinary significance. Thus the Christ in the House of His Parents (1849), and Ophelia (1852) belong to the time when he was a devout believer in the creed of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood; Autumn Leaves (1856) and The Vale of Rest (1858) show the first beginnings of the change of conviction which led him a few years later to an almost complete abandonment of his earlier principles; A Souvenir of Velasquez (1868) marks the end of the transition from his youthful methods to the vigorous freedom of his middle life; The North-West Passage (1874) and A Yeoman of the Guard (1876), the triumphant attainment of absolute mastery over all the details of his craft, and the Thomas Carlyle (1877), the commencement of that period of sober confidence in his perfected skill which continued till his death in 1896.

There is hardly one of these pictures which does not by its superlative quality deserve a place among the great things that may be said to have made our art history. They show Sir John Millais not only as a splendid executant but also as a frank and sincere thinker on art questions, who did not hesitate to modify his opinions as his widening experience proved to him that a better way than the one which he was following at the moment might be found to lead him to the highest results. It is a fortunate circumstance that with one exception the whole of this group of noble works can be counted as public property. They have passed into galleries where they are always accessible, and they are within the reach of every student who wishes to profit by the great lessons they are able to teach.

CHRIST IN THE HOUSE OF HIS PARENTS

This is the earliest and in some respects the most ambitious of the Pre-Raphaelite pictures. In it all the resources of Pre-Raphaelitism are turned to good account, and the logic of the creed is asserted with unquestioning faith. A verse in Zechariah, "And one shall say unto him, 'What are these wounds in thine hands?' Then he shall answer, 'Those with which I was wounded in the house of my friends,'" provided the motive, and the love of exact and searching observation which was from the first the governing principle of the artist's practice, controlled every detail of the execution.

As a religious painting, a representation of a Holy Family, this work was by no means approved by the mid-century critics. One of the writers of the period, who joined in the general outcry against the picture, declared, with what seems now to have been quite unnecessary emphasis, that it touched "the lowest depths of what is mean, odious, repulsive, and repelling." It certainly shows no respect for any of the traditions which were then popularly supposed to call for the unquestioning support of every artist, for the spirit by which was inspired such a composition, for instance, as Sir Charles Eastlake's Christ lamenting over Jerusalem, a picture now in the Tate Gallery, which explains very well the sort of feebleness that was in fashion in the middle of the nineteenth century.

Millais did not hesitate to put on one side all the namby-pamby prettiness and elegant affectation which governed the production of his contemporaries, and struck out for himself in a very different direction. He laid the scene of his story in the house of Joseph, and, to quote another critic, associated the characters of the sacred story "with the meanest details of a carpenter's shop, with no conceivable omission of misery, of dirt, and even of disease, all finished with the same loathsome minuteness." The child Christ stands before the carpenter's bench with the Virgin kneeling beside him preparing to bind up with a piece of linen a wound in his hand, at which Joseph leaning forward from the end of the bench is looking. St. Anne in the background is picking up a pair of pincers, and beside Joseph is John the Baptist coming towards the central group with a bowl of water in his hands. An assistant on the other side of the picture watches the incident gravely.

The keynote of the whole composition is its earnest symbolism. Every one of the lovingly laboured details explains something of the story, the tools on the wall, the dove perched on the ladder, and the sheep, typifying the faithful, and the wattled fence, an emblem of the Church, which are seen through the doorway; while in the meadow beyond is placed a well as a symbol of Truth. In its imaginative qualities, the picture is not less masterly than in its technical accuracy, and excites as much wonder by the depth of thought it reveals as by its astonishing accomplishment. It is the most original of all the artist's earlier works, marking definitely his emancipation from the influences of his student days, and his development in craftsmanship.

OPHELIA

The Ophelia is neither in scale nor in imaginative invention as impressive as the Christ in the House of His Parents, but it is, without doubt, one of the pictures by which he will most surely be remembered. It is an admirable example of his searching study of natural details, close and elaborate in its realisation of every part of the subject, and curiously true in its rendering of the subtle tones of brilliant daylight. Only an observer endowed with extraordinary keenness of vision, and with absolutely inexhaustible patience could have interpreted so exactly all the complexities of such a scene. In no part of the canvas is it possible to detect any relaxation of his strenuous effort after completeness; nothing is slurred over, and nothing which could add to the persuasiveness of the work is omitted.

OPHELIA.

The points which are particularly to be noticed are the amazing accuracy of the drawing of every leaf and twig in the background, the truth with which the floating draperies and the river weeds lying beneath the surface of the water have been rendered, and the brilliant vivacity of the colour, which, strong and insistent as it is, entirely avoids garishness and rankness of quality. There is, too, a delightful tenderness of sentiment which suits to perfection a subject full of sympathetic suggestion. Not a trace of affectation is to be perceived; the sincerity and good faith of the artist cannot for an instant be doubted, and his understanding of the dramatic meaning of the incident chosen is perfectly judicious. It would not be easy to find a picture which marks more truly the difference between the finish that comes from learned study, and the mere surface elaboration by which an uninspired artist seeks to hide his insufficiency of technical knowledge. The imitative painter is satisfied if he can deceive the eye by tricks of handling, cunningly managed, and cares little for the broad effect of his canvas as a whole; but Millais, who was a man of genius, could never have contented himself with the cheap popularity attainable by such devices. He took a far larger view of his artistic responsibility, and even in his most prolonged and assiduous labour he never forgot that the part which every touch had to play in the general pictorial scheme had to be considered. That he should never have lost the unity of effect of his Ophelia, though he spent many weeks painting the landscape setting of the figure, in a quiet corner on the Ewell River, near Kingston, may be regarded as a convincing proof of his rare fitness for dealing with some of the greater problems of open air painting.

AUTUMN LEAVES

As an example of his use of poetic and tender sentiment this picture is now rightly admired as the most fascinating of all the works which he produced during his life. It is neither a great composition nor an amazing illustration of minute patience in technical performance; but it has a spontaneous charm of manner that puts it among the few modern masterpieces. When it was first exhibited it was not properly understood by the general public, but expert observers even then appreciated its delicate symbolism, and saw in it qualities of the noblest kind. Mr. Ruskin praised it with generous enthusiasm, and not only ranked it as one of the monumental canvases of the world, but declared that not even to Titian could be assigned a place higher than that which Millais had reached by this triumphant achievement.

AUTUMN LEAVES.

Judged as a piece of painting it is surprisingly free from all those little artifices which a less thoughtful artist would have used to increase the strength of his appeal to the attention of the public. It is studiously quiet in manner and formal in composition, an arrangement of severe lines and simple masses, which might easily have been made blankly inexpressive if they had been managed with less subtle perception of the deeper possibilities of the subject. But this very reserve gives the picture much of its strangely sympathetic beauty, and increases its hold upon the feelings of all people who are not satisfied with the superficialities of pictorial art. The attitudes of the figures, the expressions of the faces, the bareness of the landscape against which the group of children is set, and the solemn stillness of the autumn twilight which pervades the whole composition are all of value in the carrying out of the artist's intention. The lingering sadness of autumn is throughout the idea which was in his mind, and the way in which this is symbolised in every touch and every detail is well-nigh perfect.

The picture is also remarkable because it is practically the first in which Millais showed that masterly understanding of the character and ways of children, which was so often and so delightfully displayed in his later production. The young girls who are grouped round the fire of faded leaves are painted with inimitable grace and tenderness. Their unconscious naturalness is wholly charming, their unstudied ease of gesture is extraordinarily well rendered; and there is in the purity of the delicate little faces a suggestion of the innocence of childhood which is exquisitely fresh and attractive. Yet no impossible idealisation spoils the truth of the painting. They are frankly children who play their parts in it, not little angels with none of the instincts of human beings.

THE VALE OF REST

Although the public, after having become accustomed to the artist's uncompromising Pre-Raphaelitism, must have been warned by the symbolism of Autumn Leaves of the coming change in his methods, the appearance of his Vale of Rest at the Academy in 1859 caused a very definite sensation. People then found themselves called upon to accept him as a didactic and imaginative moralist. He had, indeed, entered upon his transition, and had moved far from the literalism of Christ in the House of His Parents, and the obvious actuality of Ophelia, towards the closely impending declaration of those individual preferences which were to guide him in the work of the latter half of his life. The Vale of Rest is said to have been of all his paintings the one that Millais estimated most highly; and it is with justice reckoned among the most brilliant achievements which mark great moments in his career.

It is certainly the picture which combines most surely his power of thought, and his capacity for stating forcibly and dramatically the things which he imagined. There is in it a manly sincerity which cannot be questioned, and there is besides a kind of solemn beauty that comes from his instinctive avoidance of sensationalism and from his naturally correct preference for simplicity of treatment. This simplicity and sincerity of manner can always be found in his best paintings, and when applied, as in The Vale of Rest, to the avowal of a strong conviction must be regarded as accountable for the extraordinary persuasiveness of his art. An artist of less straightforward habit of mind would have sought to complicate his statement by adding little things with the idea of stimulating the curiosity of the observer; but Millais was content, when he had found a subject inherently dignified and impressive, to leave it to tell its own story and not to embroider it with trivial accessories. To this reticence is due the monumental character of The Vale of Rest; there is nothing in it to distract attention, and nothing which could jar on the imagination, and so diminish the value of the lesson which it is intended to teach.

Perhaps the greatest triumph of all is the way in which the picture, despite the sadness, the grimness almost, of the subject, escapes morbidity. It would have been so easy to introduce into it a touch of fantastic mysticism, or to spoil its mystery by asserting too plainly the moral of the story, but the artist has been proof against every temptation, and has gone through with the work in the way that his wholesome instincts told him would be most correct. The dominant note is one of peace, and the restfulness of the secluded convent graveyard in which the last act of the drama of life is played typifies truly the long sleep which comes at last to end the troubles and strivings of humanity. None of the turmoil of the world intrudes into this vale of rest, and even nature herself is in sympathy with its gentle calm.

SOUVENIR OF VELASQUEZ

If the Vale of Rest marks significantly the transition through which Millais passed before he finally found the way that he followed for the last thirty years of his life, the Souvenir of Velasquez shows decisively what was the nature of the change that came over his art. Between 1859 and 1867 he seemed to have settled down into a habit of careful and rather laborious manipulation and to have become a confirmed lover of high finish and a scrupulous exponent of what were almost unnecessary realities. But suddenly, in 1868, he threw all this minute precision aside and avowed himself to be a robust impressionist, glorying in his power to give by a few large and summary touches a vivid suggestion of many facts, and eager to render great effects rather than microscopically analysed and elaborately assorted details. There was no mistaking this change and no explaining it away. It meant that he had abandoned once and for ever all that had remained to him of the restrictions of the Pre-Raphaelite method and had begun to apply its principles in such a way that he could aim henceforth at the highest flights of executive expression.

Among the many pictures which he produced at this period to prove how completely the wish to rival the great executants of other schools had possessed him, the Souvenir of Velasquez stands out as the cleverest in craftsmanship, and the most delightful in feeling. It is not merely an amazingly direct piece of brushwork in which every touch shows the hand of a master of technical contrivance, but as a reflection of the spirit of childhood it deserves, as well, to be spoken of as a veritable inspiration. The beauty of the face is very remarkable, and there is a pretty stateliness in the pose of the young sitter which accords perfectly with the old-world costume in which she is represented. As the title implies, the general arrangement and treatment of the picture were suggested by the practice of the great Spanish master, but this Souvenir is a great deal more than a copy of the methods of another artist; it has in full measure the personal qualities by which almost everything that Millais touched was distinguished.

THE NORTH-WEST PASSAGE.

That this performance was not a happy accident, one of those chance successes which sometimes come to an artist as a result of a fortunate combination of circumstances, was put beyond doubt by the character of his contributions to the Academy exhibitions during the next half dozen years. He fully maintained the high level of executive performance at which he had arrived, and continued steadily to widen the scope of his activity. There seemed to be no problem of handling which he was unprepared to attack and no difficulty that he feared as insurmountable.

THE NORTH-WEST PASSAGE

In this work, painted in 1874, he displayed his strength in a large and ambitious composition. As a subject picture it may fairly be reckoned as the most complete assertion of his mature conviction that he ever put before the public. Its motive was one calculated to appeal vividly to his militant instincts, and was suited in every way to his robust and energetic personality. The idea of indomitable perseverance in the face of apparently overwhelming dangers, of tenacious effort to triumphantly accomplish a great intention, was quite in accordance with his natural sympathies; and the picture has therefore an inner significance to which almost as much interest attaches as to its outward aspect of unhesitating certainty. It is, perhaps, a little unequal in execution, but parts of it are magnificent, and especially the head of the old seaman, who sits at the table and listens to the story of Arctic exploration that is being read to him by the girl seated at his feet. The sitter for this splendid study of rugged age was Mr. Trelawny, the friend of Shelley and Byron.

According to his usual custom Millais did little more than suggest in the picture the story implied by the title. The North-West Passage is not an illustrative painting of adventures in the Arctic region, but a piece of domestic genre on a large scale intended rather to stimulate the imagination than to record something actually accomplished. But to every thinking man it is wanting in nothing that gives interest to a work of art. It teaches an admirable lesson and points a moral well worth attention; and in its combination of strenuousness and simple directness, it reflects exactly the nature of one of the frankest and least self-conscious of men. The canvas is a tribute to the many great personalities whose lives have been devoted to the making of our national history, and, rightly understood, it is an eloquent appeal to us all to follow worthily in their footsteps.

A YEOMAN OF THE GUARD

Another masterpiece exhibited three years later has now found a permanent resting-place in the National Gallery. This riotous and gorgeous exercise in strong colour could only have been accomplished by an artist whose splendid audacity was equalled by his knowledge of his craft. The scarlet uniform, with its lavish embroidery of black and gold and picturesque fashion, was something that exactly suited his fancy; and he revelled in his struggle with the many problems of technique which such a subject presented for solution. Yet there is little sign in the picture that he found it more than usually exacting; and there is no evidence that he devoted to it an exceptional amount of labour. It is particularly memorable for its consistent and thorough treatment, for the sound judgment with which every variation of the colour and every component part of the design have been managed; and it seems to have been carried through without hesitation or change of intention. It is an unfaltering record of a clearly defined impression, and is not less interesting on account of the sensitive and characteristic rendering of the worn, old face of the model than as a piece of still life painting of quite extraordinary force. The qualities that make it great are those which distinguish the productions of none but the unquestionable masters of pictorial art.

THOMAS CARLYLE

THOMAS CARLYLE.

The Portrait of Thomas Carlyle has qualities scarcely less commanding, though it did not offer such opportunities for the display of masterly contrivance as were afforded by the Yeoman of the Guard. To deal with masses of strong colour, or to attempt audacities of brushwork, would not have been correct in a simple presentation of a modern man. But even without any spectacular additions this picture is a remarkable one, because it reveals so plainly the discernment of character which had much to do with the success that Millais gained in portraiture. He cannot be said to have spared Carlyle in his analysis, nor to have tried to soften off the angularities of disposition which made the grim old sage more feared than loved by the people with whom he came in contact. The face is frankly that of a man who has been soured by the warfare of life; it is hard, dogmatic, fierce perhaps, and certainly intolerant, but it is keenly intellectual and shrewdly reflective. There is courage and firmness of conviction in every line, and the instinct of the tenacious fighter is declared in all the rugged and rough-hewn features. The unflinching gaze of the angry eyes, deep-set under the lowering brows, is wonderfully suggested, and the cynical, contemptuous mouth is magnificently drawn without any trace of caricature. That such a man should have summed up humanity as "mostly fools" would seem natural enough to every one who studies this portrait; the Carlyle that Millais has put on record for us does not look like a lover of his species, nor like a man who would find much pleasure in the society of his fellows. Perhaps the painter has been too severe—to such a breezy enthusiast Carlyle must have been more than a little repellent—but he has indisputably been perfectly consistent in his statement of what he considered to be the right reading of the complex character of his famous sitter.