Once he arrived after a night journey at the seat of Lord Warwick just as the men of the house-party were met in the hall for the day’s “shoot,” and I can fancy the merry excuse with which he surely fitted the occasion as he presented himself bare-headed, having left his hat in the train when he sleepily changed carriages at the junction; luckily he was well provided with natural covering.
Plenty of his Celtic persuasiveness must have come into play—both on this occasion and on those when the fine shows of Paintings by Old Masters were made—in cajoling the owners to lend their priceless treasures, and I recollect one or two very anxious moments over transport, etc.
But this first ambitious Exhibition of Drawings exceeded, both in bulk and excellence, anything previously attempted in London and attracted the enthusiastic attention of all connoisseurs; the hanging and cataloguing involved immense labour, and I was proud to be allowed to take a small share in the last part of the work—an opportunity in which I learnt much which I have never forgotten.
When, some few years later, my husband and Mr. Hallé started their independent enterprise in Regent Street, their sole responsibility made the work none the less arduous though naturally less hampered.
The first task—exciting as it was—was a Herculean one, for the New Gallery was practically built upon the site of an old fruit-market, and an anxious winter was that, lest it should not be completed in time for an opening with the other May Exhibitions. But completed it was and handsomely; though the last touch, the gilding of the rails of the gallery which overhung the Central Court, was only finished through Joe inducing the frame-gilders to work with the builders’ men—an infringement of custom which, it seemed, only the affection which they bore him induced them to overlook.
The effect of that Central Court with its fountain fringed with flowers and its arcade panelled with fine, coloured marbles, was one of the sensations of the day, and deserved the praise of a critic: “It is an Aladdin’s Palace sprung up in the night.” Joe has spoken of this first Exhibition in Eminent Victorians; suffice it, therefore, to say that the Burne Jones and Watts’ pictures were the distinguishing features, as they always were so long as these great men survived.
As years went on, the collecting of works among the lesser artists for the modern yearly Exhibition became more and more irksome to Joe, and the rounds that he and Mr. Hallé used to make to the artists’ studios were something of a penance to him.
Not only were they physically fatiguing, but the difficulties of choice, of obtaining what they desired and of refusing what they didn’t desire without undue offence to the artist, taxed the patience of both directors and, I think, Joe’s wit was often needed to turn a dangerous corner.
“Good isn’t the word,” he once answered to a sympathiser who asked him what he said when confronted with a thoroughly bad picture; and, although this too transparent form of salve may not really have been uttered, I am told that the kindly chaff which he would sometimes expend upon the shameless offer of a poor painting from a man who knew what he was doing but meant to send his best work to take its chance elsewhere, was such as might not have “gone down” from anyone else but Joe Carr.
Yet there were pleasant hours even on these days of weary rounds. In each of the districts visited the directors were sure to count at least one firm friend, anxious to lighten the road; in Kensington it was Burne Jones, who, speaking of his young daughter, wrote on one occasion: “In my wife’s absence, Margaret dispenses middle-class hospitality with a tact and finish worthy of a higher sphere.” In St. John’s Wood it was Alma Tadema—most hospitable of hosts—always ready with a bottle of his best wine and some funny tale uttered in his quaint English, and admirably seconded by his charming wife at the long, narrow table loaded with old Dutch silver and lovely curios.