“He had wished to make large pictures of Hope, Charity, and Faith. With the two first he had no difficulty, but he lingered long over the third. He showed us the picture he had done—of a woman seated, looking upwards, an Amazonian woman, sheathing her sword, and bathing her blood-stained feet in a brook of clear water. ‘She had found out that all that was no use—no use at all.’ His words, his thoughts, his works, all seemed imbued with the truest spirit of religion. ‘With theology,’ he said, ‘I have nothing to do.’
“He said he had no models. ‘Models are well as studies to draw from, but they check inspiration.’ He rejoiced in Lady Waterford’s using no models for her smaller pictures, and said she would not have been so truly great had she done so.”
“Dec. 7.—Another delightful sitting with Mr. Eddis. I told him of our visit to Watts, and he said how he felt, on seeing his pictures and those of Alma Tadema, that Watts was the head, while Tadema was only the hand.
“He talked of his own early life as a student. At that time, Fuseli[517] had recently been the head of the Academy—the very fierce head. He used to say to his pupils, ‘You may be very good buttermen, you may be very good cheesemen, but students of Art you will never be; and now, give me my umbrella, and I’ll go and look at Constable’s pictures.’
“‘Turner[518] often used to come in and look at us and our work. There was a student amongst us who had painted in a red background, and he painted it the crudest, brightest red he could manage. Turner came in and said, “Come now, this will never do; give me your palette and brush,” and in a few minutes he had toned and mellowed it down with a hundred delicate gradations of tint. “Well now, don’t you think it’s improved?” said Turner. “No, I don’t,” answered the man; “I think it was much better before,” which annoyed Turner rather.
“‘I remember that he came to me that day. I was copying a Vandyke, and he looked at my work. “Part of that is very good,” he said; “why isn’t all the rest as good?”—“Because,” I said, “all the rest is me, and that part is an accident.”—“Well, let that accident to-day become principle to-morrow,” said Turner, and we were always rather friends afterwards.
“‘Turner was proud of his picture of Carthage. He had received many mortifications about his pictures, and people had haggled about the prices—very small prices too—that he asked for them. When Lord Francis Egerton came and told him that a subscription was on foot to buy that picture from him and present it to the National Gallery, he burst into tears, he was so moved. But he said, “No, I will not sell it, but I will leave it to the National Gallery.”
“‘Afterwards, however, he changed his mind, and wished to be buried in that picture. He spoke of it to Chantrey, who was his executor, and begged that he would see that it was done, urging him to promise that it should be done. “Yes, since you wish it, I’ll see you buried in that picture,” said Chantrey, “but, as sure as you’re alive now, I’ll see you dug up again.”
“‘Eventually the picture was left to the National Gallery.
“‘I was very near becoming an Academician,’ said Mr. Eddis, ‘but I never did. I had painted a picture of the “Raising of Jairus’s Daughter,” which was considered a good thing, and my election was thought certain. I was advised to call upon some of the principal members, not to ask them to vote for me, but to conciliate them by the attention. It went rather against the grain with me, and I asked Stanfield about it. “Your election is as certain,” said Stanfield, “as that I am sitting upon this sofa, but you may perhaps hasten it a little if you call as you’ve been advised.” I never did, however; I let it slip, and I was never elected. Then younger men cropped up, and I was forgotten: it was all as well, perhaps.’