There follows a good deal in the Diary concerning the trouble with Mr. Galloway, who made hard conditions regarding his ceding “The Roll Call” to the Queen, who wished to have it. He felt he was bound to let it go to his Sovereign, but only on condition that I should paint him my next Academy picture for the same price as he had given for the one he was ceding, and that the Queen should sign with her own hand six of the artist’s proofs when the engraving of her picture came out. I had set my heart on painting the 28th Regiment in square receiving the last charge of the French Cuirassiers at Quatre Bras, but as that picture would necessitate far more work than “The Roll Call,” I could not paint it for that little £126—so very puny now! So I most reluctantly suggested a subject I had long had in petto, “The Dawn of Sedan,” French Cuirassiers watching by their horses in the historic fog of that fateful morning—a very simple composition. To cut a very long story short, he finally consented to have “Quatre Bras” at my own price, £1,126, the copyright remaining his. All this talk went on for a long time, and meanwhile, all through the London society doings, I made oil studies of all the grey horses for “Sedan.” The General Omnibus Company sent me all shades of grey percherons for this purpose. I also made life-size oil studies of hands for “Quatre Bras,” where hands were to be very strong points, gripping “Brown Besses.” So I took time by the forelock for either subject. I was very fortunate in having the help of wise business heads to grapple with the business part of my work, for I have not been favoured that way myself.
There is no mention in the Diary of the policeman who, a few days after the opening of the Academy, had to be posted, poor hot man, in my corner to keep the crowd from too closely approaching the picture and to ask the people to “move on.” That policeman was there instead of the brass bar which, as a child, I had pleased myself by imagining in front of one of my works, à la Frith’s “Derby Day.” The R.A.’s told me the bar created so much jealousy, when used, that it had been decided never to use it again. But I think a live policeman quite as much calculated to produce the undesirable result. I learnt later that his services were quite as necessary for the protection of two lovely little pictures of Leighton’s, past which the people scraped to get at mine, they being, unfortunately, hung at right angles to mine in its corner. What an unfortunate arrangement of the hangers! Horsley told me that they went every evening after the closing, with a lantern, to see if the two gems had been scratched. They were never seen. I wonder if Leighton had any feelings of dislike towards “that girl.” She who in her ‘teens records her prostrations of worship before his earlier works, ere he became so coldly classical.
It is a curious condition of the mind between gratitude for the appreciation of one’s work by those who know, and the uncomfortable sense of an exaggerated popularity with the crowd. The exaggeration is unavoidable, and, no doubt, passes, but the fact that counts is the power of touching the people’s heart, an “organ” which remains the same through all the changing fashions in art. I remember an argument I once had with Alma Tadema on this matter of touching the heart. He laughed at me, and didn’t believe in it at all.
“Tuesday, May 12th.—Mr. Charles Manning and his wife have been so very nice to me, and this morning Mrs. M. bore me off to be presented to His Grace of Westminster, with whom I had a long interview. What a face! all spirit and no flesh. After that, to the School of Art Needlework to meet Lady Marion Alford and other Catholic ladies. I ordered there a pretty screen for my studio on the strength of my £1,200! Thence I proceeded on a round of calls, going first to the Desanges, where I lunched. There they told me the Prince of Wales was coming at four o’clock to see the Ashanti picture Desanges is just finishing. They begged me to come back a little before then, so as to be ready to be presented when the moment should arrive. I returned accordingly, and found the place crowded with people who had come to see the picture. As soon as H.R.H. was announced, all the people were sent below to the drawing-room and kept under hatches until Royalty should take its departure; but I alone was to remain in the back studio, to be handy. All this was much against my will, as I hate being thrust forward. But, as it turned out, there was no thrusting forward on this occasion, and all was very nice and natural. The Prince soon came in to where I was, Mr. Desanges saying ‘Here she is’ in answer to a question. His first remark to me was, of course, about the picture, saying he had hoped to be its possessor, etc., etc., and he asked me how I had got the correct details for the uniforms, and so on, having quite a little chat. He spoke very frankly, and has a most clear, audible voice.”
Of course, the photographers began bothering. The idea of my portraits being published in the shop windows was repugnant to me. Nowadays one is snapshotted whether one likes it or not, but it wasn’t so bad in those days; one’s own consent was asked, at any rate. I refused. However, it had to come to that at last. My grandfather simply walked into the shop of the first people that had asked me, in Regent Street, and calmly made the appointment. I was so cross on being dragged there that the result was as I expected—a rather harassed and coerced young woman, and the worst of it was that this particular photograph was the one most widely published. Indeed, one of my Aunts, passing along a street in Chelsea, was astonished to see her rueful niece on a costermonger’s barrow amongst some bananas!
CHAPTER IX
ECHOES OF “THE ROLL CALL”
ON May 14th I lunched at Lady Raglan’s. Kinglake was there to meet me, and we talked Crimea. I had read and re-read his much too prolix history, which I thought overburdened with detail, giving one an impression of the two Balaclava charges as lasting hours rather than minutes. But I had learnt much that was of the utmost value from this very superabundance of detail. Then on the next day I rose early, and was off by seven with the Horsleys to Aldershot at the invitation of Sir Hope Grant, of Indian celebrity, commanding, who travelled down with us. “Lady Grant received us at the house, where we found a nice breakfast, and where I got dried, being drenched by a torrential downpour. Would that it had continued longer, if only to lay the hideous sand in the Long Valley, which made the field day something very like a fiasco. I tried to sketch, but my book was nearly blown out of my hand, my umbrella was turned inside out and my arms benumbed by the cold. M., most luckily, was on the field, and Mrs. Horsley and I were soon comfortably ensconced in his hansom cab and trying to feel more comfortable and jolly. When the sham fight began we had to keep shifting our standpoint, and Mrs. H. and I had repeatedly to jump out of the hansom, as we were threatened by an upset every minute over those sandhills. As to the two charges of cavalry, which Sir Hope had on purpose for me, I could hardly see them, what with the dust storms half swallowing them up in dense dun-coloured sheets and my eyes being full of sand. However, I made the most of the situation, and hope I have got some good hints. I ought to have so much of this sort of thing, and hope to now, with all those ‘friends in court!’ When the march past began Sir Hope sent to ask me if I would like to stand by his charger at the saluting base, which I did, and saw, of course, beautifully. I felt extraordinarily situated, standing there, half liking and half not liking the situation, with an enormous mounted staff of utterly unknown, gorgeous officers curvetting and jingling behind me and the general. As one regiment passed, marching, as I thought, just as splendidly as the others, I heard Sir Hope snap at them ‘Very bad, very bad. Don’t, don’t!’ And I felt for them so much, trusting they didn’t see me or mind my having heard.”
Three days later, at a charming lunch at Lady Herbert’s, I met her son, Lord Pembroke, and Dr. Kingsley, Charles’s brother—“The Earl and the Doctor.” It was interesting to see the originals of the title they gave their book. The next day people came to the Academy to find, in place of “The Roll Call,” a placard—“This picture has been temporarily removed by command of Her Majesty.” She had it taken to Windsor to look at before her departure for Scotland, and to show to the Czar, who was on a visit.
Calderon, the R.A., whom I met that evening, told me the Academy had never been receiving so many daily shillings before, and that it ought to present me with a diamond necklace. And so forth, and so forth—all noted in the faithful Diary, wherein many extravagances of the moment in my regard are safely tucked away. Two days later I see: “May 20th.—The Woolwich review was quite glorious. I went with Lady Herbert, the Lane Foxes, Lord Denbigh and Capt. Slade. We posted there and back with two jolly greys and a postboy in a sky-blue jacket. This was quite after my own heart. Lord Denbigh talked art and war all the way, interesting me beyond expression. We were in the forefront of everything on arrival, next the Saluting Point, round which were grouped the most brilliant sons of Mars I ever saw gathered together, and of various nations. The Czar Alexander II. headed these, flanked by my two friends, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cambridge. The artillery manœuvres were effective, and I sketched as much as I could, getting up on the box, Lord Denbigh holding my parasol over my head, as the sun was strong. I suppose people like spoiling me just now, or trying to.”
Then, two days later, I note that I dined at Lady Rose Weigall’s, my left-hand neighbour at table the Archbishop of York, Dr. Thomson, who took in the hostess. He and I seem to have talked an immense deal about all sorts of things. He confided to me that his private opinion was that the Irish Church should never have been disestablished. In the course of further conversation I thought it better to let him know I was a Catholic by a passing remark. I said I thought the Neapolitans did not make such solid Catholics as the English. He stared, none too pleased! The next night I met at the Westmorelands’, at dinner, Lord George Paget, Colonel Kingscote, and Henry Weigall, my host of the previous evening. Lord George was drawn out during dinner about Balaclava, and I listened to his loud cavalry soldier’s talk with the keenest interest. He protested that we were making him say too much, but we were insatiable. Lord George was a man I had tried to picture; he was almost the last to ride back from the light cavalry charge. His manner and speech were soldatesque, his expressions requiring at times a “saving your presence” to the ladies, as a prefix. For me time flew in listening to this interesting Balaclava hero, and it was very late when I made up my mind to go, a wiser but by no means a sadder girl.