Days at Worthing followed, where my mother and I painted all day on the Downs, I with my “Balaclava” in view, which required a valley and low hills. My mother’s help was of great value, as I had not had much time to practise landscape up to then. Then came my visit, with Alice, to Newcastle, where “Quatre Bras” was being exhibited, to be followed by our visit at Mrs. Ross’s Villa near Florence, whither she had invited us when at Aldermaston, to see the fêtes in honour of Michael Angelo.
“We left for Newcastle by the ‘Flying Scotchman’ from King’s Cross at 10 a.m., and had a flying shot at Peterborough and York Cathedrals, and a fine flying view of Durham. Newcastle impressed us very much as we thundered over the iron bridge across the Tyne and looked down on the smoke-shrouded, red-roofed city belching forth black and brown smoke and jets of white steam in all directions. It rises in fine masses up from the turbid flood of the dark river, and has a lurid grandeur quite novel to us. I could not help admiring it, though, as it were, under protest, for it seems to me something like a sin to obscure the light of Heaven when it is not necessary. The laws for consuming factory smoke are quite disregarded here. Mrs. Mawson, representing the firm at whose gallery ‘Quatre Bras’ is being exhibited, was awaiting our arrival, and was to be our hostess. We were honoured and fêted in the way of the warm-hearted North. Nothing could have been more successful than our visit in its way. These Northerners are most hospitable, and we are delighted with them. They have quite a cachet of their own, so cultured and well read on the top of their intense commercialism—far more responsive in conversation than many society people I know ‘down South.’ We had a day at Durham under Mrs. Mawson’s wing, visiting that finest of all English Cathedrals (to my mind), and the Bishop’s palace, etc. We rested at the Dean’s, where, of course, I was asked for my autograph. I already find how interested the people are about here, more even than in other parts where I have been. Durham is a place I loved before I saw it. The way that grand mass of Norman architecture rises abruptly from the woods that slope sheer down to the calm river is a unique thing. Of course, the smoky atmosphere makes architectural ornament look shallow by dimming the deep shadows of carvings, etc.—a great pity. On our return we took another lion en passant—my picture at Newcastle, and most delighted I was to find it so well lighted. I may say I have never seen it properly before, because it never looked so well in my studio, and as to the Black Hole——! What people they are up here for shaking hands! When some one is brought up to me the introducer puts it in this way: ‘Mr. So-and-So wishes very much to have the honour of shaking hands with you, Miss Thompson.’ There is a straight-forward ring in their speech which I like.”
We were up one morning at 4.30 to be off to Scotland for the day. At Berwick the rainy weather lifted and we were delighted by the look of the old Border town on its promontory by the broad and shining Tweed. Passing over the long bridge, which has such a fine effect spanning the river, we were pleased to find ourselves in a country new to us. Edinburgh struck us very much, for we had never quite believed in it, and thought it was “all the brag of the Scotch,” but we were converted. It is so like a fine old Continental city—nothing reminds one of England, and yet there is a Scotchiness about it which gives it a sentiment of its own. Our towns are, as a rule, so poorly situated, but Edinburgh has the advantage of being built on steep hills and of being back-grounded by great crags which give it a most majestic look. The grey colour of the city is fine, and the houses, nearly all gabled and very tall, are exceedingly picturesque, and none have those vile, black, wriggling chimney pots which disfigure what sky lines our towns may have. I was delighted to see so many women with white caps and tartan shawls and the children barefoot; picturesque horse harness; plenty of kilted soldiers.
We did all the lions, including the garrison fortress where the Cameron Highlanders were, and where Colonel Miller, of Parkhurst memory, came out, very pleased to speak to me and escort us about. He had the water colour I gave him of his charger, done at Parkhurst in the old Ventnor days. Our return to Newcastle was made in glorious sunshine, and we greedily devoured the peculiarly sweet and remote-looking scenes we passed through. I shall long remember Newcastle at sunset on that evening, Then, I will say, the smoke looked grand. They asked me to look at my picture by gas light. The sixpenny crowd was there, the men touching their caps as I passed. In the street they formed a lane for me to pass to the carriage. “What nice people!” I exclaim in the Diary.
All the morning of our departure I was employed in sitting for my photograph, looking at productions of local artists and calling on the Bishop and the Protestant Vicar. One man had carved a chair which was to be dedicated to me. I was quaintly enthroned on it. All this was done on our way to the station, where we lunched under dozens of eyes, and on the platform a crowd was assembled. I read: “Several local dignitaries were introduced and ‘shook hands,’ as also the ‘Gentlemen of the local Press.’ As I said a few words to each the crowd saw me over the barriers, which made me get quite hot and I was rather glad when the train drew up and we could get into our carriage. The farewell handshakings at the door may be imagined. We left in a cloud of waving handkerchiefs and hats. I don’t know that I respond sufficiently to all this. Frankly, my picture being made so much of pleases me most satisfactorily, but the personal part of the tribute makes me curiously uncomfortable when coming in this way.”
Ruskin wrote a pamphlet on that year’s Academy in which he told the world that he had approached “Quatre Bras” with “iniquitous prejudice” as being the work of a woman. He had always held that no woman could paint, and he accounted for my work being what he found it as being that of an Amazon. I was very pleased to see myself in the character of an Amazon.
CHAPTER XI
TO FLORENCE AND BACK
WE started on our most delightful journey to Florence early in September of that year to assist at the Michael Angelo fêtes as the guests of dear Mrs. Janet Ross and the Marchese della Stufa, who, with Mr. Ross, inhabited in the summer the delicious old villa of Castagnolo, at Lastra a Signa, six miles on the Pisan side of my beloved Florence. Of course, I give page after page in the Diary to our journey across Italy under the Alps and the Apennines. To the modern motorist it must all sound slow, though we did travel by rail! Above all the lovely things we saw on our way by the Turin-Bologna line, I think Parma, rising from the banks of a shallow river, glowing in sunshine and palpitating jewel-like shade, holds pride of place for noontide beauty. After Modena came the deeper loveliness of the afternoon, and then Bologna, mellowed by the rosy tints of early evening. Then the sunset and then the tender moon.
By moonlight we crossed the Apennines, and to the sound of the droning summer beetle—an extraordinarily penetrating sound, which I declared makes itself heard above the railway noises, we descended into the Garden of Italy, slowly, under powerful brakes. At ten we reached Florence, and in the crowd on the platform a tall, distinguished-looking man bowed to me. “Miss Thompson?” “Yes.” It was the Marchese, and lo! behind him, who should there be but my old master, Bellucci. What a warm welcome they gave us. Of course, our luggage had stuck at the douane at Modane, and was telegraphed for. No help for it; we must do without it for a day or two. We got into the carriage which was awaiting us, and the Marchese into his little pony trap, and off we went flying for a mysterious, dream-like drive in misty moonlight, we in front and our host behind, jingle-jingling merrily with the pleasant monotony of his lion-maned little pony’s canter. We could not believe the drive was a real one. It was too much joy to be at Florence—too good to be true. But how tired we were!
At last we drove up to the great towered villa, an old-fashioned Florentine ancestral place, which has been the home of the Della Stufas for generations, and there, in the great doorway, stood Mrs. Ross, welcoming us most cordially to “Castagnolo.” We passed through frescoed rooms and passages, dimly lighted with oil lamps of genuine old Tuscan patterns, and were delighted with our bedrooms—enormous, brick-paved and airy. There we made a show of tidying ourselves, and went down to a fruit-decked supper, though hardly able to sit up for sleep. How kind they were to us! We felt quite at home at once.