Sir Edwin Landseer

by Frederic George Stephens

Sheep and Lambs.

the place of safety, and come driving full on to another cottage, nearer the front of the picture; an exhausted ox has reached this spot, and now, breathless, with bloody nostrils and eyes possessed with the madness of fear, strives in vain to save itself. The dumb agony of this beast is fearful; being nigh spent with the violence of the flood which sweeps over its flanks, the forefeet wrestle fruitlessly, and the animal will soon be borne away to destruction. The principal group, in which the chief interest of the picture concentrates, is placed on the roof of the nearest cottage. The people have saved themselves, but little else, so sudden was the coming of the flood. Right in the front sits a woman with a cradle beside her, of which the clothes are tossed aside, and the infant who occupies it lies in her lap; round her neck the child clings, ignorant, but yet alarmed. The woman’s action tells the horror and fear predominating in her soul. Fear for herself and fear for the infant relax even her grasp on its body, letting it rest almost wholly on her knees (the hands, however, instinctively making a guard), which terror has drawn up towards her; while, with forth-thrust neck and head, she glares at the approaching torrent out of large, rounded and dilated eyes, that have no glance for the infant now, but see in the struggling beast a presage of death for both. Her jaw is set back, paralyzed with dread; her mouth is open, the lips are retracted and hard, the eyebrows are up and yet compressed, the cheek pallid and rigid with lines of fear, her hair is dishevelled and her dress is disarranged. In short, this figure is a perfect study of expression, the success of which does honour to the artist. He has done well to show her momentary indifference to the child; for this is a new point of character, beyond question just and natural, which alone would remove the picture from the conventional order of works of Art.

“Behind this group sits an aged man, half imbecile, and scarcely recognizing the danger which threatens his family; but, with his dress drawn about him, keeping steadfastly in the seat where their heedful affection has placed him. Beyond, squats a boy, wrapped in a plaid wet from the flood, and caressing a dog he has rescued from the water, and now holds it, shivering, in his bosom. On a ladder raised against the side of the house, by which the people have ascended to the roof, are perched some poultry, fussily alarmed at the distress about them; a hen—as is the wont of such creatures when terrified—has laid an egg, which, falling on a step below her perch, much astonishes a cat that has established herself there, and now rises to examine the phenomenon. Here is a point some hypercritical people will get hold of. The egg is broken by the fall, the shell being hard and set. No egg is otherwise than soft at this moment of exclusion, these critics will say. Let us leave them their discovery, and proceed to point out an incident of the design that marks the genius of the artist. Close under the eaves of the house, and just emerging from the water, is a poor hare, endeavouring to burrow a way into the thatch, with struggling feet and ears laid back; the flood has brought this timorous beast into the neighbourhood of man, and it is pitiful to see its frantic efforts to make a place of refuge in the very habitation of its enemies. Above, grey wreaths of rain-clouds haste along, and the whole aspect of the picture bespeaks terror and desolation. The very fault of its execution aids this appearance, for the want of appreciation of colour, which is alone to be lamented, helps the motive of the theme by a certain chilly opacity. This, under another aspect, would seriously mar the credit of so marvellous a work. Sir Edwin has done his best in the picture, and the result of many years’ study shows how profitably they have been employed in ensuring him fresh honour.”

So far the critic, and present writer, sees no reason for changing his opinion of this masterpiece of Sir Edwin’s. If it was not his finest work, it was at any rate his culminating one; he painted none so good afterwards—indeed, even before it was finished, the painter, always a man of extreme nervous susceptibility, had hints that the human mind and the body which surrounded it are mortal. He was constitutionally subject to nervous depression, but these attacks accumulated force as years went on, and threatened the end which came with all its painfulness.

I remember him, during the painting of this picture, on the Tuesday before it was sent to the Academy—putting a few touches on the canvas. He looked as if about to become old, although his age by no means justified the notion; it was not that he had lost activity or energy, or that his form had shrunk, for he moved as firmly and swiftly as ever, indeed he was rather demonstrative, stepping on and off the platform in his studio with needless display, and his form was stout and well-filled. Nevertheless, without seeming to be overworked, he did not look robust, and he had a nervous way remarkable in so distinguished a man, one who was usually by no means unconscious of himself, and yet, to those he liked, full of kindness. The wide green shade which he wore above his eyes, projected straight from his forehead, and cast a large shadow on his plump, somewhat livid features, and in the shadow one saw that his eyes had suffered. The grey “Tweed” suit, and its sober trim, a little emphatically “quiet,” marked the man; so did his stout, not fat nor robust, figure; rapid movements, and utterances that glistened with prompt remarks, sharp, concise, with quick humour, but not seeking occasions for wit, and imbued throughout with a perfect frankness, distinguished the man. Even in 1867 there was little outward change, although not long after that date the attacks occurred with fewer and briefer intervals. These intervals caused the reports which flew about, “Sir Edwin is better,” “much better,” as some would have it, and, anon, “much worse,” as many said.

After the “Flood in the Highlands” had set Landseer’s reputation on a basis which was apparently firmer than ever, he produced pictures of value, even judging them by the standard proper to our estimate. In 1861 we had “The Shrew tamed”—“la jument domptée” of its French admirers, in 1867—a riding-mistress, who, having overcome a vicious thoroughbred mare, (for, this picture echoed the wandering voices of the hour, and “horse-tamers” were then in vogue) has made the beast lie on straw, and triumphantly reclines her own head on the mare’s flank, as the dame, supine and smiling, rests beside the steed, while the latter gently and obediently caresses her hand; the former, conscious of her victory, pats the animal’s head. The horse is exquisitely faithful in the handling, the glossy muscle-binding hide is all a-shine with health and horsehood; her powerful hoofs; her eye of fire, subdued but not depressed, and full of vigour; the strong, unmastered neck, that turns gracefully in its vigour towards the slender lady resting among the dreadful feet, as if there were no more harm in them than in her own, that peep daintily beneath the blue riding-robe. Among the straw, and painted as only Landseer could paint lapdogs, was a saucy little beast of that kind. Besides this very telling picture, Sir Edwin contributed three large cartoons in distemper, a triptych of “stag subjects.” In the centre was “The fatal Duel,” two mighty stags that have been fighting to the very death: here was an echo of a former picture, the noble notion again worked out. They lie in the snow on a mountain side, the surface of which, crisped by frigid winds after a thaw, was given with power and truth. One stag, wounded to the death, is prostrate, and dying on the ensanguined snow, while the torn and bleeding fragment of a horn attests the stubbornness of his defence. Over him the conqueror, with gory flank and limbs, bellows victory to the mountain side. The wings of the triptych are styled, “Scenes in the Marquis of Breadalbane’s Highland Deer Forest;” the first, stags and hinds traversing snow-covered hills; the second, a similar subject in mist. All these were capitally drawn and designed.[42]