To Miss Mitford we owe a quaint anecdote of our hero, which, better than pages of analysis, depicts the man. It appears that Leigh Hunt, who was a great keeper of birthdays and other anniversaries, took it into his head to celebrate the birthday of Papa Haydn by giving a dinner, drinking toasts, and crowning the composer's bust with laurels. Some malicious person told Haydon that the Hunts were celebrating his birthday, a compliment that struck him as natural and well deserved. Hastening to Hampstead, he broke in upon the company, and addressed to them a formal speech, in which he thanked them for the honour they had done him, but explained that they had made a little mistake in the day! As a pendant to this anecdote, Miss Mitford relates that Haydon told her he had painted the head of his Christ seven times, and that the final head was a portrait of himself. It is only fair to remember that he always regarded it as the least successful part of the work.
While the picture was in progress, Haydon decided to put in a side group with Voltaire as a sceptic, and Newton as a believer. This idea, founded on the intentional anachronisms of some of the old masters, was afterwards extended, Hazlitt being introduced as an investigator, and Wordsworth bowing in reverence, with Keats in the background. The two poets had never yet met in actual life, but in December 1817, Wordsworth being then on a visit to London, Haydon invited Keats to meet him. The other guests were Charles Lamb and Monkhouse. 'Wordsworth was in fine cue,' writes Haydon, 'and we had a glorious set-to-on Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, and Virgil. Lamb got exceedingly merry, and exquisitely witty, and his fun, in the midst of Wordsworth's solemn intonations of oratory, was like the sarcasm and wit of the fool in the intervals of Lear's passion.' Although the specimens of wit recorded no longer seem inspired, we can well believe Haydon's statement that it was an immortal evening, and that in all his life he never passed a more delightful time. We have abundant testimony to the fact that the artist-host was himself an exceptionally fine talker. Hazlitt said that 'Haydon talked well on most subjects that interest one; indeed, better than any painter I ever met.' Wordsworth and Talfourd echoed this opinion, and Miss Mitford tells us that he was a most brilliant talker--racy, bold, original, and vigorous, 'a sort of Benvenuto Cellini, all air and fire.'
It was not until January 1820 that the 'Entry into Jerusalem' was finished, when the artist, though absolutely penniless, engaged the great room at the Egyptian Hall for its exhibition, at a rent of £300. His friends helped him over the incidental expenses, and in a state of feverish excitement he awaited the opening day. Public curiosity had been aroused about the work, and early in the afternoon there was a block of carriages in Piccadilly; the passage was thronged with servants, and soon the artist was holding what he described as a 'regular rout at noonday.' While Keats and Hazlitt were rejoicing in a corner, Mrs. Siddons swept in, and in her loud, deep, tragic tones, declared that the head of Christ was completely successful. By her favourable verdict, Haydon, who had his doubts, was greatly consoled, not because Mrs. Siddons had any reputation as an art-critic, but because he recognised that she was an expert on the subject of dramatic expression. A thousand pounds was offered for the picture and refused, while the net profits from the exhibition, in London alone, amounted to £1300. Haydon has been commonly represented as an unlucky man, who was always neglected by the public and the patrons, and never met with his professional deserts. But up to this time, as has been seen, he had found ready sympathy and admiration from the public, practical aid during the time of struggle from his friends, and a fair reward for his labours. With the exhibition of the 'Entry into Jerusalem,' his reputation was at its zenith; a little skilful engineering of the success thus gained might have extricated him from his difficulties, and enabled him to keep his head above water for the remainder of his days. But, owing chiefly to his own impracticability, his story from this point is one of decline, gradual at first, but increasing in velocity, until the end came in disaster and despair.
PART II
Even while Haydon was in the first flush of his success, there were signs that he had achieved no lasting triumph. Sir George Beaumont proposed that the British Gallery should buy the great picture, but the Directors refused to give the price asked--£2000. An effort to sell it by subscription fell through, only, £200 being paid into Coutts'. When the exhibition closed in London, Haydon took his masterpiece to Scotland, and showed it both in Edinburgh and in Glasgow, netting another £900, which, however, was quickly eaten up by hungry creditors. The picture was too big to tempt a private purchaser, and in spite of the admiration it had aroused, it remained like a white elephant upon its creator's hands.
On his return to town, after being fêted by Sir Walter Scott, Lockhart, and 'Christopher North,' Haydon finished his commission for Sir George Phillips, 'Christ Sleeping in the Garden,' which, he frankly admitted, was one of the worst pictures he ever painted. Scarcely was this off his easel than he was inspired with a tremendous conception for the 'Raising of Lazarus.' He ordered a canvas such as his soul loved, nineteen feet long by fifteen high, and dashed in his first idea. He was still deeply in debt, still desperately in love (his lady was now a widow), and the new picture would take at least two years to paint. Nevertheless, he worked away with all his customary energy, and prayed fervently that he might paint a great masterpiece, never doubting but that his prayers would be heard.
With the end of this year, 1820, Haydon's Autobiography breaks off, and the rest of his life is told in his Journals and Letters. At the beginning of 1821, when he was fairly at work on his Lazarus, he confides to his Journal his conviction that difficulties are to be his lot in pecuniary matters, and adds: 'My plan must be to make up my mind to meet them, and fag as I can--to lose no single moment, but seize on time that is free from disturbance, and make the most of it. If I can float, and keep alive attention to my situation through another picture, I will reach the shore. I am now clearly in sight of it, and I will yet land to the sound of trumpets, and the shouts of my friends.'
In spite of his absorption in his work, Haydon found time for the society of his literary friends. On March 7, he records: 'Sir Walter Scott, Lamb, Wilkie, and Procter have been with me all the morning, and a delightful morning we have had. Scott operated on us like champagne and whisky mixed.... It is singular how success and the want of it operate on two extraordinary men, Walter Scott and Wordsworth. Scott enters a room and sits at table with the coolness and self-possession of conscious fame; Wordsworth with a mortified elevation of the head, as if fearful he was not estimated as he deserved. Scott can afford to talk of trifles, because he knows the world will think him a great man who condescends to trifle; Wordsworth must always be eloquent and profound, because he knows that he is considered childish and puerile.... I think that Scott's success would have made Wordsworth insufferable, while Wordsworth's failures would not have rendered Scott a whit less delightful. Scott is the companion of Nature in all her moods and freaks, while Wordsworth follows her like an apostle, sharing her solemn moods and impressions.'
In these rough notes, unusual powers of observation and insight into character are displayed. That Haydon also had a keen sense of humour is proved by his account of an evening at Mrs. Siddons' where the hostess read aloud Macbeth to her guests. 'She acts Macbeth herself much better than either Kemble or Kean,' he writes. 'It is extraordinary the awe that this wonderful woman inspires. After her first reading the men retired to tea. While we were all eating toast and tinkling cups and saucers, she began again. It was like the effect of a mass-bell at Madrid. All noise ceased; we slunk to our seats like boors, two or three of the most distinguished men of the day, with the very toast in their mouths, afraid to bite. It was curious to see Lawrence in this predicament, to hear him bite by degrees, and then stop, for fear of making too much crackle, his eyes full of water from the constraint; and at the same time to hear Mrs. Siddons' 'eye of newt and toe of frog,' and to see Lawrence give a sly bite, and then look awed, and pretend to be listening.'