Curiosities of Impecuniosity

by H. G. Somerville

To the last Hogarth seems to have been a needy, struggling man. That unfrocked clergyman and satirical poet, Churchill, after quarrelling with the painter “over a rubber of shilling whist,” at the Bedford Arms, near Covent Garden, attacked him with the bitterest scorn and hatred. Hogarth was then growing old and feeble, his health was bad, and he was melancholy and depressed by the fact that Sir Robert Grosvenor, having commissioned him to paint a picture (“Sigismunda”), had refused to pay for it when finished. At this juncture the mistress of Churchill told the poet that he had given Hogarth his death-blow; whereupon he unfeelingly remarked, “How sweet is flattery from the woman we love,” adding, “He has broken into the pale of my private life, and has set the example of illiberality, which I wanted, and as he is dying from the effects of my former chastisement I will hasten his death by writing his elegy.” The painter’s death followed soon after, and all he had to leave his wife were his unsold plates, the copyrights of which were secured to her for twenty years by an Act of Parliament.

Amongst Hogarth’s foreign predecessors John Mabuse, or Mabegius, an historical and portrait painter, born in 1499, may be mentioned, for the sake of telling a story about an ingenious way in which he contrived to avoid what might have been the very serious consequences of his impecuniosity. While he was in the service of the Emperor Charles V. (many of his finest works were painted in this country, he was employed by Henry VIII. to paint some of the royal children, and he had among his admirers no less a judge of art than Albert Durer), a lord of the court making special preparations to receive the Emperor, commanded the whole of the royal household to be dressed in rich damask brocade. When the painter was measured for his suit he persuaded the tailor to let him have the material, and wanting money for a drinking-bout sold it to a tavern-keeper, having first made a suit of white paper, which he painted in imitation of the damask, and appeared in it before the Emperor, who afterwards said the painter’s costume was of all he saw the handsomest and richest. The trick was discovered, but as the Emperor enjoyed the joke and laughed heartily, no ill came of it. Some similar freak, however, soon after threw him into prison, where he continued to paint.

The mention of art work done in a prison recalls the name of William Ryland, an English artist, who was born in London in 1732, studied under Francis Boucher in Paris, and soon after his return was appointed engraver to the King. He was the first who engraved in the dotted style, and his works won him more fame than money. Angelo, the fencing-master, who knew Ryland from his boyhood, says he lived in a house in which John Gwynn, the painter, whose ‘Essay on Design,’ published in 1749, is still known amongst students, also occupied apartments. Ryland had a wife and children to support, and in the year 1783, to relieve the pressure of his creditors (he was then in receipt of a small pension from the King), he forged a bond for three thousand pounds, to escape probably by its aid from his pecuniary difficulties and his country. The document forged was a most extraordinary specimen of imitative art, having thirty or more distinctive signatures in every variety of handwriting; some bold and large, some cramped, some small, written in various kinds of inks. When it was presented for payment at the India House, the cashier after carefully examining it and referring to the ledger said, “Here is a mistake, sir; the bond as entered does not become due until to-morrow.” Ryland begged permission to look at the book, and after leisurely and coolly inspecting it, said, “There must be an error in your entry of one day,” and quietly offered to leave the bond. The cashier, however, believing the entry to be an erroneous one, paid the money, with which Ryland departed. On the following day the true bond was presented, and the crime detected; large placards were soon posted all over London, offering a reward of £500 for his apprehension.

Ryland’s first hiding-place was in the Minories, where he remained concealed for some days. One evening after dusk he stole out for a walk, disguised in a seaman’s dreadnaught. On Little Tower Hill, one of the officers in search of him eyed him very earnestly, passed, repassed him, and then advancing said abruptly and confidentially, “So you are the very man I am seeking.” The artist said so calmly, “I think you are mistaken, I don’t remember you,” that the “runner” apologised and wished him “good night.”

He was taken, however, tried and condemned to death, amidst universal expressions of sorrow and regret. Interest was made to obtain mercy on the ground of his previous excellent character, and his extraordinary talent as an artist and engraver. The King’s reply was: “No! a man with such talent could not have been unable to provide amply for all his wants.” Angelo said, “Had a Shakespeare or a Milton committed a similar act of fraud in those iron days of jurisprudence, their fate had doubtless been the same.” Ryland petitioned for a respite, on the ground that he was then engraving the last of a series of plates from the paintings of Signora Angelica Kauffman, and was anxious to complete it to enable his wife after his execution to support herself and his children. His request was granted, and it is stated, “he laboured incessantly at this his last work, and when he received from his printer, Haddril, who was the first in his line, the finished proof impression, he calmly said, ‘Mr. Haddril, I thank you; my task is now accomplished.’”

Having just mentioned Angelica Kauffman, I may pause to note that the greatest misfortune of her life has been traced to the poverty of her father, Johann Kauffman, for though the story, which is as follows, is discredited by some, it has many believers. She was travelling with him in her early girlhood through Switzerland, and being very poor they went on foot, sleeping at night after each long day’s journey in some humble wayside tavern. On one occasion they were refused admission on the ground that two grand English seigneurs had bespoken all the accommodation. The poor artist, anxious not to overtax his young daughter’s failing strength, pleaded and protested in vain; and the dispute between him and the landlord waxing loud and warm, the attention of one of the Englishmen was attracted, and coming forward he politely invited them to become the guests of himself and friend. Not quite concealed by the polished courtesy of his manner lurked that which secretly alarmed and offended the pale-faced, weary girl, and while her unsuspecting father was full of grateful thanks, and glad to avail himself of the stranger’s apparent kindness, she whisperingly entreated him to come away. Too anxious on her account to risk the chance of a night in the open air, her father accepted the invitation, and at table the nobleman, forgetting the respect due to her innocence and youth, attempted some liberty, which being repeated, caused her to rise suddenly and leave the room. Her father followed, and was induced to go with her out of the house. Some years after, when Angelica Kauffman had become famous, and was living in England, welcomed with pride and enthusiasm in the highest society, and sought after by the noblest and most gifted, she met this peer in one of the most brilliant circles of the fashionable world, who with great amazement recognised in the elegant woman and famous artist the humble pedestrian of the Swiss mountains. Seeking an opportunity he passionately entreated her to forgive him, pleaded that he had never forgotten her, and never could, and begged that she would at least accept his most respectful friendship. She believed him, trusted him, was again insulted, and refused thenceforth to admit him to her society. To induce her to restore him to her favour, he offered her marriage, and was calmly and resolutely refused; and on his rejection forced himself into her presence, and strove even to win by violence that which no other means could give him, but was again baffled. To humble and disgrace her he devised a plan, which most probably suggested to Lord Lytton the story of his play, The Lady of Lyons. He secured the aid of a low-born adventurer, who assumed the name of Count Frederic de Horn, introduced him in some way to fashionable society, where, approaching Angelica Kauffman, then twenty-six, and in the full bloom of womanhood, he rendered the most flattering homage to her genius, with an air of the most profound respect and admiration, and gradually became familiar and dear to her; and at last told some strange romantic story of a terrible misfortune from which she could save him by at once, and secretly, becoming his wife. The snare caught her; the marriage was performed by a Catholic priest without writings or witnesses. One day while painting a portrait of the Queen at Buckingham Palace, in the course of conversation the young artist confided to her royal friend the secret of her recent mysterious wedding, which resulted in the Count de Horn being invited to court. This invitation was, however, not accepted, the impostor fearing detection. Her father’s suspicions being aroused, and the facts of the marriage explained to him, he made inquiries and induced others to pursue them, which ended in the appearance of the real Count de Horn, and the unmasking of the impostor, who only laughed at his dupe, and commanded her to follow him, claiming that entire control over her person and property to which the poor woman believed he was entitled, until further inquiries brought to light the fact that the man had been previously married, when the false marriage was formally declared null and void.

For my next anecdote I turn to Elizabeth le Brun, the favourite court painter of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, who, when her husband’s reckless and heartless extravagance had reduced her to comparative poverty, found herself unable to terminate the once grand receptions at which she had received the crème de la crème of her contemporaries. They crowded her smaller house as they had crowded her larger one, and for lack of chairs seated themselves upon the floor, and she herself tells the embarrassment of the Duc de Noailles, who was so old and so excessively fat, that as he could neither get down so low, nor rise without assistance, was therefore obliged to endure the terrible fatigue of standing.

The early years of a more modern, but equally famous, lady-artist, Rosa Bonheur, were embittered by her father’s want of money. As a school-girl she felt severely the contrast between the silk dresses, silver mugs, spoons, and forks, with a plentiful supply of pocket-money, which her companions possessed, and her calico frocks, iron spoon, tin mug, coarse shoes, and empty pockets; and her earliest ideas of art, as a means of escaping such humiliating conditions, were thereby developed, strengthened, and intensified into a restless craving and feverish anxiety. Hence she soon began to draw and model in imitation of her father, with a passionate eagerness that kept her constantly at work from early morning until late at night, and at last startling her father (who had long and despairingly considered her too indolent, self-willed, and stupid, ever to be in any way useful) by the progress she made, he took her through a serious course of preparatory study, and so made her an artist. The director of the Louvre, M. Jousselin, declared that while she was there forming her judgment, and training eye and hand, he had never before witnessed such untiring eagerness and ardour. In her case, the impecuniosity which Ruskin regards as so often fatal to the aspirations of young and ambitious artists, appears to have been the strongest incentive. Surrounded and stimulated by the glorious creations of great artists, the first to enter the gallery, and the last to leave it, her strongest desire was to aid her artist father in his weary struggle for the support of his family; to which she soon began to contribute by the sale of her copies, making up for the extreme smallness of the sums they commanded by the rapidity with which she produced them. In her seventeenth year she achieved such success in making a study from a goat, that she determined to turn her attention to the painting of animals from life. Too poor to pay for models, she went out daily into the country to study them in the fields and lanes. Laden with clay, or canvas, brushes, and colours, she would set out in the grey dawn, with nothing but a piece of bread in her pocket for the day’s food, and finding a subject, work on it until the light had faded, and then, soaked by rain, or struggling in the rude wind, she would make her way, sometimes ten or a dozen miles, through the darkness, a sun-browned, hardy, peasant-looking girl, to reach home cheerful, and contented with the day’s work, although hungry and exhausted by fatigue. Another way in which she contrived to get models cheaply was by passing days amongst the lowing and bleating victims of one of the great Parisian slaughter-houses, the Abattoir du Roule, where, seated on a bundle of hay, with her colour-box beside her, she painted on from morning until dusk, frequently so absorbed that she forgot to eat the piece of bread in her pocket. She also studied from the animals when they were under the influence of terror and agony, just before they received the death-stroke; forcing herself to endure a woman’s natural repugnance to such scenes of blood and torture, rendered doubly painful to her by the loving sympathy with which she regarded all the brute creation. In the evening she would return home from such studies with her face and clothes thickly marked by the flies which in such places congregate so thickly. With equal perseverance she also studied in the stables of the Veterinary School of Alfort, in the Jardin des Plantes, and in all the horse and cattle fairs held in the neighbourhood of Paris; always in the latter case wearing male attire, to avoid certain dangers and annoyances to which a woman would be subjected if dressed in the clothing of her sex. She was regarded as a good-natured, merry boy, and a clever little fellow, by the rough characters who visited the fairs, and sympathising with her apparent poverty, the graziers and horse-dealers whose animals she drew constantly insisted upon standing treat. Occasionally, too, a village dairy-maid would make amorous overtures to the handsome “lad.” So she gallantly wrought, and fought, and paved her upward way to fame and prosperity, her father and nature her only teachers, the former’s impecuniosity her constant incentive.

I am reminded here of Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A., for whom also the first stimulants to activity in the pursuit of art were the poverty and necessities of his father, an exciseman, actor, and innkeeper, who had achieved no lasting success in either calling. At one time despairing of pecuniary success in the profession he began to excel in when but five years old, he resolved to take to the stage, despite the anxious opposition of his father, who was then looking forward to his son’s artistic efforts for support, having failed as an actor, failed in business at Devizes, where he kept “The Black Bear,” and having previously failed as landlord of “The White Lion,” at Bath. Bernard in his ‘Retrospections,’ speaks of “Young Lawrence the painter,” then about seventeen, as “receiving professional instructions from Mr. Hoare of Bath,” and some little time after, with a view to his adopting the stage as a profession, Tom Lawrence recited before Bernard and John Palmer the actor, when the latter strove to enforce his father’s opinion, and convince him that his prospects as a painter were superior to those he would have as an actor. It was some time before he could realize this, and when he did he said with a sigh, “If I could go upon the stage, I thought I might be able to help my family much sooner than I can in my present employment.” The earnestness and the regret he expressed in the tone of these words deeply affected all who were present. It was many years before Thomas Lawrence escaped from the fangs of impecuniosity, so absorbing were the drafts made upon his purse by the wants of his parents. His father used to hawk his son’s crayon drawings about London at half a guinea each. One of his contemporary biographers, says, “Sir Thomas, though he sometimes confidentially accounted for his straitened circumstances through life by referring to his early burdens, never regretted them, nor murmured at their reminiscence.”

But the early practice of a painter is seldom profitable, and Nicholas Poussin asserts that at the commencement of his career his landscapes sold for less than the cost of canvas, oil, and pigments.