Some eminent Victorians: Personal recollections in the world of art and letters

by J. Comyns Carr

The attitude of one to the other was always amusing to watch, for it was obvious that both were on their guard: Howell half conscious that even in his most plausible mood he lay open to the suspicion of a sinister intention, and Whistler, whilst not unaware of the subtlety and skill of his companion, rather encouraging the initiation of a contest in which he never doubted the sufficiency of his own resources.

There are numerous stories of Howell well known to the men with whom he was at that time brought in contact that need not now be revived. What is certainly true, as against any defects that may be alleged against him, is that in conversation he was interesting and attractive, watchful of the effect on his companion of every word that he uttered, and yet so quick in apparent sympathy that it was impossible to ignore the charm of his personality.

What was the end of the particular controversy to which I have referred I do not now rightly remember, but I seem to recall that when Whistler last spoke to me upon the subject he was in some apprehension lest his wily friend should have stolen a march upon him.

During the last years of his life Whistler passed but little time in England, and I think the resentment, not unnaturally aroused at the treatment his work had received at an earlier time, had quickened into something approaching absolute dislike towards this country. The last time I saw him was at a small dinner-party at my sister-in-law’s house in Paris, where his reputation as a painter was firmly and finally established. Whatever his altered feelings towards England, it had made no change in his relations with his old friends, and on that evening it seemed to me he had in him all the old spirit of gaiety and wit as I had first known it in the earlier days of Cheyne Walk.

In temperament and character, as well as in the chosen ideal of his art, he holds a distinctive place in his generation. In spite of his undisguised desire to make enemies, the singular charm of his nature brought him many friends, and I think there is not one who knew him well who does not cherish his memory with something approaching to affection.

Cecil Lawson, whose work was also prominently brought to the notice of the public through the earlier exhibitions at the Grosvenor, was a man of a wholly different stamp. For several years before the hour of his triumph he had not been very well treated by the Hanging Committee of the Academy. It was about this time that, by his request, I had been to visit him at his little studio in Chelsea to see one of his pictures, which he particularly thought had been unjustly treated; and his delight was frankly avowed when a little later I took Sir Coutts Lindsay, who invited him to become an exhibitor at the Grosvenor.

The private view of that year and the next left Cecil Lawson in a state of unconcealed exaltation of spirit. The “Pastoral” and the “Minister’s Garden” set him, at a bound, in the front rank of the painters of his time, and I shall not easily forget the sense of almost intoxication with which he wandered from room to room receiving on every side the meed of well-earned praise which only a year or two before seemed to lie for ever beyond his reach.

The occasion was celebrated by a little dinner given by Lawson in the old garden of his studio in Glebe Place. Whistler was of the party, and it is pleasant to remember with what genuine cordiality he rejoiced in Lawson’s success.

I saw him very often after that time, for he was, I think, disposed to exaggerate the small share I had taken in making his work better known; and he was always anxious for my criticism or approval on new work he had in hand. But I never left his studio without some feeling of melancholy apprehension, for it seemed to me always that his overwrought and highly-strung nervous temperament gave no fair promise of long life.

On one of the last of our meetings he had specially invited my visit, as he particularly wanted my judgment upon a picture just completed. It happened when I reached his studio that it did not so strongly appeal to me as other examples of his work, and yet I did not then quite understand the sudden look of pain that passed over his face when my opinion was expressed. It was only afterwards that I received from him a touching little letter telling me that he saw plainly I did not greatly care for the picture, and that he was disappointed, because he had intended to offer it to me as an acknowledgment of my friendship.