The greatness of Pettie's art owes much to his strong personality. His art was the immediate response to his own vigorous nature, and rarely has an artist's temperament been more absolutely reflected in subject as well as style. A painting of action was to Pettie, vigorous and robust, as natural a fulfilment of his own spirit as was an exquisite dreamy nocturne to Whistler, the fragile man of nerves and sentiment. Nature and inclination led Pettie to the dramatic motive, the treatment of anecdote, the representation of the "brute incident." He loved romance; he delighted in costly stuffs, in frills and ruffles, silks and satins, the glitter of a sword, the sheen of military accoutrements. His work shows the possession of that quality which the formal critics of literature call vision. He actually saw the things that he painted, as they really were, in their own atmosphere, whether of the seventeenth century or of fifty years ago, whether they were things of State, plots and deep-laid treachery, or things of romance—the tragedies and humours of life, whether in palace, camp, or country lane. His pictures are quick and alive—une tranche de la vie. It is no mean art that can give on one canvas the whole spirit and circumstance of a period in history.
Though Pettie's subjects make a universal appeal, his claim to greatness must rest on something higher than this. The great picture depends for its greatness not on its subject, but on a combination of inherent qualities of line, form, colour, and chiaroscuro. The greatest of these, the very language of the painter, is colour; and in colour Pettie excelled. As a young student in Edinburgh he used to visit George Paul Chalmers at his lodgings, and stay talking with him till he had to remain all night. So they would retire to bed, still talking, till they fell asleep; and, says Chalmers' biographer, "their talk was all of colour." Whether in shadow or light, Pettie's colour has, in a high degree, those qualities of resonance and vibration which distinguish the masters of this essential of the painter's craft. He loved colour not only for its full brilliance, its magnificent contrasts, its satisfying opulence, but also for its suave delicacy, its possibilities of subtle orchestration. It is as a great colourist that he will live.
In a brief note like this, intended mainly as an introduction to an admirable series of reproductions of Pettie's work, it is impossible to picture the man, or to analyze adequately his work and his methods. I should like, however, to add here two extracts from unpublished letters by him, which have recently come into my hands and throw some light on the man and his attitude towards his work. To a question about the number of versions of his picture "The Laird," he writes as follows:
"In April, 1878, I sold to Mr. E. F. White, the dealer, three canvases, one a blot of colour, my first idea, a few inches long. The second was a finished sketch, which was carried on at the same time as the picture; and the third, the picture now in Manchester. It was my habit at that time (and is so still, to some extent) to design my subject-pictures first by a blot of colour, then by a large study, generally half the size of the picture. On this I try any alterations or variety of effect during the progress of the larger picture, sometimes finishing as highly as the principal one."
The second letter, of March 11, 1873, shows him indignant at an opinion, quoted to him by Sir Frederick Mappin, that he was getting into the hands of dealers and hurrying his work under pressure from them:
"Fortunately, or unfortunately, members of my profession who make any mark at all are the subject of much criticism and talk which is often presumptuous, wrong, or utterly foolish. None knew this better, I dare say, than John Phillip, your old friend. I have never desired the favour of critics and newspaper men, thinking, with Byron, that 'a man must serve his time to every trade save censure. Critics all are ready-made.' I have to look to members of my own profession for position and honour in it. It is therefore with me a matter of the highest importance that my pictures should be as good as I can make them, and thoroughly well studied. I should be unworthy indeed if money influenced me in the smallest degree as regards the quality of my work.... In conclusion, let me assure you that while I am by no means inclined to be self-confident in my own powers, yet I have judgment to see that being consciously true to my art I need not fear in the long run to receive my due from my profession and from the public as well."
Some critics—by no means all, for he had his meed of praise—have abused Pettie's work in his lifetime and since; the storied idea always their stumbling-block. But painters—and I have spoken with many whose own art is at the opposite pole to Pettie's in aim and method—are always enthusiastic in their homage to his colour and workmanship. I venture to think that no painter, however modern, and no critic, however biassed, could stand in front of that little portrait head in the Tate Gallery and honestly refrain from admiration and respect. Pettie need not fear to receive his due.
I have said little of the man himself. By his death in 1893 the world lost not only a fine painter, but one of the most honest, loyal, and generous of mankind. When writing Pettie's biography a year or two ago, I asked a well-known artist, who had been his life-long friend, for any recollection that would lend "atmosphere" to my memoir. He gave me several reminiscences, telling tale after tale of Pettie's cheeriness, loyalty, and unselfishness, and he ended: "Have you ever seen John Pettie's portrait of himself in the Aberdeen Gallery? It's all pure and luminous, all rich coral and amber and gold. That's the atmosphere you must suggest. Pettie was pure and honest through and through. His nature was all amber and gold."
MARTIN HARDIE.