“Yes,” I replied, “it is going to an exhibition.”
“I thought pictures only went to exhibitions when they were newly painted,” she remarked.
“So they do, as a rule,” I answered, “but this one is going to the Exhibition of ‘Eminent Women’ at Earl’s Court.”
“Lor’!” (in her surprise she nearly dropped what she was holding). “You don’t mean to say you are going there?”
Mohammed could not have been a prophet in his own household.
After all, plain truths and trifling jokes are often the most enjoyable, just as small ills are the least endurable.
When I sat to Blake Wirgman in 1902 for my portrait shortly after my visit to the West, he insisted on my being dressed in a dirty old divided skirt, huge Mexican sombrero, high boots, and shirt. The canvas is nearly life-size, and as I was foolish enough to submit to a standing position, with one foot up on a stone, I used to get awfully tired. Balancing on one leg in stiff riding-boots is apt to bring on cramp, so at odd intervals I danced round the studio to relieve my aching toes, and begged him to paint the boots without me. After dressing one day I returned to the studio, having put the boots on their trees, and placed them carefully beside the rocky stone where I stood. “There,” I exclaimed, “there are the boots, now can you paint them without torturing me.” Never shall I forget his peal of laughter at the idea of painting a pair of boots with wooden insides! However, he found a girl who took “threes” in boots, and she saved me a few hours of torture. Blake Wirgman is a delightful man, and I thoroughly enjoyed those sittings—all but the cramp.
“All but” reminds me of a dear old Scotch minister who used to read out the prayers for the Royal family, and to our amusement pronounced “Albert Edward Prince of Wales,” “All-but Edward Prince of Wiles.” This happened in a Highland kirk in Sutherlandshire, where the collie dogs used to come into the church and get up and shake themselves at the benediction, knowing that it was time to go home. A tuning-fork and a precentor added simplicity to the service, while the shepherds from the hills wore black coats and top-hats and pennies were collected on a tray at the door, just as represented in the play Bunty pulls the Strings.
The famous picture of “Scotch Elders” was painted by my husband’s cousin John Lorimer, A.R.A.; a very fine picture it is too. The appreciation of pawky Scottish humour runs in our blood, on both sides of the family, so my praise of a kinsman’s work will be readily understood as needing no apology.