He had great partiality for yellows and browns, madders and reds, and, whenever he could introduce these tones, did so. He loved the warmth of mahogany, the shade of rich wine in a glass, the subdued tones of a scarlet robe, the russet brown of an old shooting-suit, and as his own hair had a warm hue, he generally wore a shade of clothes which toned in with it. As grey mingled with his locks, he took to grey tweeds, and a very harmonious picture he made with his slouch hat to match.
In these days, when it is the fashion to belittle modern artists, and magnify a hundred-fold the value of so-called “ancient masters,” it was delightful to come across one whose power was actually acknowledged under the hammer in his own lifetime. One of Orchardson’s pictures, “Hard Hit,” painted in 1879, fetched nearly £4000 at Christie’s thirty years later for America. He had the gratification of seeing many of his canvases double and treble in value, and yet he was always well paid for his work on the easel.
He saw his “Mariage de Convenance,” for which he originally received £1200, increase enormously in value, and his picture of “Napoleon on the Deck of the Bellerophon,” painted in 1880, double in value before it went to the Tate Gallery.
But the more success he achieved, the more modest he seemed to become.
Simplicity was the keynote of the man. Simplicity of character, simplicity of life, simplicity of style. There is masterful simplicity in all his work. Look at the large, majestic rooms he depicted, with one or two figures round which the interest lies. His work invariably gives one a sense of space, elegance, and refinement. It is always reserved in colour and design, with great harmony and unity of effect, possibly helped by the use of a very limited range of colour. His drawing was strong in construction, highly sensitive in line, and had an entire absence of flashiness.
His portraits were, perhaps, his greatest achievement, and were extraordinary for their virility and power of characterisation; they were hailed with enthusiasm by the artists both here and on the Continent. He did not do a great number. Indeed, he was by no means a prolific painter—from three to five canvases were the most he accomplished in a single year.
He elaborated his still-life as much as the old Dutch painters, but the whole scheme of colour and design and his eighteenth-century costumes were simple.
As with his work, so with the man. He was moderate in all things. Gentle, refined, sensitive, thorough, and painstaking, always striving for better things. Never really satisfied with his work, never really satisfied with himself. A deeply religious man, he never mentioned religion, but somehow one felt he had profound convictions on this subject. His moral standards were high, his sense of justice was profound.
Two antagonistic qualities were ever fighting in the painter. The gentleness of the man, the determination of the character.
Orchardson had been a veritable hero for years. He had really been an invalid since the final years of the last century, sometimes desperately ill. Often he could only do an hour’s work a day, and during that time Lady Orchardson always read aloud to him. It soothed and amused him at the same time, and volumes of memoirs and travels were his delight. His wife was always beside him, and her encouragement and criticism were of great value to his work. They were a devoted couple.